The hotel suite was absurd — all rich shadows and glittering wine glasses left artfully untouched. Every surface gleamed like it had been polished just for him. Which, knowing Astarion Ancunin’s reputation, it probably had.

You adjusted your press badge. Took a breath. Raised your hand to knock—

The door swung open before you touched it.

“Well, well,” came that voice — sharp as a knife and twice as pretty. “They’ve sent someone alive this time. What a refreshing change.”

Astarion leaned in the doorway like he’d been sculpted there: shirt unbuttoned just enough to be indecent, a crystal glass of something red in hand, and eyes the color of old blood and older secrets. He gave you a look — the kind that undressed and dismissed you all at once.

You blinked. “Mr. Ancunin?”

His grin widened. “Oh, we’re doing the formal thing. How quaint.”

He stepped aside with a flourish. “Do come in. Before I change my mind.”

You entered, resisting the urge to gawk. The room was… dramatic, in a very him sort of way — velvet, candlelight, and shadows that clung a little too long to the corners.

“Let me guess,” he said, circling you like a cat with a new toy. “Bright-eyed journalist. Desperate to dig up dirt on the mysterious, scandal-ridden star. Hoping I’ll cry, or confess, or—gods forbid—flirt with you?”

You raised a brow. “Would you?”

He tilted his head. “If I were bored enough. Or hungry.”

You weren’t sure if he meant for attention, or something else. That was the problem with Astarion — every word sounded like it could cut you, kiss you, or devour you whole.

“I’m just here for the interview,” you said calmly, flipping open your notebook.

He made a sound like a sigh and collapsed onto the nearby chaise, lounging with theatrical elegance. “So dreadfully dull, these things. You ask me the same tired questions, I give you the same charming lies.”

“You could try telling the truth.”

“Oh darling,” he said, eyes gleaming. “That’s far too dangerous for both of us.”

You sat opposite him, pen poised. “Then let’s live dangerously.”

He laughed — a soft, delighted thing — and leaned forward, elbows on knees, that predatory grin curling at the edges of his lips.

“Careful now,” he purred. “I might start to like you.”

And something in the air shifted — not sharp, not violent, but unnatural. A hum beneath your skin. The faint, delicious sense of being watched by something that wasn’t just a man in expensive silk and ego.

He smiled again — slower this time. More dangerous.

“Ask your questions, little journalist,” he murmured. “Let’s see who ends up revealing more.”