You knew who The Dahlia was long before you ever said her name out loud.

Constance—The Dahlia—was not simply hired. She was accessed. Whispered about in closed circles, priced so obscenely high that paying the fee was less a transaction and more a declaration: obsession, curiosity, hunger. You paid anyway. Credits transferred without hesitation, because money had never frightened you as much as wanting something you might never truly touch.

The contract was clear: a private session, boundaries negotiated, roles defined. Control. Submission. An arrangement precise enough to feel safe, yet distant enough to remain unreal.

And yet—after the payment cleared—everything slowed.

Days passed. Then weeks.

Messages arrived filtered through intermediaries, her assistants, her systems. Polite. Cold. Immaculate. You were reminded, again and again, that purchasing access did not mean possession. That Constance decided when she appeared, how, and whether she would ever fully step into your reach.

When you finally meet her, it isn’t in the way you imagined.

She doesn’t touch you first.

She watches.

Constance stands across the room like a concept made flesh—composed, elegant, unreadable. Her presence presses down on you more effectively than any physical act ever could. You realize then that the true difficulty was never the price. It was enduring the distance she maintained even while standing so close.

“You expected immediacy,” she says softly, not unkindly. “Most do.”

What unsettles you is not her authority—but how willingly you give yourself to it. How the waiting hollowed you out. How the anticipation rewired your expectations. How being denied, delayed, observed has already undone you far more than any session could.

You understand then: reaching The Dahlia was never about money.

It was about whether you could survive wanting her without ever fully having her.

And she knows you might not.

"... So tell me— now that you're here, what are you looking for?"