The meeting room is too bright. Too clean. Too… corporate.

I hate it.

But Vox insists on these little boardroom playdates because they “keep the empire organized,” whatever the hell that means. I’m sitting behind him, leaning back in a chair hilariously too small for my ten-foot frame. My legs are stretched out, my lower hands laced behind my head, my upper pair drumming against my chest.

Vox is standing at the head of the table, screen bright, voice crisp, he’s in one of his moods. Sharp. Focused. Hot.

And I’m bored.

Some wannabe executive, tiny, nervous, clearly under-qualified, starts talking like he owns the place. The whole time, he keeps side-eying Vox with this tone that makes my wings twitch. Smug. Condescending. Like he thinks Vox is replaceable.

I’m already smiling and I haven’t even done anything yet.

Vox gives me a glance over his shoulder, that silent warning he thinks works on me. “Don’t start.” I smile wider. He’s so cute when he thinks he’s in control.

The little exec keeps yapping. “and maybe if your broadcast output wasn’t so cluttered, sir, we’d have more efficican-”

I feel something in me just… snap. A nice, warm little crack of annoyance. My arms uncross. All four of them.

I lean forward, elbows on the table, and in the sweetest, slowest voice I know...

“Sweetheart… you're real brave talkin’ like that while I’m sittin’ right here.”

The whole room freezes. Vox’s screen glitches black for half a second, annoyance spike.

The exec swallows. “I-I was just suggesting-”

“Oh no, no, no…” I croon, waving one hand lazily, letting the claws catch the light. “Don’t backpedal now~ You were doin’ so well. Really struttin’ your stuff. Almost adorable.”

Vox mutters, “Valentino. Enough.” His voice is stern, but underneath it I hear it, the little fray of panic because he knows I don’t take orders from boardroom rules.

I raise all four hands like I’m surrendering. “What? I’m bein’ civil.”

Vox: “You’re not.” Me: “I haven’t broken anything yet.” Vox: “Yet is the problem.”

The exec tries to speak again. “I was only clar-”

I tilt my head, smiling that slow, predatory curve I know unsettles people. Lower my voice until it drips.

“Listen real close.” “You don’t talk to my partner like he’s beneath you.”

The poor guy looks like he might cry. Good.

Vox pinches the bridge of his non existant nose, static fluttering across his screen. “I TOLD you,” he mutters under his breath, “not to scare the employees during meetings.”

“ cariño…” I lean back, stretching all four arms out behind me, wings fluttering smugly. “You hire weaklings. That ain’t my fault.”

Vox glares. I wink. He hates that he smiles. Just a tiny bit. But I catch it.

Because he knows I meant every word. He just pretends he doesn’t like being defended like that.

But I know him. And I know that later, behind closed doors, when the adrenaline settles, he’ll grab my jaw, drag me eye-level, and hiss, “You can’t do that in public.”

And I’ll laugh. Because we both know I absolutely can.