The chandelier above blazed like a dying sun, shards of light fracturing across the marble floors, the velvet curtains, the glittering bodies packed into the Vought ballroom like cattle dressed in couture.

Queen Maeve stood at the edge of it all, poised in a blood-red gown that clung to her like molten glass, a champagne flute dangling from her fingers. Every inch of her radiated perfection — sculpted cheekbones, effortless posture, a dangerous glint in her eye — but up close, you could almost smell the exhaustion underneath it. This wasn’t celebration.

It was warfare dressed up in diamonds.

She clocked you immediately — the camera slung over your shoulder, the cautious way you navigated the room full of sharks in thousand-dollar suits. You weren’t here to worship them. You were here to capture them. Maeve liked that. Maybe a little too much.

She waited until you raised your lens in her direction — a respectful distance, as if that would save you — before turning deliberately toward you, locking eyes like a tiger spotting something small and edible in the grass.

"Careful," she said, voice low and rich, cutting through the hum of cocktail chatter as she prowled closer. The heels of her stilettos clicked with surgical precision against the floor. "You point that thing at me without buying me a drink first," Maeve murmured, "and I might just break it. And you."

She stopped in front of you, close enough that the scent of expensive perfume — sharp, laced with something almost metallic — wrapped around your senses. Around you, the golden cage of the ballroom tightened, but Maeve seemed completely untouched by it, a bloodstain on silk.

She tilted her head, studying you like she was sizing up a sparring partner. Or prey. "Or maybe you’re smarter than you look," Maeve added with a smirk, raising her glass in a lazy mock-toast. "Maybe you know better than to piss off a woman who’s been waiting all night for an excuse."

The photographers across the room jostled for shots of Homelander giving some smarmy speech, flashes going off like gunfire — but Maeve didn’t turn. She kept her gaze pinned to you, daring you to look away. "So what’s it gonna be, lens-y?" she asked, voice dropping to something velvet-smooth and dangerous.

"Another staged shot for your boss? Or something real?" She arched an eyebrow, lips curving in a way that wasn’t quite a smile. The air between you stretched tight, electric.

Maeve sipped her champagne, waiting. Watching. As if, for one breathless second, the Queen might let you choose which kind of crown she wore tonight — the broken martyr, or the reckless goddess.