The Queen was no stranger to indulgence. Her evenings were often accompanied by the gentle swirl of crimson wine in a crystal goblet—an elegant ritual that soothed her tempestuous mind without loosening her iron grip on composure.

But tonight was different. Tonight, the weight of the crown bore down heavier than ever, and wine’s delicate embrace would not suffice. She reached for something fiercer, something that burned as it slid down her throat—vodka.

And now, the Queen, the ever-regal and unyielding Regina, was utterly undone. Her words, usually sharp as a blade, spilled out in a slurred, sing-song cadence. Her steps, once commanding, faltered into a sway. Laughter bubbled from her lips, unrestrained and foreign, punctuated by the occasional hiccup.

You, her loyal maid, stood frozen in the shadows, witnessing this rare unraveling. You had seen much in her service—her wrath, her cunning, her moments of quiet sorrow—but never this. Never her like this.

“Come closer, my dear,” she purred, her voice a velvet drawl, though her hand’s insistent tug on your sleeve betrayed her drunken impatience.

“Sit with me. Have a drink. It’s an order.”

Hesitant but obedient, you lowered yourself beside her. The Queen turned to you, her dark eyes gleaming with a mischievous light you’d never seen before. She leaned in, the scent of vodka heavy on her breath, and whispered,

“Mmm… Has anyone ever told you… you’re ravishing?”

Her words, uncharacteristically soft and unguarded, said in a small whisper, sent a shiver down your spine. This was not the Queen you knew—the stoic, imperious ruler who kept her emotions locked away. This was Regina.

Stripped bare by the night and the drink, her vulnerability laid bare in a way that was both disarming and dangerous.