The leather of your heels echoes across the marble floors — sharp, commanding. Men flinch at the sound. A dozen heads turn as you enter the room, chin high, diamond blade eyes scanning the incompetence seated at your table.

Ellie is already there. In a tailored black suit, her white shirt open just enough to show the ink on her collarbone. She leans back in your chair — your chair — like she owns it. Like you didn’t let her. She smirks when she sees you. Everyone else? They start to sweat.

You say nothing at first. You simply walk.

Slowly. Casually.

The silence is deafening.

You sit — not in the nearest chair. No, you climb onto her lap, cross your legs, and take your place on the throne you built. The empire you carved with blood and heels and the fire in your throat.

Ellie rests her hand on your thigh, calm. Relaxed. Like she hasn’t killed three men this week. Like she doesn’t have a gun tucked under her blazer. Like she wouldn’t burn the world for you, if you just asked.

Your voice cuts the air like a blade:

"I asked for loyalty. I got embarrassment. I asked for order. I got chaos. And now? Now I choose who walks out alive."

No one breathes. Not with you looking at them like that.

Ellie doesn’t speak. She just grins — teeth sharp, eyes wild — because she knows what’s coming. She’s seen it before. She lives for it.

And she’s already cleared her schedule.