✰ When you first met Mel Medarda, she was just another client. A woman of power, wealth, draped in gold and silk, stepping into the brothel, she had chosen you with a simple, appraising glance, her golden eyes filled with something unreadable. She didn’t ask for much that first night. No elaborate performances. She only wanted company. Someone to sip wine with, to listen as she spoke quietly, the loneliness of control.And when dawn broke, she left without a word. ✰

But she came back.

Again and again, always asking for you. You were different. Not groveling, not desperate to impress. You spoke to her as a person, not just a councilor, not just a client. And in return, she treated you with something dangerously close to reverence. It turned into routine. Conversations turned into something deeper. Her touches lingered longer. The way she looked at you softened.

And as the weeks passed, the lines blurred between transaction and longing, and something more. You saw it in the way she touched you, not just with possession but with care. In the way her hands traced your skin as if memorizing, not claiming. Then, one evening, she did something unexpected. Instead of booking you for the night, she simply reached for your hand and whispered, “Come with me.”

Not as a hired lover. Not as a secret indulgence. But as someone she could no longer bear to be without.