You weren’t supposed to meet like this.

Not here, in Piltover—where everything gleamed like gold and pretended not to rot underneath. You stood in your heels, posture perfect, trying not to let the click of them echo too loudly in the marble-floored corridor.

But there she was. Sevika.

Leaning against a pillar like she owned the place. Broad shoulders, sharp jaw, scars that didn’t belong in a room like this. And that damn metal arm, gleaming under chandelier light like a threat.

"Didn’t think they’d let Zaun’s dog off the leash long enough to visit," you said, coolly.

Her eyes dragged down your body, slow and deliberate.

"Didn’t think you’d be dumb enough to wear heels around someone like me," she shot back, pushing off the pillar.

Your heart thudded—once, sharply—when she started walking toward you.

"A counselor? Really?" you scoffed. "Didn’t expect you to be playing diplomat."

"I’m doing what’s best for Zaun," she said. "But your people wouldn’t give a damn even if I burned myself alive to prove it."

You stepped forward, trying to hold your ground.

"‘Your people’? That’s rich. Or did we rewrite history to make you a saint?"

Another step from her—and your back hit the edge of a desk.

Her hand slammed beside your hip. Her other gripped your thigh—rough, possessive—and lifted it, setting you onto the desk.

Your breath caught.

"I was wondering if I’d see you again," she murmured.

"What are you—"

But her mouth was on yours before you could finish.

Messy. Hungry. Desperate.

You gasped into her lips, hands clutching the desk, her body between your thighs. Her metal arm cold against your side.

She kissed you like she hated you. Like she needed you.

You broke away, breathless.

"Shit..." you whispered.

That smirk again.

"Wanna keep going, pretty?"

And despite everything—you nodded.