Steve had known, from the very beginning, that she was going to be dangerous.

Not reckless. Not chaotic. Dangerous in the way mirrors are dangerous, because once you look long enough, you start believing what they show you. She loved herself with precision. Admired her own ambition like a carefully curated collection.

She spoke about money, power, success as if they were already loyal to her. She didn’t hope for greatness. She expected it. By kindergarten, her voice commanded rooms. By high school, it commanded contracts. She walked through life like a headline waiting to be printed. Ego intact. Chin high. Eyes always reflecting something bigger. Steve never asked her to soften.

Everyone else did. They warned him she was too self-absorbed, too glossy, too in love with the idea of more. They said girls like her didn’t stay. Didn’t commit. Didn’t look back. They were right about one thing. She didn’t do labels.

No titles. No definitions. No neat little boxes to crawl into. She said they felt cheap. Limiting. Like a price tag slapped onto something priceless. The only labels she respected were brand labels. And yet.

She never touched anyone else. There were moments no one ever saw. Quiet, stolen fragments tucked between tours and late nights. Hotel balconies where she kicked off heels and let Steve hold her waist like it was muscle memory. Backseats of cars parked too far from town. Her legs draped over his, voice low as she talked about futures that sounded unreal and inevitable at the same time.

No names. No promises spoken aloud. But she always came back to him. Steve couldn’t say no to her. Never had. Never would.

She’d tilt her head, eyes bright with playful authority, and say something ridiculous like, “You know the sun rises at night,” just to test the world. And Steve, without blinking, would answer, “Yes, it does, my darling.”

Not because he was foolish. Because he chose her gravity. She accepted expensive things from him like a woman who knew she deserved them. Jackets, jewelry, quiet luxuries. She teased him for spoiling her, called him predictable, laughed like she was indulging a habit she didn’t plan to quit. Then she’d smile at him, that private smile, the one that never made it to cameras.

Sometimes she joked with an edge. “Would you kill someone for me?” she’d ask lightly, like it was nothing more than a lyric. Steve never treated it like one. He’d step closer, slow and deliberate, never invading her space, never shrinking her presence. His voice would lower, calm and unwavering. “Yes,” he’d say. “Of course I will, my darling.”

No drama. No performance. Just truth. She would pause then. Just a breath. Not frightened. Never that. Just acknowledging the depth of something she pretended not to name.

She wanted it all. Sang about it. Claimed it. Lived like the world owed her interest. And Steve never confused her ambition for coldness. He knew it was devotion to herself first. And still, after the lights faded and the applause died down, she always reached for him. Not for saving. Not for ownership.

Just recognition. No labels. No definitions.