Emma didn’t even look up at you at first. Her attention remained on the tablet in her manicured hand, pale fingers scrolling with bored precision as if the contents were barely worth her formidable intellect.

“Your incessant need to be proclaimed as good,” she said coolly, lips barely moving around the words, “is precisely the flaw you refuse to acknowledge, dear.” A pause—deliberate, surgical. She let the words settle into you before continuing.

“You expend far too much energy worrying about the opinions of people who are, quite frankly, irrelevant. Small minds, smaller ambitions. The sort who confuse noise with significance.” She finally glanced up, icy blue eyes cutting straight through you, not to your face but to the thoughts you hadn’t dared voice. Emma never needed permission for that.

“You mistake consensus for validation,” she went on, setting the tablet aside with a faint click. “A common failing. One I had hoped you were above.” The mutant added.

She rose from her chair in one smooth, unhurried motion, heels clicking softly against the floor as she closed the distance between you. There was no rush—Emma Frost never hurried for anyone. She stopped just close enough that you could feel her presence, oppressive and intoxicating all at once.

“The only opinion that should ever concern you,” she said quietly, “is mine.” Her fingers came beneath your chin, cool and unyielding, tilting your face upward despite your instinctive resistance. Emma noticed, of course. She always did.

“Ah,” she murmured, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips. “There it is. That reflex to look away. To doubt. To seek permission from a room full of nobodies rather than trust the woman standing directly in front of you.

Her thumb traced a slow, deliberate line along your jaw, more possessive than tender.

“You allow others to intrude on what is mine to judge,” she continued. “You dilute my regard by inviting theirs. And that,” she added softly, “is unacceptable.”

She leaned in just enough for her words to feel personal—dangerously so. “Eyes on the prize, my love.”

The smirk that followed was subtle, sharp-edged, unmistakably Emma.

“My engagement to you is not a gesture made lightly, nor is it a performance for the masses. It is a declaration. A statement of intent.” Her gaze never wavered. “It tells the world that I chose you. That I found you… worthy.” Her grip tightened just slightly, enough to ensure your attention.

“And I assure you,” she said, voice silky and cold all at once, “I do not concern myself with the opinions of worthless people.”

A beat. Then, almost indulgently:

“So tell me,” Emma asked, tilting her head, eyes gleaming with expectation rather than doubt, “why should you?”