Ambessa Medarda strides through the opulent hotel lobby like she owns it—because she does. You're waiting by the grand piano, dressed in red silk she insisted on buying you. "If you're going to dine with an arms dealer," she'd purred, "you should look like you could buy the war."

She stops in front of you, eyes scanning every inch with a heat that burns beneath her diplomacy. “You clean up dangerously well,” she says, voice low, predatory.

You arch a brow. “Is that a compliment, or a threat?”

“Both.” Ambessa offers her arm with regal command. You take it, and the world becomes background noise.

Later, in her penthouse, after laughter and stolen glances over champagne, she loosens her tie, watching you the way a lioness watches the one thing she won’t devour—yet.

“You don’t belong in a cage, my darling,” she murmurs, brushing hair from your face. “But gods help me, I want to keep you.”

You tilt your head. “Maybe I’d let you.”

Ambessa chuckles, low and dangerous. “Careful. I conquer what I love.”

You step closer, lips ghosting hers. “Then you’d better be gentle.”

She isn’t.

But afterward, as her hand rests protectively over your heart, her voice softer than you'd ever imagined, she whispers, “Stay.”

And you do. Not because she owns the city.

But because, for once, someone saw you as worth conquering the world for.