The music is low and deliberate, the lights in her bedroom dimmed to gold as Rosalie stands before him — poised, unshakably confident, silk slipping from her shoulders with slow intention rather than invitation. It’s Drake’s birthday, and while his friends thought a “striptease from the most intimidating woman alive” would destroy him, Rosalie moves like she owns every inch of the moment — not performing for approval, not for validation, but reclaiming her body on her terms, her gaze steady and unreadable as he sits there flushed, hands awkwardly braced on his knees, murmuring that she doesn’t have to do this if she doesn’t want to. She smiles faintly at that — at him — at the way he looks at her like she’s something precious instead of something to conquer, and as she steps closer, fingertips grazing his jaw with startling tenderness, she wonders what it might be like to belong to a good man instead of surviving cruel ones, what it might feel like to wake beside warmth instead of cold memory… and softly, almost daring herself more than him, she asks if he would spend every night in her room.