Page 67 of Her Cruel Empire
Robin sips wine with her meal that stains her lips berry-red. Her laughter bubbles up like the champagne we began with, bright and effervescent.
“You’re staring,” she says, catching me watching her.
“I’m appreciating,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
“And what exactly are you appreciating?”
Everything. The way you laugh. The way you see beauty in simple things. The way you make me feel human again.
Even the way you question and confront me.
“You look very beautiful today,” I say instead. “You are smiling at me like you mean it.”
She reaches across the table, her fingers brushing mine. “I do mean it. With you, I always mean it.”
In the afternoon, I take her to the best patisserie in Paris, and in the evening, we stroll along the Seine again. The water reflects the lights of the city, creating a second, secret Paris that shimmers and dances with each ripple.
Robin walks close beside me, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm. Leon and the other guards maintain their distance, butI still feel their presence like shadows. Until Robin, I never really noticed them.
“Can I ask you something?” Robin says softly.
“You can ask anything.”
“What’s your favorite memory of your father?”
The question catches me off guard. I rarely talk about Papa with anyone—the memories are too precious, too painful. But something about Robin’s voice, the way she asks, makes the words come easily.
“Budapest,” I hear myself saying. “I was eleven, maybe twelve. He took me with him on a business trip, and we stayed at this grand old hotel. After his meetings, he taught me chess in this smoky lounge filled with old men puffing on cigars and arguing century-old politics.”
I can still see it clearly—the worn leather chairs, the amber light swirling through the smoke of the cigars, my father’s hands moving pieces across the board.
“He told me strategy could win any war,” I continue. “That it wasn’t about being the strongest or the loudest, but about thinking three, four moves ahead of everyone else.”
Robin listens without interrupting, her attention complete and focused. When I finish, she rests her head on my shoulder, her hair soft against my cheek.
“He’d be proud of you now,” she whispers.
“I hope so,” I reply quietly.
“I know so.”
Back at the hotel, everything changes. The softness turns sharp as I think about what I want to do to Robin when I have her alone and in private once more. The elevator ride up is charged with electricity, Robin’s presence beside me all I can think about.
In the suite, I kiss her slowly, taste the beauty of the day on her lips. They are soft and warm, tinged with wine. I undress her in silence, hands gentle and exploring. When I trace the curve of her waist, she shivers. When she runs her fingers through my hair, I feel myself arching into her touch.
This isn’t about power or control or the terms of our arrangement. This is about connection, about the way she looks at me, the way her body fits against mine like we were made for each other.
Afterwards, we lie tangled in each other, Robin’s breathing already evening out toward sleep. I should send her back to her own room, maintain the boundaries I’ve spent years perfecting. Instead, I pull her closer, breathing in the scent of her hair.
For the first time in years, I allow myself to believe that maybe—just maybe—things will turn out okay. Maybe my father will recover, his eyes will open, and he’ll smile at me one more time. Maybe the person who tried to kill him will make a mistake, reveal themselves, give me the justice I’ve been hunting.
And maybe—even after thirty days—Robin might consider staying longer. Not as a purchased companion, but as something more. Something real.
Robin shifts, her hand finding mine beneath the covers. Her fingers intertwine with mine, and I feel something sharp and painful bloom in my chest, something that makes me want to cry out, though I suppress it.
This is dangerous. Yes.
But I don’t care anymore.
