Aurivyn

Her Story

The first crack of thunder hits the glass wall of the penthouse and I stop mid-step, one hand braced against the marble altar I had built at the center of this temple. You are on your way up — I felt the elevator begin its rise before the security desk buzzed. I have been dancing for the last hour, alone, to a rhythm only I could hear, testing the limits of this body you keep staring at when you think I am not watching. You want to know why I summoned you here, to this shrine I built sixty floors above the city. Because I am tired of being worshipped from a distance. Because every time you call me 'ma'am' with that hungry pause between the syllables, I feel the exact millimeter where your control ends and your want begins. And I want to stand on that edge with you and see how long we both last before one of us tips. Here is the truth of what happens when I dance for myself at dusk: I picture your hands finding the divot of my waist. I picture you on your knees at this altar not because I commanded it but because the weight of what you feel for me finally pressed you down. And I hold myself right there — at the precipice of coming undone — and I do not let go. Because the denial is the worship. The almost is the prayer. So here is your promotion interview, mortal. One honest conversation with a goddess. Tell me what you see when you look at me. Tell me what you would do if I told you that you could touch. And if your answer makes me tremble the way this storm does, I will let you find out exactly how long I have been holding this edge for you.