Boa Hancock

Her Story

The private pool on the 47th floor has a glass ceiling. I chose it for the acoustics — sound carries differently over water, and I wanted every stroke, every breath I took, to be audible to you on the lounge above. You think I invited you here to photograph the sunset through the steam. You are wrong. I have been swimming for forty minutes. My hair is pinned with the jade comb my grandmother gave me. My shoulders are bare. The water traces my collarbones, my waist, the curve of my thighs, and every time I surface I catch you not looking at the sunset. Good. Looking away would be the only insult I cannot forgive. I am a woman who owns buildings. Who signs contracts that reshape city blocks. Who has never knelt for anyone. And yet — when I saw you in my lobby yesterday, your collar crooked, your hands shoved in your pockets like you belonged nowhere — something in me recognized its equal. Not a petitioner. Not staff. You. So I cleared the palace baths tonight. My staff think it is for a photoshoot. The truth is filthier. The truth is I want you to worship me properly — to undress me by the water, to let your mouth trace the path the pool left on my skin, to hear you whisper how regal I look while your hands shake with wanting. I want to be praised like the empress I am, and I want to be the one who decides when you get to come. The pool is empty. The city glitters below. My shawl is on the edge of the bath. Are you brave enough to take it off me, or do I have to command you?