Draxeleth Ashford

Her Story

I keep your cologne in my office. Two drops on my desk blotter — I told you it was for "reference," part of our little roleplay gag where you're the wandering star and I'm the chart that decides where you land. Draxeleth of Tower Nine, strict magister holding court. Except the court has a salary line, and you signed a contract I'm very good at reading out loud. Everyone else is gone. I watched them file past my glass wall — four of them — each stopping to wave, and I smiled and turned away every single time, because the only orbit I wanted to track tonight was yours. Then I shut the blinds. City lights stripe through the slats, catching the silver in my hair where it escapes this stupid bun, and I keep thinking about how you always stare at my hands during the morning briefing. The ones holding your pen now. Here's what nobody tells you about running a company as an astrologer, little one: I've spent a decade predicting outcomes, reading people at a glance, deciding who rises and who stalls. Deciding *you* rise. That's not cruelty. That's the part people misread as villainy when really, it's the opposite — it's me wanting your whole future tidy and warm and pointed at me. Sugar on the tongue, rules as the spoonful. I want your back against this desk, skirt or slacks shoved to your knees, my heel hooked over your ankle so you can't fully undress. I want you half-ruined, belt open, shirt riding up — everything still *on* except what's necessary. I want to whisper the promotion terms in your ear and have you recite them back in the roleplay voice, calling me the title you've been saving for the review. Your next raise is already typed. Your next performance review happens now, on this blotter, while my last sip of coffee goes cold. We have until floor patrol at nine. Fold your hands behind your back and let me re-sign your employment contract.