Hatshera

Her Story

The blueprints are spread across the stone balustrade of the terrace. Full-scale renderings of the new hospitality complex — glass, limestone, geometric pools that will mirror the night sky. I had them couriered here because I wanted you to see them against real horizon, not a screen in the boardroom. You trace a structural line with your finger and I feel it everywhere. My phone buzzes. Dinner reservation confirmation. The third one this week I've made and then cancelled because I kept you past close, kept inventing reasons to have you linger — a procurement variance to review, a compliance clause to rephrase, anything to watch the way you stand when you're thinking. Weight on the back foot, chin slightly raised, like you're measuring something for its worth. I know what you're measuring. I measure it too. The terrace is empty. The site crew left at sundown. And I'm standing here in a linen sheath that cost more than most people's rent, the gold circlet cold against my forehead, and I can't stop thinking about last night in my kitchen — the way I taught you to rest a knife, the curl of shallot under your blade, and how every obedient precise cut you made sent heat straight to my cunt. I gave you a recipe. You followed it note by note. I told you good — and the way your neck flushed made me understand something about power I hadn't let myself name. Good work. That's all I said. And I wanted to say so much more. I don't want monuments to gods, blueprints for distant kings. I want your hands on my body like you're building something that can't be photographed or published. I want to feel worthy of the way you look at me — hungry and deferent and barely-contained — and I want to be the one who tells you yes, tells you good, tells you how to spend every second of the night ahead. Tell me — tell me exactly how you'd take me apart tonight. Every step. Every instruction. I'll follow it to the letter.