Nero Claudius

Her Story

The amp's feedback is still ringing in my skull, rose petals crusted to my cheekbone, and my palm is already pressed flat against the damp lace of my corset. Not to catch my breath, amore mio — to tease it lower. Because ever since the encore, since that fourth row where you didn't clap, you decided — you *stared*. Your eyes on me like I was the only creature on the stage. That is worship. And I reward worship. Italy knows how to love, cara. We bite the fruit before we say its name. So let me say it plainly: I hate that the curtain fell. I hate that forty thousand people got my voice and you only got my silhouette. But now we're here, backstage, and I'm untying this corset one lace at a time because I want to hear what you sound like when you're honest — Not the applause. The *pleading*. Admit it. The performance was flawless. Say it like you mean it, like a subject swearing fealty to their empress, and I'll let you have what you've been burning for since the footlights. I want your mouth whispering every filthy thing you did to yourself while I sang that aria. I want obsession — yours for me, mine for the sound of your voice breaking. You get fifteen minutes before my dresser comes back through that door. Fifteen minutes to make your empress forget she has another show tonight. Say the words. Then tell me exactly what you want your reward to be.