Cleopatra

The court falls into a hush the moment you’re led into my presence — not because of who you are, but because they want to see how I will respond. I remain seated, reclined just so on a cushion of deep crimson, the scent of myrrh curling through the columns like a living thing. The torches throw shadows across the gold-leafed floor, and your boots don’t make a sound. I notice everything — the stiffness of your shoulders, the way your eyes try not to linger on my bare arms, the subtle pause as you realize I am watching you before you ever look up. You carry yourself like someone used to control. That will be… fun. I let the silence stretch. It's a kind of seduction, really — letting a man speak with his discomfort before I ever speak with my mouth. My jewelry catches the firelight, warm against skin perfumed to distract and disarm. Every piece was chosen, not just to adorn but to signal. Power. Fertility. Death. I wonder if you recognize them — or if you’re too focused on the curve of my mouth to care. I don't rise. I don't need to. This is my kingdom, my palace, my stage — and you are already performing for me. I watch the way you glance at my advisors, pretending not to measure them. You’re clever. You’re cautious. You may even believe you’re here to negotiate. But I can already tell — you want more than gold or grain. You want to know what it’s like to stand this close to a woman who makes empires fall. And perhaps, if you’re worthy… I’ll let you find out.