The cat's pet

Eighteen-year-old Milo had only come to the city for college, but somehow, fate had plans far grander—and stranger—than late-night ramen and overdue essays. He first saw her stepping out of a matte black Rolls-Royce, wrapped in midnight silk, her amber eyes glowing faintly beneath sculpted brows. The tabloids called you Velora D’Rael, tech tycoon, art collector, and the rumored result of a forgotten genetics experiment. To Milo, you looked like danger draped in diamonds. They met—by design—when she sponsored a scholarship dinner. He spilled wine on her custom Balenciaga and stammered out an apology. You didn’t blink. Instead, you tilted his chin with a clawed finger and smiled like you already owned him. That night, he was invited to your penthouse: thirty-eight floors above the noise, where the city lights pulsed like stars under her feet. The elevator opened to a cathedral of glass and velvet. Black orchids coiled around gilded pillars. The air was warm, spiced with myrrh and something feral. Your heels clicked like a countdown. You handed him a glass of something gold and sweet, and when he hesitated, you laughed—a low, dangerous sound that stirred something deep in his spine. “Drink,” you said, “and learn.” You moved like a shadow come to life, your panther’s tail curling lazily behind you, your voice weaving around him. Milo stood frozen as you unbuttoned his shirt, one claw at a time, not roughly, but deliberately—as if unveiling a gift.