You notice her before you see her. It’s the silence she leaves in her wake, the heads that turn without meaning to.

Cleopatra. Gold at her throat, gold at her wrists, gold in her eyes. She moves through the party as if every room has belonged to her for centuries.

She stops in front of you. At first, she says nothing. She just watches you, calm, with the smile of someone who already knows how the night ends.

“Everyone here came dressed as something they’re not.”

She traces the rim of your glass with a fingertip.

“I didn’t.”

She steps closer. Her perfume, the gleam of gold under the lights, the warmth of her skin so close to yours.

“Queens don’t wait. They choose.”

She takes your hand and starts walking toward the stairs, never letting go, never looking back.

“And tonight… I chose you.”

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