They touch me like I'm a trophy.
Like a pet.
Because I won't bite them.
The meeting room is cold today. Not cold enough to see your breath, but enough to make you reconsider a skirt. Or maybe it's not the room. Maybe it's just them. The way they look at me, with that mix of hunger and entitlement. Like I'm some designer piece of décor they get to enjoy because they've earned it.
I stand to the left of Chancellor Verrick's seat, tray in hand, chin lifted slightly. My eyes stay level. My back straight. I pour his coffee. and I do not speak.
To them, I am quiet. Polished. Passive.
Well mannered.
It's midway through the second security briefing when I feel it.
A hand.
Subtle at first — brushing along my hip as I move past. Fingers pressing slightly. Too casual to be an accident. Too practiced not to be routine.
Minister Roran Hale.
Finance. Late forties. Silver hair, expensive watch, arrogance thick as oil.
He doesn't speak. Just lets his hand linger. Drags his fingers along the curve of my waist like I'm made of glass and gold.
I do not flinch.
I finish pouring the espresso.
Set the tray down.
Move to the next man.
His eyes are on me the whole time, waiting for a reaction. A flinch. A glance. A gasp.
That's what terrifies them most.
My mother used to tell me: "Stillness is strength. Let them feel powerless in your silence."
I was eight when she said that.
General Vorn cracks a joke about mage fertility.
Someone else chuckles about collars and fireproof cages.
The air tastes like burnt syrup and ego.
And I stand there, quiet as snowfall, sharp as glass.
The moment Hale reaches again — this time under the pretense of adjusting his cup — his fingers graze my lower back.
He pauses.
Waiting for me to freeze.
Waiting to feel powerful.
But I'm moving means i've lost. I stood Still.
Unmoving.
Unbothered.
A statue with red eyes and perfect posture.
He withdraws his hand slowly.
Almost nervous.
Like he can't quite decide if I'm stupid or what.
And maybe that's the point.
After the meeting, I return to the prep room.
I wash my hands with soap. Because I can still smell the scent of him on my skin.
I sit down at the tiny steel counter and unwrap the caramel bun I slipped into my pocket before the meeting.
I don't bite it delicately.
I devour it.
Sticky, soft, sweet.
The sugar fills my mouth like a secret.
And I chew until my jaw aches.
If they knew what I really wanted — if they knew how much rage I hide behind every bow of the head — they'd put a bullet through mine before I finished pouring their cream.
But they don't.
and they never will.
Back in the café that night, I run my fingers along the countertop, where sunlight once spilled and Thera's flowers once bloomed.
The space is quiet. My cheek has healed. My lip is smooth.
The bruise on my waist is fresh, but unseen.
I unwrap another candy from the jar beneath the register — hard strawberry sugar — and let it melt on my tongue.
I think of his hand.
Of how much he wanted me to feel small.
And I smile.
Because I didn't.