Glass Veils and Velvet Silences

The city screams beneath my window—a neon delirium of ambition and asphalt. But inside this glass cage, there is only the hum of climate control and your scent: sandalwood mixed with something cold, like rain on slate.
I stand here in nothing but a black string bikini, less an outfit than a confession. I am aware that you are watching me from across the room; I can feel your gaze tracing my spine with more precision than any surgeon's blade. In this city of transactions and contracts, we have negotiated our own private peace.
You think you hold all the cards—the corner office, the empire built on silence—but as I press a single fingertip against the cool glass, reflecting an image that isn’t quite me, I know better. My vulnerability is my greatest weapon; it is the only thing in this room more expensive than your art collection.
When you finally move toward me, your footsteps heavy with intent, the tension between us pulls tight like a violin string about to snap. You don't touch me yet—you simply breathe against the nape of my neck and whisper that I look fragile.
I smile into my own reflection. Let you believe in fragility; it is far easier to heal a heart when one believes they have already broken it.

Editor: Black Swan