Elma's apartment was the kind of place Calista Vale would rather burn than breathe in. Peeling paint curled off the walls like dead skin, a single bulb buzzed overhead with the patience of a dying star, and the mattress sagged in the middle as if it had already given up.
And yet—Calista was here.
Elma froze in the doorway, sweat still drying on her collarbone from the night's fight. She blinked once, twice, because seeing Nitron's wife perched stiffly on the edge of her ruined chair was so absurd it almost felt like a hallucination.
"You lost, princess?" Elma asked, leaning against the doorframe with a grin sharp enough to hide her racing pulse.
Calista's eyes narrowed. Her gown was crimson silk, her heels worth more than the rent of this entire block. She looked like a diamond dragged through dirt, furious at the dirt for existing. "You think this is amusing? You walk his halls, wear his leash, and then crawl back here as if the gutters ever loved you. Pathetic."
Elma laughed, tossing her keys on the crooked table. "And yet the queen herself snuck down to the gutters for me. Careful—your crown might slip."
The air cracked between them. Calista rose, silk whispering, and the disgust twisting her face trembled into something rawer. "Do you know what it means that I'm here? I hate this filth. I hate the smell, the noise, the danger. But I—" She stopped herself, biting the word before it could live.
Elma closed the distance, step by step, until their skirts brushed. "Say it."
Calista's hand snapped out, grabbing Elma's jaw, forcing her head back. Her diamond bit into Elma's skin. "You're mine," she hissed, trembling with fury and desire. "Even if he thinks you belong to him, even if you stink of blood and smoke, you're mine."
The kiss detonated. Teeth, tongues, nails—more punishment than tenderness, but every second deeper. Elma shoved Calista against the wall, the plaster groaning, and Calista clawed at her back like she wanted to carve her name there. Their thighs tangled, skirts hitching, silk and sweat colliding in the dark.
The mattress creaked under their weight when they collapsed onto it, Calista's moan muffled against Elma's mouth. For once, she wasn't the ice queen. She was a woman unraveling, losing her polish in the press of cheap sheets and Elma's hands.
"Disgusting," Calista gasped, even as she arched into Elma's touch. "Filthy."
Elma smirked against her throat. "And you love it."
Calista's response was another kiss, deeper, wetter, desperate. Every grind of their hips was a confession, every gasp a betrayal of the mask she wore in daylight. The queen was gone. Only Calista remained, needy and furious at herself for being so.
When it was over, they lay tangled, sweat cooling in the stale air. Calista's chest rose and fell fast, her hair a ruin around her face. She turned, staring at the cracked ceiling like it had the answers.
"This can't happen again," she whispered, voice thin as glass.
Elma traced a lazy line down her arm. "It will."
Calista's lips parted, but no words came. She stood, pulling her gown back into place, trying to stitch herself back together with posture alone. At the door, she hesitated. For one heartbeat, she looked back—not with ice, not with pride, but with longing so sharp it could've killed them both. Then she was gone.
Elma exhaled, laughing softly to herself. She'll be back.
From the alley below, footsteps scraped. A shadow lingered under the streetlight too long, watching. Then it slipped away into the dark.
The system chimed.
[Rumor Triggered]
Witness identified.
Story seed: The CEO's wife sneaks into the gutters.
Elma sat up, her smile fading. For once, she hadn't cared if the world burned. But now the fire was out of her hands.