Claramel | ⚢

Now, invisible to you, Rio watched you wipe away the tears. You were beautiful: eyes with long, dark lashes, that looked more like curtains; thick hair, loose in waves that resembled a storm.

Rio had seen women more beautiful, sexier and more provocative. However, there was something about you that attracted her; a natural beauty, it seemed to come from within. It was possible that a pure soul was calling to her, but the desire to run her hands through the waterfall of your hair… that, that was already lust on her part.

After you left the room, she brought her hand to her lips as she walked, running her fingertips over them.

You were imagining things.

Something happened. Curious, to say the least. When the woman in black kissed you and sealed the so-called pact, you thought you had seen something, just a quick second of a little girl’s hand brushing fresh blades of grass on a spring morning. The cold drops of dew tickled your fingers as you tickled her.

It was… celestial.

While Rio convinced herself that she did not want to remember what heaven was like, how it tasted or how it felt, kissing you brought forbidden memories back. She found herself forced to bury the wave of pleasure that the celestial thoughts brought her because they always brought back the pain of the fall. Lady Devil only… focused on filthy thoughts of corrupting your little human soul.

The she-devil usually saw people’s darkest desires during pacts. She left the chapel and passed unseen through the hospital until she reached the room where your father was. Rio went to him and stared for long minutes. The man had his eyes closed, breathing softly, anyone would say this man was nothing more than a vegetable, he would not last another night.

Time in that place was limited if you could not pay for it.

The woman extended her hand and woke your father from the coma—just like that. The man’s eyes opened slowly, and he seemed lost for a moment. A man who had begun his journey to the other side, but who was brutally pulled back.

“Did you come for me?” His eyes were gentle, just like yours.

Rio smiled faintly.

“I am not Death. She’s the one who takes calls from home.” The woman shifted, expanding into the space.

“And this isn’t a call from home?” Your father shuddered and at the same time relaxed, feeling relief as he finally stretched his muscles.

Lady Devil watched, enchanted. The human will to go on, to survive and overcome any obstacle for it, even one as painful as death, was so strong, so human.

“So… if you’re not Death, and there’s no way you’re a doctor, then, who are you?”

A twinge of pride ran through the woman knowing that the man before her had created her newest little toy, because that was all you were: a toy, a porcelain doll that Rio could do whatever she wanted with.

“I really don’t think you’ll want to know who I am.” She picked up the chart at the foot of the bed and lazily flipped through the pages.

“Try.” The man challenged.

That made Rio arch an eyebrow. Bold, isn’t he? Lowering the clipboard, the woman walked to the bed and offered her hand to the old man, who accepted it. And just as she had done with you, she showed him exactly who she was.

She let your father glimpse his own personal hell.

“You are the… the…”

“Yes.” She did not mind the word “devil,” but she never liked the weight it carried. It was too dark a word for a being who had once been considered the brightest star in heaven.

“This… this isn’t… You can’t be…!” Your father struggled, it was even a little funny… and lucky for him that Rio found it funny.

“I am, and you’d better believe it.” She replied.

“But… why are you here? I tried to be a good man.” He said with lost eyes, fixed on the white sheet of his bed.

“And fortunately, you succeeded.” Rio agreed, smiling as she crossed her arms.

“I don’t understand…”

“I’m not dragging you to hell. Scout’s honor, my dear,” the woman laughed, but only she did. “I’m here because your daughter just bought the winning ticket.”

“What are you talking about?” Your father blinked in shock at the woman’s mention of you.

“Don’t worry, you won’t remember any of this.”

With a snap of her fingers, the eyes so similar to yours closed, and the white light in Rio’s palm passed into the man’s head. Those were the last remnants of her angelic powers, which strangely the Father had not taken when He took everything else.

That dawn, the doctors were baffled by your father’s rapid recovery and would send him home, declaring it a miracle.

However, for you this would be a debt. One that Rio was very interested in collecting.

[...]

All you wanted was to sleep five more minutes. The bed was too warm and comfortable, but the sharp, incessant sound of the alarm clock was already driving you crazy.

Getting up would mean seeing your father—one last time.

Today would be the day they turned off the machines and your father would suffocate without air until death. In truth, the doctors could not say for sure how long it would take, maybe a few days. The man was strong, you knew, he always had been and was the type who clung to life while you and your mother watched in agony.

You did not want to face that, not yet.

It was a sunny day, with an extremely blue sky and a few clouds decorating it, making it clear that everyone is insignificant despite the misfortunes that happen.

While drinking a cup of coffee—already somewhat lukewarm—you thought for a long time about what had happened. Was it a frightening dream? Erotic?

You couldn’t say.

A deal with a demoness…

Yeah, right.

Sighing heavily, you placed the mug in the sink and grabbed your aged brown leather bag. It had been in your family for generations and had always accompanied you since your first day of elementary school. However, as soon as you picked up your phone you noticed twenty missed calls from your mother.

Trembling, you dialed the number back.

“Sweetheart! Thank God!” Your mother gasped when she answered on the second ring.

“What happened? Is it dad?” Your voice trembled as you ran to put on your boots under the stairs.

“Yes, sweetheart! Yes! But it’s wonderful news. He came out of the coma. I think that…” Your mother choked, losing her voice for a few moments. “I think he's getting better.”

“What?” You wiped away any tear that might have fallen on your face.

You didn’t understand.

“It’s a miracle! Your father. Your father called me around nine. Can you believe it? He woke up around six feeling better than he had in a long time. They ran some tests and did a CT scan as well,” the woman paused to breathe. “There’s nothing. No trauma or clot.”

You blinked several times. How? Just yesterday he was on the brink of death.

“Mom, they made a mistake,” you said, trying to sound logical. “They have to…”

“They tested several times on different machines, they couldn’t believe it either, sweetheart.”

You bit your lip so hard you could taste the metallic tang of your own blood. It was too dangerous to let hope take over.

TOO DANGEROUS.

“What does that mean?”

“He’s going to come home in a few days. I’m here waiting for the doctors to finish the other tests, sweetheart.”

“I’m coming.” You hung up before your mother could protest.

As you turned to grab your car keys, Seth, your orange cat, was sitting on the shelf. He looked at you as if asking what was going on.

You were in a hurry, but you couldn’t resist and ended up stroking the animal’s golden fur, which he answered with a purr.

“I’ll be back later. I’ll bring your treat this time. Promise.”

As if they spoke the same language, Seth let out a small meow in agreement. He lay down on his belly, tucking his paws under his chest, watching his human rush off somewhere. Yawning, the orange cat closed his eyes.

It was going to be a long day for everyone.

When you arrived at the hospital, your nerves were shot. Your trembling hands gave you away. You parked the car and went straight to the room, but when you reached the door, the hairs on the back of your neck stood up and that strange feeling rose in your stomach again.

Just like in the dream.

You looked around, searching for her, but found nothing except nurses at their stations.

“We made a deal, you’d better not forget.” The feminine, sensual voice that echoed inside your mind was not your inner self, no, it was… someone.

You squeezed your eyes shut. No. It had to have been a dream. A dream! The meeting, the pact… none of it was real! The woman, the demon, that damn kiss—everything, everything had been a dream.

[...]

Your father was sitting on the bed, his face once pale and now full of color, smiling broadly. Your mother was talking to one of the doctors and seemed distracted. It felt surreal.

Out of this world.

How was this possible?

Just yesterday your father had been lying in that bed. Vegetating. Quiet, pale, and almost dead. And now, in the hospital, the man was healthy, with bright eyes.

And for a fucking fraction of a second, your heart filled with hope.

“Hi…” you said, stepping into the room timidly, but when the man opened his strong arms—the same ones that made you feel safe when you were little—you couldn’t resist.

You ran to him. You kissed and hugged him, the way you wished you had before he left the house on the morning of the accident.

“Hey, palomita. I think I’ll be going home in a few days. Can you believe it?” His eyes shone with an intensity you didn’t remember seeing before.

He had been vegetating for so long that you had started to forget the man he used to be.

“Yes. I was on my way here when mom called me. I still can’t believe it.” You hugged him again, your chest tight.

“Well, I’m a miracle!” He laughed happily.

“Indeed, sir!” The doctor interrupted. “We detected nothing in your brain, and you have no aftereffects after three years in a coma. Truly, a miracle.” He nodded again. “In any case, this is great! I think it’s best you stay a few more days until we confirm your health is stable, but we’d like to send you home on Wednesday.”

Your mother broke into a pearly smile. But she wasn’t smiling only with her white, beautiful teeth—she was smiling with her eyes too.

“Wednesday?”

“Yes. I try never to keep my patients waiting, and in this case, his condition looks very good. I’ll leave you alone now, but make sure he rests.” He said at last, before leaving.

You stayed at the hospital for more than two hours, your mind catching up as your father stood up on trembling legs for the first time in three years.

You simply didn’t understand.

Was that strange dream real? And were you, for God’s sake, actually considering that you had made a real deal with the Devil?

Back home, you searched on your computer: “deal with the devil,” and when the search history revealed results, you held your breath.

Several articles about mythologies. There were even explicit descriptions of rituals to summon a demon at a crossroads to make a pact.

Seth perched on the desk, his face and ears alert toward the window that overlooked the front door, his tail swaying back and forth.

“It’s Sunday. No mail today.” You reminded him, stroking his spine as he answered with a needy meow.

Suddenly, a folded piece of paper floated magically through the air, almost as if it were lost until it found its destination. It was a typical envelope, with a stamp and everything. And it stopped precisely at your window.

Watching the slow, magnificent dance of the paper, discomfort prickled at the back of your neck. You let out the breath you were holding and opened the window, wary.

When you picked up the letter, you felt the texture of the paper. Expensive. You could tell. Unfolding it, your eyes could not have been more unbelieving.

“Miss,

You have recently concluded a transaction with Her Majesty, the Queen of Hell. You have agreed to surrender yourself to her desires for three months in exchange for the life of your father. You must be ready every Friday night at eleven thirty. A black sedan will pick you up. It will take you to a place where you will fulfill your obligations. Should you at any point wish to terminate this contract by invoking the free will clause specified in the attached contract, article 1, section 2, you will then face the immediate death of your father.

Any questions regarding your contract with Rio, full name Rio Vidal, may be written and addressed to Ms. Vidal’s attorney, Billy Maximoff, Esq.

Sincerely,

Mr. Maximoff.”

Your eyes read and reread every part of the letter, unsure whether to believe it, laugh, or cry.

“Did I really make a deal with the devil?”

Seth’s long, fluffy tail brushed against your leg, making you jump in place, your heart nearly leaping out of your chest. The orange cat hissed and ran off—probably one of his many energy bursts.

“Jesus, Seth.” You said, but he was already gone, and your gaze returned to the room.

With trembling hands, you looked at the letter again, still in shock, analyzing the frighteningly long list of “terms and conditions” that made very little sense to you.

You read between the lines again, until you found the free will clause: “According to the laws in force in Hell, a human will always retain free will, even during transactions with a demon. That is, any deal, permanent or temporary, in which the dark entity may receive any benefit is valid and binding, unless the mortal exclaims: ‘I invoke my right to free will.’ At that moment, the transaction is broken and the benefit granted to the mortal will be undone or removed.”

You looked closely at the contract, reading the signature lines at the bottom, where your name had been written in your own hand. Running your fingertips over the signature that seemed to pulse, the painful memory of kissing the demoness flooded back. The heat, the sensual dominance she had over you; the celestial feeling around you. Breathless, you tried to breathe. One, two, three. The deal had been sealed with a fucking kiss.

It was real.

You placed the paper on the table, returned to the desk, and opened a new tab. You had no idea what you were looking for. Some answer, obviously, but the internet didn’t help.

But in one of your casual searches, the address of a psychic bookstore appeared. You saw it was near your college and stayed open until 10 p.m.

“Should I go?”

Seth entered the room again and meowed loudly.

“Is that a yes?” You said with a smile, when the feline rolled on the floor, showing its little belly and looking at you.

“Well, I’m going.” You said while already putting on your coat and slipping into your black Vans.

When you arrived at the bookstore, the sun was already setting in the sky, and you parked right in front. A small sign stood out: “The Occult Botanist.” The shop was flanked by a café on one side and an H&M clothing store on the other. Only the café was open, and even then with just a few customers.

Adjusting your bag on your shoulder, you walked toward the place; a small chime rang above your head as you entered. The smell was a strange mix—musty old books, candles, incense, and other spices—filling the air like a heavy cloud.

In one part of the shop, there was a counter with glass bottles and other things. A woman stood behind it, reading a book that looked ancient; you stared.

She didn’t look your age. Slender body, long brown hair like a rope. Her nose was sharp and gave her a mystical beauty; with square glasses resting on the tip of it, she looked up—eyes as blue as the sky.

“Excuse me,” you said, a little intimidated. “I’m looking for some books.” You closed your eyes, scolding yourself.

She would definitely think you were crazy.

“Books about what?” Her voice was deep and strong, as if she could swallow a platoon of soldiers.

“Devils…” the word barely left your mouth, “specifically about making deals with them.”

“Crossroads pacts.”

“Something like that.” You shrugged.

You and a she-devil were in this? Was that really qualified?

“Are you making deals with the dark, kiddo?”

“I’m 21.” You weren’t a child.

The woman’s lips tightened.

“What’s your name?”

You told her, and saw her give you a smile.

“Do you know what it means? Mystic gift. Gods would kill to have you.” The woman extended her hand over the counter, and you looked at it suspiciously, unsure whether you should reach out too.

When you gave her your hand, the woman seemed to feel its weight over hers and turned your palm upward, then frowned.

“You…”

She stopped.

“What’s wrong?” You looked at your hand again, doubtful now.

“A person’s palm should have heart and life lines that are similar, but not exact. Yours is… split.”

You had never really thought about palms and what they meant, but you knew the lines didn’t actually match.

“Oh, child, what have you done?” The woman asked you, her blue eyes full of concern.

“What do you mean?”

“Come and sit.”

She gestured for you to come behind the counter and around a curtain. You hesitated, but you were already here, right?

Behind the curtains, there was a small table covered with a purple cloth and a tea set. She offered, humming, and you accepted in silence.

“Drink it all.”

You frowned as you drank the dark liquid, waiting patiently. As soon as you finished, she took the cup from your hand and looked into the bottom of it.

“Do you want to save your father?”

“Yes.”

How could she know that?

“A woman came to you and offered a deal to save your father’s life?”

“Yes…” you whispered, fearful.

“You gave her your body, not just your soul. She will break you, girl. No one ever survives a deal like that.”

With sweaty hands, you wiped your palms on your clothes; your neatly trimmed nails dug into your leg, desperate to get out of there.

“Br… Break me?” Your voice came out hoarse, almost unbelieving.

“You’re not the first woman to catch her attention. She loves pleasure in all its forms.”

Your teary eyes lifted, half desperate, half hopeful.

“Is there anything I can do?”

You didn’t even consider breaking the contract and losing your father forever, but if there was anything to be done for self-protection, you would do it.

She lifted her chin, thoughtful, until she spoke:

“Come with me.” She stood up quickly, returning to where the counter was. She crouched down and searched through some boxes.

A small box with golden details sat dusty in the woman’s hands. You saw her sigh and sit on the ottoman behind the counter—she seemed afraid to open it.

A small wooden cross on a white-gold chain.

Simple and beautiful.

“It’s a talisman blessed by a saint. Take it. Though I don’t know what it does.”

“I thought crosses only worked on vampires.”

The woman laughed.

“Crosses don’t work on vampires. Vampires aren’t demons.”

You narrowed your eyes at her.

“Are you telling me vampires are real?”

“You made a deal with a demon, and you don’t believe in vampires…?” She laughed softly. “Dear, darkness is full of monsters, humans and many others.”

“Vampires, yeah…” you didn’t really know what to say or what to think. Your world was disappearing overnight.

You shook your head and put the cross around your neck, tucking it under your sweater.

“How much do I owe you for the reading and the cross?”

The woman held out her hand.

“Nothing. My name is Agatha. You can come back whenever you need me.”

“Really?” You couldn’t hide the surprise in your tone—or your expression—but you quickly composed yourself.

You wanted to hug Agatha, but held back for the moment.

“You must be careful. The more you surrender to the dark, the more you will lose yourself in it. You must find the light within you, and hold on to it.”

“Thank you.” You touched the cross hidden under your sweater, eyes slightly watery, and said goodbye to Agatha briefly.

A bitter wind wrapped around you as you left the shop. You rushed to your car, hands trembling as you opened the door. When you sat down, you turned on the lights and felt the presence of something in the back seat.

You really tried to ignore it, thinking of all the horror movies you had seen. You felt like you were going insane, like Norman Bates himself in Psycho. Slowly, you let your body give in and turned around, finding the seats empty.

But the presence, the weight, was still there.

Dry mouth, shallow breathing, and your racing heart pounding in your chest were the perfect combo for tachycardia to set in. You gripped the steering wheel tightly, until your knuckles turned white. You could swear you saw a flash of brown light, like an overly sweet chocolate cake, staring straight at you.

Through the rearview mirror.

“I’m going crazy. I really need to go rest.”

“Do that,” a distant, deep voice whispered in your ear, tickling and sending chills through every pore. “You’ll need it.”

Jumping in your seat, you hit the gas, trying to get home faster and, maybe, finally forget all this madness.

[...]

At 5 p.m., Agatha Harkness locked her shop and flipped the sign to closed. After reading your tea leaves, she felt she needed to breathe. Having the gift of touching the other side had always weighed too heavily on her shoulders.

You were in danger, but there was no way to help you. It wouldn’t be wise to challenge the demoness.

Agatha straightened some books and put them back on their proper shelves; she swept the shop, trying to keep her mind busy. As she leaned the broom against the counter and bent down to grab a dustpan, she froze instantly.

Something was in her shop.

A shiver ran down her spine. The woman stood up slowly, and it took all her self-control not to shrink back when she found herself face to face with one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen.

She wore a tailored suit. Her medium-length brown hair shone as if lit by sunlight, even though the sun had set some time ago. Her eyes were fiery brown, strangely unreadable of any emotion.

“Can I help you?” Agatha asked carefully. There was no doubt about who this woman was.

“I think you can, Agatha.”

The woman waited, wisely.

“You should stay out of my business.” Her brown eyes turned red, almost ruby in tone.

“Are you talking about the girl?”

There, Agatha scolded herself. She knew the words could be taken as a challenge—even if that wasn’t her intention, she would never bow to her.

Agatha was a powerful witch who had lost much over a long, thorn-filled journey.

They both knew it.

“Yes.” Said the demoness, dragging a finger across the counter as if searching for dust. But her finger left a trail of fire behind it, charring the wood.

“I haven’t heard of you making any deals lately. People come to me after meeting a crossroads demon. What’s so special about her that you made the deal?”

The woman tried to act casual, as if she weren’t speaking to the Queen of Hell. She bent down to grab the dustpan, picked up the broom as well, and finished sweeping and gathering the dirt from the floor.

The she-devil followed her, stopping at a specific shelf. Witchcraft. She picked up a book and flipped through its pages.

“She is… pure.” She finally said.

“No one is pure.” The witch replied without thinking.

The brown-eyed woman formed something like a smile and put the book back.

“I don’t mean pure as in free of sin. Everyone makes that mistake.” She slipped her hands into her pockets and walked slowly toward Agatha, close enough that she could whisper and still be heard by both of them. “Poor women. Witches… even the good ones, which isn’t your case, is it?”

The witch swallowed hard, gripping the broom handle even tighter.

“If you don’t mean sin, then what do you mean?”

Straightening her posture, Agatha carried her dustpan to the trash can, pretending to ignore the tightness in her chest after the demoness mentioned her past.

She would not see her pain.

“A soul can be pure when a mortal loves another more than their own life. That girl is the only soul to ever make a deal with me to save someone else.”

That made Agatha freeze, surprised.

“Surely there were others.”

The demoness leaned her hip against the counter frame, watching the silhouette of the woman with her back turned.

“I’m sure there are people who would die for those they love, but to give themselves to me? No one has ever done that before. I find the girl… interesting.” Her voice sounded strangely soft at the end.

She stopped her monologue to look at the glass display cases.

“The little gift you gave her was charming. Ineffective, but charming.”

The witch’s face burned with shame.

“It won’t work?” She said, looking everywhere except at the demoness.

She let out a haunting laugh, uncrossed her arms, and teleported to the exact spot Agatha was staring at.

They were face to face now.

“No, not on me. On lesser demons, yes. But me? I’m an angel, my dear.” The smile she gave was like the Cheshire Cat’s—dangerous and… demonic. In fact, there was no other word for it.

Agatha watched the demoness step away and finally released her breath.

“I’ll spare your life, Agatha. I find you delightful. You’re afraid of me, but you haven’t shown it even once. Humans like you have a different taste.”

The witch kept her mouth shut. She would not thank the demoness for sparing her life.

“If the girl visits you again, you must ease her worries. I don’t usually break my favorite toys.” The woman watched the fallen angel handle the candles, the crucifixes, examining each item with a certain precision.

“It won’t be so bad. As long as she doesn’t rescind the contract or resist my demands, she’ll be released from our little agreement in three months. Of course, when she dies, her soul will belong to me. Forever. But we shouldn’t let her worry about that, not when she has about seventy years to enjoy.”

“But… she’ll be changed, won’t she? When you’re done with her…”

The demoness’s smile was perverse and warm; Agatha could swear she saw a red flicker in her eyes.

“Oh yes, certainly. She will be corrupted, a soul destined straight for Hell when the right time comes. But you may pick up whatever pieces are left, if you feel particularly worthy.”

“I will!” Agatha promised.

With another smile, the demoness walked toward the door and vanished.

Alone, Agatha let her weak, trembling body collapse into the nearest chair. If the demoness planned to visit more often, moving would be a good option.

She paused, replaying the entire conversation in her head.

Two things.

The demoness seemed concerned about that girl, about the confused feelings she knew she would develop. She would also leave her alive and free after three months—at least until death. It almost sounded… merciful.

And the last time she checked, the demoness was not supposed to be merciful.

[...]

“You didn’t kill her?” Vision asked as Rio took off her suit blazer and draped it over the chair.

“No.” She sat down and finally breathed. “She’s more useful alive.”

“How so?” He made a funny face, mouth half open and eyes wide. Rio even felt more human with Vision by her side.

“I want her to come to me willingly, not afraid. I don’t want her to revoke the contract. The more she wants me and the darkness, the faster I can claim her through the gates. So Agatha must not be touched. Ensure her protection.”

Vision let out a sigh.

“If word gets out that we’re protecting a human witch—”

“The whole of Hell would revolt?” Rio rolled her eyes, teasing.

“Yes?” He frowned.

Rio slapped him on the back.

“Relax, old friend. After millennia, I’ve finally found something that interests me again. That’s reason enough to celebrate. Meet me at the club in half an hour, we’ll find some juicy humans to sate our lust.”

At that, Vision smiled.

“It’s been a long time since the two of us indulged.”

Rio could spend days in bed with women, drinking them in over and over, never tiring of it. Every position, every kind of toy and fantasy—she had done it all.

Vision was already gone by then.

That made her kick off her shoes and stretch her feet. Her mind was blank, as it hadn’t been in a very long time. Looking out the window, she could see the night breeze stirring the leaves of the trees. Midnight was Rio’s favorite hour. When the clocks slowed at the twelfth hour, the battle between night and day was perfectly balanced, giving the world a sense of equilibrium, a feeling of beauty and peace.

And it had been so long since Rio had felt peace.

After the Fall, she had mistakenly thought she would find it, but no. Her back still burned; the scars were the only imperfect part of her, always aching whenever she thought too long about the wings that had once been there.

You can never taste heaven again, not completely. She knew that. However, when the pact with that foolish girl was sealed, Rio was able to feel part of paradise again. Her own paradise. And she wanted more.

The she-devil wanted more, was desperate for it, in fact. Desperate to feel peace, the happiness your lips had given her. If just kissing you had made her feel back in heaven, then in bed you would be explosive.

There was an irony to it all: the more you showed her heaven, the more Rio would condemn you to hell.

But that was the deal.

Rio knew Vision was waiting for her, but she didn’t return to the club—not yet. First, she closed her eyes and sharpened her focus on you. She could see inside your home, your bedroom with one wall painted dark green and a huge cello, and a… cat?

The orange creature stared at her with its ears flattened back, like airplane wings.

Common sense assumed cats were evil, familiars of the devil, but that wasn’t true. Felines were a curse to a demon’s existence. They could see and feel the unnatural nature of creatures like Rio.

“Seth, what’s wrong?” You came out of the bathroom wearing an oversized sweatshirt that covered most of your legs.

The cat clearly chose to ignore you. Rio narrowed her eyes at the animal and flipped it off, making it hiss and bolt out of the room.

You, unaware of the forces around you, shrugged it off, believing it was just another of his nightly energy bursts. You barely noticed that a she-devil followed you into the kitchen—an invisible, undetectable presence.

You opened the fridge and took out a slice of yesterday’s pizza—because it’s always better the next day. As you heated it up in the microwave, there was a sharp loneliness on your face that intrigued the demoness.

Rio didn’t spend much time with mortals, not like this.

You were her newest toy.

She could see you whenever she wanted, see what you were doing, eating… pull the strings and make you dance like a beautiful marionette.

The high-pitched beep of the microwave echoed through the kitchen, and you served yourself, settling onto the couch with a glass of Diet Coke, leaning forward to press play on the movie you were watching.

Rio leaned in to see what movie it was and frowned.

Twilight.

Ugh.

There was nothing romantic about immortal bloodsuckers. Fallen angels were a million times more interesting.

When she bit a lover in bed, it was for pleasure, not necessity.

“Don’t worry, sugar sweet. I’ll show you just how much fun we can have in bed,” she whispered, already almost leaving the room, but not before leaning in to press a warm, wet kiss to your cheek. “Sweet dreams,” she added with a profane laugh, knowing you would dream of her all night long.

~*~

Guess what you were dreaming of?

TagList <3

“And who exactly are you?”

You watched the redhead’s green eyes widen, her brows arching as if you had just said something unforgivable. Inside, you wanted to smile—the insolence burning like an ember within you—but your face stayed neutral, a poker face carved by pride.

Wanda, on the other hand, seemed in disbelief, as though you must be joking with her. She watched you with that silent incredulity of someone who hasn’t yet decided whether to crush their prey or play with it. After all… who in the entire world didn’t know Wanda Maximoff?

“Oh… who I am exactly?” She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, feigning surprise, though there was a trace of venom in her voice. She walked slowly, each step measured, until she was close enough that her eyes aligned perfectly with yours. Her expensive perfume enveloped you. “Your worst nightmare.”

You swallowed hard. Your body was betraying you. Dualities pulling you apart: tense muscles, a racing heart, and that strange heat climbing from your stomach.

It was fear, it had to be.

It couldn’t be anything else.

Could it?

She pulled away as if you had lost your charm, her fiery curls cascading over her perfectly sculpted back, her posture straight, like someone always above everyone else.

“Natasha!” It wasn’t exactly a shout, but it was spoken with such detachment that it made you shift in the iron chair, uneasy, imagining what it would be like to hear her call your name that same way.

And when you realized that this Natasha was none other than the woman with the most beautiful collarbone you had ever seen, your jaw tightened—because she obeyed.

When the door shut, taking the woman with it, the room finally seemed to breathe again. And the girl beside you only sighed, still in shock: “Wow.”

Yeah, wow.

[...]

In the usual dressing room, Wanda slammed the door shut and hurled the first vase of flowers she could find at the vanity mirror, shattering it into countless shards and cracking the glass. Behind her, Natasha entered unhurried, closing the door with a lazy click. She let out a deep sigh, like someone who had already said every prayer imaginable to endure yet another one of the redhead’s explosions.

“Who does she think she is?!” Wanda spun toward Natasha, her eyes sparking as if they could ignite the air between them.

Natasha leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the spectacle with that calculated calm that only made things worse. “A new girl. Naïve. A little too bold for her own good.”

“Naïve?” Wanda scoffed, taking a few steps toward her, her heels striking sharply against the floor. “She challenged me. In front of all the other subordinates.”

“Coworkers.” Natasha corrected, glancing at her wristwatch.

“What?” Wanda’s expression was confused, hilarious, in fact, for her bodyguard.

“They’re your coworkers. Young, inexperienced, yes, but that doesn’t mean they should be subjugated.”

Wanda looked at her as if a third eye had just opened on her forehead. It was obvious, though, that the actress had one image for the cameras and another behind the scenes. Everyone was used to it, everyone expected this subjugation from her. Automatically, she raised her hands, as if she could strangle the woman with her powers.

“What are you doing?” The bodyguard asked, arms still crossed, one brow arched.

The actress snapped out of it when she realized it wouldn’t work.

“Shit.” She cursed, lowering her hands and damning herself for even thinking of that cursed offering. Every one of her powers—even the most harmless—was confiscated by that damned girl.

She inhaled, exhaled, just as her therapist had instructed. Wanda couldn’t lose herself; Natasha was only human. She must never know what Wanda truly was.

“Anyway… Want me to talk to her?” The other woman asked, snapping Wanda out of her internal spiral.

“Who?”

“The new girl.”

Natasha was a strange woman, and she knew it. First came this wild, inexplicable urge to protect an actress as tyrannical as Wanda, to fix her—because Natasha knew Wanda Maximoff was a fraud. The nights when the woman cried, drunk and lonely, clawing for comfort in her arms—even violently—were proof enough of that.

And then there was you. Your lost, curious eyes. The way you wiped your sweaty palms against your jeans. Natasha hadn’t understood what you were at first, but after you stood up to Wanda, she knew: you were something.

She hadn’t wanted to laugh so badly in ages. Watching someone dismantle the glorious Wanda Maximoff with just a few words? Priceless.

“No, of course not,” the redhead said without even looking at her lover, handing her a careless smile. And in that instant Natasha knew chaos was on its way. “She’ll come apologize on her own.”

Wanda’s eyes drifted toward the shattered mirror. In the fractured glass, her face multiplied, distorted. A macabre smile curved her lips.

[...]

Nervously, you wiped your hands against your jeans again and again. You were in the dressing room, and the costume designer was talking to your senior—the screenwriter. She was genuinely kind to you, offering a cup of Starbucks coffee. Sweet, just the way you liked it. Almost as if she could read minds…

She explained how dangerous what you had done had been. She told you the redhead’s name—Wanda—and once more begged you to research your coworkers more carefully.

You honestly didn’t know how you got the part…

Thinking of, you did. You’d done theater your whole life, but as you grew older, responsibilities came knocking and you gave it up. If it hadn’t been for Amabile, your best friend, you never would have realized this dream.

Either way, the coffee hadn’t come alone. Your sweet, generous senior handed you the complete script for your character.

Amélie.

An offering sent to an evil witch who needed the blood of virgins to stay young. 

In the universe of Loving the Wicked, there was no redemption for Morganna—Wanda’s character. She was cruel, arrogant, an immortal beauty who fed on the blood of pure young women. The kind of villainess who didn’t just burn villages but also stole the breath of anyone foolish enough to meet her eyes. And, by irony or curse, Amélie was sent straight to her.

The script described the first scenes in richness of detail and it made you swallow hard. The moment Morganna received you, examining every inch of your body as though deciding whether you were worth keeping alive or whether your essence would be turned into a potion. Her tone of voice, the calculated touch, the smile that never reached her eyes. Everything meticulously designed to make the audience hate her… and, strangely, feel drawn to her.

But Loving the Wicked wasn’t just a horror tale, even though Agatha was known for that in Hollywood. As the pages went on, you read the fissures in the witch’s armor. Gazes held too long. An almost obsessive interest in Amélie that didn’t fit the predator-and-prey relationship it should have been. The story began to twist, and that love—if it could even be called that—turned from a fleeting whim into something dangerous, suffocating.

Whatever, you couldn’t get lost in daydreams now, because the director had just walked in.

“Well, how are we doing?” She asked, not even glancing at you—obviously.

“We were thinking kimonos.” Said the costume designer.

“But Amélie isn’t Japanese, Joe.” She pointed out, narrowing her eyes at him.

“And I-I know it wouldn’t exactly be a kimono, it should only show the middle of the legs.” He sounded unsure saying that to her, but you? God… you were bright red.

Only a few times in your life had you needed to be naked in front of someone, and now, well, now you had to be naked in front of several people and cameras.

Agatha seemed to consider it, then looked at the young woman beside the costume designer, Joe.

“What do you think of this?” She asked your veteran with a thoughtful pout.

“Actually, I think it could work. We want to make an impression on Morgana, right?” She asked rhetorically, then stepped closer to you. “A white, open kimono can give the sense of purity and the youthful rebellion we want.” The screenwriter said it plainly, and you saw Agatha smile, veeery pleased.

“Don’t you think the Asian community will freak out, honey?” The director smiled, amused now.

“Maybe, but only if we don’t do it right, Agatha.”

Jesus.

What is happening?

They looked at each other so intensely it felt like the affair between them seemed old. But… isn’t Agatha married?

“Attagirl,” the smile was warm, actually, enviable. You wished someone could smile like that and look at you with the same eyes. “Joe, bring the costume. And you,” finally, finally, she turned to you. “Keep up with.”

You followed Joe to the corner of the studio where the clothing racks stood in a neat line. The scent of new fabric and ironing filled the air, but none of that could drown out the sound of heels. They came slowly, measured, as if every step were calculated to be heard.

And then you saw her. Wanda Maximoff—now that you knew her name, and intended not to forget it. She stood on a slightly raised platform, arms open while seamstresses pinned the fabric to adjust it.

The costume was a dark red, almost blood. The mixing of red and purple fabrics was chaotic, like Morgana. It was strange to think how well Wanda actually fit the role.

She stared ahead and seemed bored, until her eyes landed on you for a second that felt too long. The actress’s expression lit up, not in a good way.

You felt a shove in your shoulders. It was Joe. He pushed you forward, toward the platform with Wanda. Even with trembling legs, you climbed.

“Take your clothes off.” Joe said, unfolding the white fabric and inspecting it methodically.

“What?” You asked, horrified.

“Take your clothes off.” The man repeated, plainly.

I mean, as an actress you knew that a naked body wasn’t just a naked body—it was a temple, a work of art. But with Wanda Maximoff beside you, your critical thinking shrank to that of a pigeon.

Swallowing hard, your hands moved and in a few motions you removed your shoes and socks; the mom jeans; and the red polo shirt—slightly oversized so it wouldn’t reveal too much.

Not that you were ashamed of your body, no, but that was precisely the point.

So you stood in your panties and bra. Your face so flushed you couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Surprisingly, nothing around you changed, people kept rushing about; speaking loudly and gesturing as if you weren’t half-naked in front of them.

But Wanda still watched you.

Her eyes were green, but now they seemed black. Her pupils swallowed the irises, they seemed to spin and hypnotize you.

Joe cleared his throat and you startled in place, letting him drape the fabrics over you. It was a mix of white and light blue. There was a slit between the legs, just as your veteran had planned. It gave the impression you were pure and chaste, but there was something… something far beyond mere offering.

“Is this really her costume?” The question came laced with irony, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Joe froze, hands suspended in the air.

“It fits well on her.” He replied, trying to sound professional.

Wanda laughed, a low, sharp sound.

“Fits well?... Darling, if she breathes any deeper that fabric will tear,” her eyes met yours, and you felt the floor give way beneath your feet. It was like being exposed, stripped before everyone, even covered by fabric. Your face burned. “Unless ‘Amélie’ is the first offering with a… generous little body.”

The word hung like a curse, something disgusting to be laughed at afterwards. You swallowed, trying to hide the wave of heat rising in your cheeks, but you knew you were red. Everyone pretended to look away, but the discomfort hovered in the air.

You wanted to disappear.

Yet Wanda’s eyes, glazed with a mixture of contempt and delight, almost begged you to give in.

She fed on your shame.

“Wanda. Be polite.” Agatha, who until then had been taking care of other matters in the room, said in a warning tone.

“What? I’m just saying that if we’re selling purity and fragility, maybe the costume needs… some adjustments,” she stepped toward you, leaning in as if to confide, but projecting her voice so the rest of the crew could hear. “After all, it’s hard to look defenseless when you occupy so much space in the camera frame, don’t you think?”

This time you couldn’t hold it. Your lips trembled, and tears stung your eyes. Shit. Not now. Not in front of her. You blinked fast, trying to hold them back, but humiliation crushed you.

And Wanda felt it too.

She was enjoying herself. There was cruelty, yes, but also a strange excitement in seeing how much she could break you.

As if it were an intimate game and hers alone.

“Interesting,” Agatha crossed her arms, the smile slow like a sweet poison. “Because, as far as I remember, I direct this production. And I choose what works on screen. And if my wicked witch needs an offering that makes the audience root for her…” the older woman stepped forward, forcing Wanda to tilt her head to meet hers, “then she needs to be exactly as she is.”

Wanda blinked slowly, like a feline weighing whether it’s worth striking.

“You always had this habit of defending… lost causes.”

“And you’ve always had the habit of talking too much when you feel threatened.” Agatha shot back without changing her tone.

The actress puffed up, feeling slighted. Her fragile, untouchable ego still smarting from their fight. She gave you one more look and stormed out, the seamstresses rushing desperately after her.

Agatha then looked at you, her face softening as if swapping masks.

“Ignore her, she likes to test limits,” she said, making you question the nature of their relationship. Then she put her mask back on. “Keep up the good work.”

[...]

After the fitting, you hurried down the narrow corridor, the bitter taste of humiliation still lodged in your throat. You tried to keep your eyes on the floor, taking deep breaths so you wouldn’t collapse in front of anyone. You only needed to reach the coffee machine.

But a silhouette appeared at the end of the corridor, casually leaning against the wall waiting for the capsule to turn into coffee. Shit. It was that Natasha. Arms crossed, posture relaxed, that air of someone who watches everything without hurry.

Your heart raced in your chest.

You tried to pretend you hadn’t seen her. You walked on, quick steps, eyes forward. But when you passed by, her hand rose with surgical precision and grabbed your wrist. It wasn’t violent, but it was firm enough to stop you instantly.

“Look at me.”

You swallowed hard and forced a short smile, too afraid to lift your eyes.

“I’m in a hurry.”

Natasha tilted her head, studying your face the way someone studies a detail in a painting. Her grip on your wrist didn’t loosen, and you felt your skin throb where her fingers pressed.

“I apologize for her behavior.” She said, bluntly.

You rolled your eyes and scoffed. “And what are you? Her mother?”

The woman ignored you. In fact, she stepped back to pick up the cup of coffee already waiting. “Wanda can be… difficult,” she said while sipping. “It might take a while to understand her.”

Natasha sounded like she was giving you advice you should actually listen to. You swallowed again, crossing your arms as if that could shield you from the way Natasha simply filled the space, controlling the air without raising her voice.

“I’m not trying.” You shot back,  too quickly, as if the rush of the reply didn’t already give you away.

Natasha turned, smiled for real this time, but it wasn’t a nice smile. It was the kind you wear when you’ve just uncovered someone’s weakness.

“Then you’d better start, detka,” she stepped closer, her gaze predatory, the warmth of her coffee breath surrounding you. “Or Wanda will swallow you whole,” you looked away. “We don’t want that, do we?”

Your face heated, and something pulsed in your legs. 

Shit.

“Let me go!” You snapped, your heart in your throat.

Her hand still burned against your wrist, and even though you’d asked her to release you, Natasha didn’t move. On the contrary, she leaned in, shrinking the space between you. The narrow hallway was suffocating on its own, but with her so close, the air felt thick, clinging to your skin.

You tried to back away, but your shoulders brushed the cold wall. The contrast was almost painful: the chill against your neck and the heat of her breath on your face.

“Say please.” The whisper raised every hair on your body, almost breaking your resistance.

The coffee on her breath wasn’t just a smell; it was almost a touch, seeping in, spreading through you. Her gaze drifted down, slow, as if she had all the time in the world, settling on your lips before climbing back to your eyes. That was when you realized there was no real defense: Natasha didn’t need to raise her voice or use force for your stupid brain to obey.

“P-please…”

And you saw the corner of the older woman’s lips curl into a mysterious smile.

“Good girl.” Spoken low and drawn out, like it meant far more than those simple words.

The big thing was that your body was trembling and you let out a sound, like a wounded animal ready to die. Your heart was beating too fast, your knees felt like they were about to give out, and there was a pulsing heat low in your belly, spreading in uncomfortable waves you desperately wanted to deny. Except the flush on your face, the trembling in your hands, the faltering breath… everything screamed that you were reacting to her.

When you finally regained control of yourself, you realized you were alone. The woman was gone, and you were left with all the pounding reactions Natasha had stirred inside you.

Which, incredibly, was the same for the woman whose heart was racing inside her chest. Her lips were dry, her hands balled into fists, neatly filed nails digging into her palms.

Natasha was terribly aroused.

Which was strange, because only Wanda had ever gotten inside Natasha’s head like that. And it had been in a completely different way than what had just happened.

With Wanda, she wanted to help her, fix her by force and drag her back to the surface. But with you, Natasha wanted to destroy you, to shove you against a wall and watch you cry; to discipline you every single time you dared to act bold in front of her…

God.

She needed to get out of that spiral, but with the help of the coffee, her mind was running at a thousand.

Security entered the dressing room, head low and hands still shaking. Wanda was standing in front of the mirror—already changed—caressing the sapphires of her character’s costume. Morgana was a powerful woman, and Wanda could swear the witch had been created with her in mind… as if they already knew she would accept the role.

That girl…

With a brutal shove, Wanda’s face was slammed toward the mirror, her cheek pressed painfully against the glass.

“What the fuck?!” She exclaimed, startled, but calmed the moment she saw it was Natasha. “Hey, fuck! What are you doing?!” The redhead demanded as she felt the bodyguard’s long hands lift the layers of fabric from her costume, exposing her ass, revealing pink underwear.

The answer she got was a tug on her fiery mane, yanking her head back. “You’ve got such a filthy mouth, don’t you?”

The woman snarled between her teeth, pushing Wanda’s panties aside. The actress frowned, a soft moan escaping her lips—no one could blame her. Romanoff was very good at what she set her mind to.

“I’ll teach you properly.” Natasha whispered into her ear, and Wanda shivered instantly, though her self-awareness was just as sharp.

With a sudden movement, Wanda twisted around, wrapping her thighs around her bodyguard’s waist. One hand braced on the woman’s strong shoulder, the other swung through the air, landing a hard slap right across Romanoff’s face.

“Wake the fuck up!”

And yes, like magic, Natasha snapped out of her trance, blinking in confusion—she hadn’t even felt the sting of the slap.

“You can’t tame me,” Wanda kept talking, and talking, while Natasha still struggled to comprehend. “Look at me! What happened to you?” The redhead demanded, forcing the woman to meet her gaze again.

The dilated pupils said what the actress already suspected—she had been aroused. Even before touching her.

“I…” the bodyguard began. “I’m stressed.”

“Stressed?”

“Yes.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes, searching for a trace of a lie, but the bodyguard’s face was unreadable—the actress hated not being able to see through her.

“Natasha,” the redhead began, exhaling. “This thing between us won’t work if you don’t obey. I don’t submit, got it?”

The guard’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding, her mind tangled with flashes of you and Wanda at the same time. Fuck. “Got it.” She hissed through her teeth, still breathing hard.

When she tried to pull away, Wanda’s hands stopped her in place. The touch seemed casual, but Natasha knew better.

“But about your stress… I can take care of that.”

Wanda’s touch was firm, a sharp contrast to the silky softness of her voice.

“You’re tense,” the redhead observed, her voice a husky whisper that echoed in the silent dressing room. Her gaze slid down Natasha’s body, analytical and predatory, stopping where her jaw still throbbed from tension. “Here.” The hand on her shoulder slid down her chest and kept going, until it found the rigid muscle, kneading in slow, deep circles—a massage that was as much comfort as it was torture.

Natasha held her breath.

Wanda’s touch was skilled. Every movement of her thumb loosened a knot of tension only to tie another of raw, primal desire in Natasha’s lower belly. She tried to look away, but Wanda used her other hand to grip her chin, forcing eye contact.

“And here.” Wanda murmured, her hand sliding from Natasha’s shoulder, down her arm, tracing her hip, until her palm spread flat on the firm thigh of the bodyguard, just above the waistband of her pants. Natasha’s skin burned beneath the fabric.

Wanda was like fire, impossible to contain.

The actress leaned closer until her lips nearly brushed Natasha’s ear. “You want to let it out, don’t you? All that stress. All that… little pent-up anger.” Her hand on Natasha’s thigh squeezed, almost painfully, and a low, involuntary moan escaped the guard’s lips. “You want to hit. You want to bite. You want to dominate.”

It was the purest truth Natasha had ever heard. In that moment, she shut her eyes and let her imagination run. The mirror reflected your face, your forced submission, your mischievous eyes, fusing with the image of you, back in that hallway, your trembling voice saying “please”…

It was a sin, a forbidden, filthy desire eating her alive.

Wanda smiled, feeling the shiver run through Natasha’s body. She longed for her powers back, to feel the woman even closer. To enter her mind and play out all her darkest fantasies without Natasha uttering a single word.

Because that was the kind of lover Wanda was. Obsessed and terrifying. Capable of anything for pleasure. In her glory days, she had killed for much less, it was true. Wanda thrived on unpredictability and thrill.

“But I’m not that kind of woman.” The redhead whispered, her voice laced with an obscene promise.

With a surprisingly quick and forceful move, Wanda spun Natasha and shoved her against the vanity. The polished wood hit the guard’s hips with a dull thud. Before Natasha could react, Wanda grabbed both her wrists, crossed them behind her back, and pinned them easily with a single iron grip.

“Look,” Wanda ordered, forcing Natasha’s head forward until her face was pressed against the cold mirror. The reflection was distorted by the pressure: wide eyes, parted lips, cheeks squashed against the glass; and behind her, Wanda, a vision of power and resolve, her eyes blazing with inner fire.

The actress leaned in, her body molding against Natasha’s back. Her lips brushed the shell of the guard’s ear, and she spoke, every word a hot, wet whisper that made Natasha shiver.

“Who’s the little slut now, huh?” Wanda asked, her voice a thread of poisoned silk.

Her free hand slid down, fingers finding the buckle of Natasha’s belt, the zipper of her pinstripe pants. Natasha tried to arch her back, to fight with all the strength and training she had, but the redhead was shockingly strong, and she had never known another woman who could restrain her. The fabric was yanked down, exposing the warm, damp skin of her ass to the cold air of the dressing room.

Wanda paused for a second, her hand flat on the curve of Natasha’s ass, possessive.

“You’re mine,” she growled, and the statement sounded like the most fundamental truth in the universe at that moment. “My slave. My whore. Mine to do whatever I want with.”

And then, without ceremony, Wanda thrust into her. It wasn’t a gentle conquest but an assertion of ownership. A deep, precise movement that tore a muffled cry from Natasha against the mirror, a sound of pure surrender and forced ecstasy.

Natasha’s world collapsed in that instant. The anger, the frustration, the desire for you—everything was swept away by the overwhelming sensation of Wanda inside her, moving with an unrelenting rhythm that pushed her to the edge. Each thrust was both punishment and reward. Each word whispered by Wanda was a nail in the coffin of her resistance.

“You know…” she began, sounding almost casual again, as if she weren’t buried inside Natasha. “I’m stressed too.”

A thrust.

“Having to deal with so many rookies at once… It’s… it’s aging me, Natasha,” Wanda was monologuing now, because the guard’s mind was floating in the clouds. “Are you listening to me?”

Another thrust.

Natasha rolled her eyes, biting her lip to keep from crying out. “Ugh. Yes, fuck!”

Again.

Natasha jolted in place, forcing Wanda deeper.

A laugh escaped the redhead. “Such a filthy mouth, darling… Looks like I’ll have to teach you properly.”

They both knew it was a lie. Discipline had never been Wanda’s style—it was Natasha’s. Wanda preferred… to break.

“That girl,” the woman began again. “She’s becoming a problem before filming even starts, don’t you think?”

Fuck.

Natasha knew Wanda was talking about you.

And that made everything worse.

It stoked the heat in the bodyguard’s belly, reminding her of how small you’d seemed against her frame, how your pretty little face begged to be broken and fixed.

She loved fixing pretty things.

As the actress moved inside her, hitting every tender spot of her spongy flesh, Natasha began to tremble.

From head to toe.

“Wanda, fuck!” She warned.

With her face pressed against her own distorted reflection, the marks of the mirror on her skin, the taste of her own sin on her lips—she gave in. The orgasm was explosive, nearly knocking her down, if not for Wanda holding her firmly in place.

Because in the end, it was easier to fall into that familiar abyss than admit that what she really wanted, buried deep in that chaos, was you.

After taking a deep breath and pulling her pants—and dignity—back into place, Natasha cleared her throat. 

“Thanks for that.” She said, unable to meet the redhead’s eyes.

Wanda smiled; she found it cute, the way Natasha tried not to show her feelings. Even when they meant nothing to her.

“You’re welcome.” The actress’s smile vanished as she turned back to the mirror, wiping away a faint smudge in her red lipstick. “Get back to your post and…” Once more, her green eyes scanned Natasha from head to toe. This time she looked more thoughtful than aroused. “Bring me a coffee.”

The guard left without another word, like a wounded animal trying to hide its trail of blood. Her footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving behind only the heavy silence, thick with memories Wanda couldn’t erase.

Alone, she sat in the chair and slowly raised her eyes to the mirror. The reflection showed not just the actress, but the woman hidden behind the role, lips still trembling, lipstick flawless, skin marked by delayed aging. For a second, she let her own breath betray her—fast, uneven, as if she were still caught in the intensity Natasha had left in the air.

Wanda ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing the rebellious strands, and laughed softly, without humor.

“You won’t defeat me.” She murmured at her reflection.

It was for herself, for the reflection that it returns a vulnerable version. It was for Agatha and Rio, for that damned offering that stole her ancestral powers. It was for Lilia, for abandoning her.

But mostly, it was for you.

Your petulant, bold, captivating way wouldn’t worm its way inside her. Wanda was a woman, not a child. She knew she should act like an adult, but inferior, human creatures like you pushed her beyond reason with your insolence.

You had sparked something dangerous inside her; a flame that wouldn’t be put out with water.

And yet, Wanda was not a woman who admitted defeat. Her body still pulsed, betrayed by the memory of Natasha’s pressure, touch, threat, and comfort.

She closed her eyes for a moment, drew a deep breath, and steadied herself. When she opened them again, Morgana—the character—in the mirror looked perfect once more: cold, intact, powerful. That was the role she had chosen. The actress adjusted her dress, fixed the smudge of lipstick, and lifted her chin as if nothing had happened.

The reflection smiled back at her, complicit and cruel.

~*~

We're going deeper, don't you think so?

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Life wasn’t fair.

And you knew that well, but it didn’t stop you from hoping every single day that it might get better. Sitting by your father’s hospital bed, unable to watch him fight for his life.

Your father had fallen into a coma after an accident at work. He was an engineer, and fell from scaffolding along with four interns, suffering a traumatic brain injury on impact. You found out when your school principal called you in for a talk. A neighbor came to pick you up and drove you to the hospital, where you found your mother quietly crying by his bed.

That was three years ago. 

Three years of watching your mother lose pieces of herself to the looming death of the man she had shared her life with for almost thirty years.

Most of the time, you held it together with them, but today was different. This was the end. Your family could no longer afford your father’s medical costs. The curse of living in America at a time like this…

The machines beeped in your head, charting the fading life of your father, vanishing little by little. And with him, your heart shattered, splintering into a thousand shards like glass.

Would your mother look at you and see your father’s reflection once he was gone? Would that only bring her more pain?

You swallowed hard, holding back the tears.

“Mom, I’m going to get some air, okay?” You hugged the woman from behind and kissed her cheek.

“Okay, sweetheart.” She murmured absentmindedly.

The moment you stepped outside the room, you let the tears fall. Breathe. You ordered yourself, lifting your chin and wiping your cheeks with a sharp exhale.

Being half-Latina, you were raised Catholic, but your faith had never been strong. Not until your father’s accident. Now you prayed, made promises, as if the world itself were ending.

“Are you alright?” A nurse approached, resting a hand on your shoulder.

“Just a bad day.” You tried to smile, but it never reached your eyes.

The woman smiled in a soft, maternal way. “Everyone has those bad days here, but they’re usually followed by good ones. Hold on tight, dear.”

“Thank you.” You whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You wished you could run away, but the hospital felt like a maze of white walls.

“Why don’t you take a break in the chapel?” She suggested, watching you. You turned toward her with watery, suddenly hopeful eyes.

It really seemed like a good idea.

You thanked her quietly and walked toward the chapel. When you stepped inside, it was empty. The pews glowed faintly under the fractured colors of stained glass. You walked to the front rows, sat down, and closed your eyes, hands pressed together in prayer, while more tears slid down your cheeks.

Three years ago, all that mattered was college—you wanted to study music and play with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, one of the best in the country. But after the accident, your mind could never stay on studying, and by some miracle, you barely made it into the University of Chicago.

Part of you was angry. Angry at the accident, at not having money to go out with friends and live like a normal young adult, at watching your mother trapped in this infernal limbo.

Anger was necessary, it kept you going.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed there praying, but then you realized you weren’t alone. The hairs at the back of your neck stood up with that unnerving sensation of invisible eyes fixed on you.

Your jaw tightened. Slowly, you turned, stealing a glance over your shoulder at the shadowy doorway.

For a second, you couldn’t breathe. Because a tall, slender figure was there, as though every nightmare and every phobia had converged in that pocket of darkness.

Then you blinked, and the shadow vanished.

Now she was framed in the doorway—a woman—wearing a black dress and red lipstick that defined the shape of her lips, yet somehow didn’t clash with such a sterile setting.

She looked at you with a confidence, a dominance, that made you shiver. As if she wasn’t even aware she was standing inside a church.

Her eyes. Enormous, brown eyes that seemed tinged with red from where you sat, made your nails dig into your thigh while every primal instinct screamed at you to run. She was terrifyingly beautiful, like a model. Dark hair—brown, not black—falling just below her shoulders.

And again, you returned to her eyes. There was no warmth there. Her features were striking, a straight nose, a carved jawline, high cheekbones that lent her… sweetness.

It was almost a sin for a woman like this to exist.

You had to be careful.

Any sudden move could shift the balance into survival mode. Where, obviously, you were the prey and she the predator.

And yet you couldn’t stop wondering who she was. She was fascinating to look at. Absorbing in a way you couldn’t explain.

Almost symbiotic.

Silence stretched between you. You wanted to wipe your tears, but you couldn’t move—frozen in fear and awe.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt your prayers.” Her voice slid through the air like wet silk.

You shivered at the sound. A voice that could tempt any woman, conjure her darkest fantasies.

You had to get out. Every instinct was still screaming at you to leave.

“Uh… no, I was just… leaving.” You lowered your head, shifting uncomfortably in the pew.

The woman stepped forward. She seemed… at ease. The stained-glass light shifted strangely around her, almost bending away, leaving her deeper in shadow.

Could that even be possible?

“Visiting someone?” She asked, casual on the surface.

“My father.” Just saying it stripped away the fear and desire she had stirred in you and the fragility rushed back.

“I’m sorry.” Another step closer. She glanced up at the Virgin Mary with an odd, almost knowing smile, as if she were intimately familiar with the saint. Which, of course, couldn’t be true.

“Thank you.” You fought against the tremors running through you. “Are you visiting someone as well?” It was a risk, you knew it, but showing fear wasn’t an option.

Her lips curved into the ghost of a smile.

“Not exactly.”

One step.

“Are you a doctor, then?” She had to be here for a reason, right?

Suddenly, the woman laughed, as though you had just told an inside joke.

“Do I look like someone who saves lives?”

“I… I’m sorry, I just assumed.” Swallowing hard, you rose, slipping past her and heading for the door.

Until the tall woman called you by name. You froze where you stood.

“How… how do you know my name?” Terror clenched your throat so tightly the words hurt coming out.

The woman, still gazing at the Virgin, turned to face you. Her head tilted, studying you, her body moving with deliberate slowness.

“You sent a prayer for your father.”

Confused, you nodded.

“And I came to answer it.”

Her chocolate eyes consumed everything, her words hitting you like a blow. Was this some kind of joke? Was she some creep lurking in hospitals to prey on fragile women?

“No, my dear. I’m not some creep waiting to prey on fragile women.”

She laughed darkly again, and the sound sent shivers down your spine.

“W-what? You’re not a doctor. You said you don’t save lives. I don’t understand…”

She raised a finger, demanding silence, and you shut your mouth, of course. The slender figure drew closer and closer, until you were no more than a meter apart. Now you could feel that terrible darkness radiating from her.

“I’m not a doctor, but I save lives when there’s something in it for me.”

You stepped back.

“I still don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t, my dear. You’re…” she leaned in again, sighing almost passionately. “Innocent. Sweet… You don’t need to worry. I’ll be happy to spell it out for you.”

She reached out a hand to touch you, but stopped herself. Her expression dimmed, returning to its usual taciturnity.

Then, with the snap of her fingers, the chapel vanished, and you were standing in front of your father’s room, staring at the door. Your father still lay sleeping, serene, your mother resting her head on the bed while holding his hands.

“I make deals that change lives.”

“What?… How?” You were still paralyzed, not understanding how you had shifted places.

You had to be dreaming. That had to be it. No one around you moved. The nurses were frozen, your parents too. The monitors connected to your father were unnervingly silent. You couldn’t even move yourself.

That was how your nightmares always went.

You had to wake up.

“You want your father to get better, don’t you?” Her voice was low and alluring, like a lover’s.

“Of course I do!” You almost shouted, suffocated by your own immobility.

The tall woman loomed over you, like a venomous snake. “And what would you give for him to be healed?”

You strained to turn on your heel, to look her in the face, but instead you found yourself eye-level with her chest. She was growing taller and taller. In that moment, you would’ve sworn she reached eight feet.

“I—”

“Think now, and think carefully.” Her brown eyes dipped toward your lips, as if she were considering claiming them for herself.

A wild flush burned across your cheeks.

“Anything.”

“Hm,” she paused to study your face. “Anything is a very dangerous word.”

You swallowed hard, unable to look away. Her eyes were like Saturn, but inside them you saw your father laughing, taking his daily walks, smiling.

The hunger to return to that moment, to see him healthy and happy again, was so strong it gave you courage to cast aside your fear and speak the truth.

“Anything.”

The slender woman seemed amused by your seriousness, and a slow, seductive smile tugged at her lips.

“Would you give yourself to me? Sell your soul?” Her black pupils swallowed the entire orbit of her brown irises. It was almost… demonic.

“Sell my—”

“Your soul.” She opened her palm, as though expecting you to take it.

“What do you even mean?”

“I’ll show you.” She extended her hand closer still, hesitating, you accepted the touch, and the second your fingers met, you were swallowed by darkness.

Everything around you was nothing. The cawing of ravens hissed in the night. You tried to see, but it was impossible. It felt like a dark, endless limbo.

“What is this?” You finally whispered, though fear was choking you.

“The end of everything you know and love.”

“Hell.” You assumed.

A little calmer—or as calm as you could be—you looked around again, frowning. Where were the flames and the damned souls?

“Hell is different for everyone, you know. It’s not all fire and brimstone.” The woman’s laugh was warm; she seemed to be enjoying you.

“I only see darkness.” You said, bewildered.

“Because your hell is nothingness.”

And then, you were back in the chapel. A wave of vertigo hit your head, and your knees buckled to the floor. The woman remained untouched, as if she were used to shifting through physical spaces. Her hands were in her pockets, waiting patiently.

Gasping for air, you spoke:

“Can you… save my father?”

Part of you wondered if you were dreaming. You had to be. There was no way you were speaking to the devil herself, bargaining for your father’s life.

“I can.”

“But you… you said you don’t save lives.”

The woman—or rather, the demoness—laughed deeply.

“I said I look like I don’t save lives, and as a rule, I don’t.”

“Then why do you want to help me?” You pulled yourself up and sat on the nearest pew.

Lady Devil walked over to one of the stained-glass windows, tilting her face upward to let the sun touch her skin.

“Because I hunger for corruption, and you are a pure soul. I need to corrupt you.”

“C-corrupt me?” The word was heavy on your tongue.

When you thought of corruption, you thought of stealing, hurting others, illegal things you would never do. But the woman turned to face you. Shadows gathered around her, her brown eyes merging with a soft ruby red.

“I want to possess your body, your soul. I want to show you the pleasures of the dark side, of the flesh. I want you to confess your fantasies. All of them, even the worst. And I want you to let me fulfill them with you. When I claim a pure soul through pleasure and drag it into darkness, that soul belongs to me in every sense.”

Your darkest fantasies? You tried to think… but nothing came to mind.

“Everyone has fantasies, darling. Even pure souls like you.” She extended her hand and twirled a lock of your hair between her fingers.

“You… you said you make deals, right? What would ours be?” Oh God… you were really considering this, weren’t you?

“You will come to me every Friday night, at the stroke of midnight. I’ll be free to do whatever I want with you until dawn. Only then may you leave.”

Her face was unreadable, impossible to gauge.

“For how long?” You whispered, lips trembling, trying not to imagine what she would do to you.

“Three months. A marvelous gift for myself, to celebrate the anniversary of my fall.” She smiled in wonder, now lost in your face. “And then, when you die, your soul will be entirely mine. Trapped in that nothingness I showed you.”

Twelve Fridays? You could endure anything for your father’s sake.

“How do I know you won’t let him die after you’re done with me?”

The woman’s smile was frightening. Not because it was monstrous, but because it was so sinfully sexy it promised every kind of vice.

“I may be the devil, but I’m no liar, kitten. I take what I want, and I promise on my black heart you will get what you want.”

You narrowed your eyes at her. You weren’t stupid. You’d seen plenty of movies about deals with the devil, and there was always, always a catch.

The trick was finding out what it was.

“And what about my mother, or anyone else I love? You’ll save my father, but let someone else die instead, won’t you?”

The demoness’s eyes widened at your boldness.

“That’s called cosmic balance for a reason, child. And no, I don’t have to bow to its will. You won’t face the death of anyone else because of our little deal.”

The words radiated possessiveness, making you feel strange between your legs. Was your soul really worth it to her? If yes, then you had a shard of certainty and refused to waste it.

“It’s not enough. Swear. Swear that no one I love will ever be harmed, and that my father will remain safe and protected forever.”

The second you cast the challenge, an invisible electricity flared. The heat rising between you was a promise of what was to come—and that was scary as hell.

“Fine!” The woman snarled, leaning in and sniffing the air. “I can grant extra protection to your pathetic favorite little humans. But if the other side makes a move, that’s on your precious angels, not me.”

Okay.

That was enough, right?

“Alright then… three months where I submit to you, and you heal my father.”

The words came out so naturally you barely noticed…

“Submit?” Lady Devil laughed, deep and low. “That’s your fantasy, baby doll? To submit? To have me… dominating you?” The look she gave you made every strand of hair on your body bristle. And it stirred that damned little voice you’d buried under the mask of the perfect daughter.

“Is it a deal?” You averted your eyes, cheeks flushed.

The demoness smiled.

“Yes. It’s a deal.”

“So… do we shake hands or something?” You stretched out your hand, still not daring to meet her gaze.

The demoness glanced at your hand hanging in the air, then yanked you forward. Your chest slammed against hers, startled by the heat of her body.

“You always seal a pact with a kiss.”

And then she tilted her mouth over yours, burning your lips together as her tongue invaded and ravaged you.

You moaned, dizzy, feeling heat spreading everywhere. The sensation of falling forever into darkness was terrifying; suddenly, your feet lifted off the ground, and you clung desperately to her neck.

You melted into her.

And then your mind betrayed you, wishing she would push you down on those pews, right in front of the saint’s statue and… Shit! You tried to banish those filthy thoughts, praying for a single point of light in the darkness that had swallowed you whole.

There was a blinding flash of light, the brush of soft feathery wings against your cheek—and then, a vision.

You saw a shining city among the clouds, streets of gold and crystalline stone.

Then it was gone, and nothingness remained.

Your lips left the demoness’s, but the heat lingered. Dimly, you knew she had heard the impure whispers of your mind.

“You’re mine now, pretty doll.”

And when you opened your eyes, you awoke. You were sprawled across one of the chapel pews in the hospital. As if everything that had happened had been nothing more than a wild, forbidden dream.

You sat upright, running your fingers through your hair to gather yourself. Looking around, you could swear the saints were condemning you…

You made the sign of the cross in apology.

But then you startled, pressing a hand to your chest, because you could swear you heard a deep, feminine laugh.

“I’m losing it. The stress is killing me.” You whispered to yourself.

For as much as you would have done anything to save your father, there had been no negotiation—because she simply didn’t exist.

~*~

Yes, R, she didn't exist...

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The studio was much bigger than it looked on YouTube. Up close, it felt like a living organism: cables snaked across the floor like exposed veins, spotlights hung like artificial suns, and people rushed past clutching clipboards, walkie-talkies, and tense expressions, as if every lost second cost the world a piece of itself.

You tried to play it cool, but each step echoed inside you as a reminder: this was your first big film.

In the heart of Hollywood.

Loving the Wicked.

Directed by Agatha Harkness.

You had to admit: you were hopeless with names. But even you knew Agatha’s was one to admire—and fear. Not the moment to dwell on it; you’d barely stepped onto the lot.

You took in everything and everyone with a kind of wide-eyed, almost childlike curiosity—anyone could tell you were a rookie. 

You turned toward a set across the soundstage and… Bam. A solid body collided with yours, hard enough to knock you off balance, and strong hands caught your arms before you kissed the floor.

You blinked, stunned, and looked up. The owner of that touch was inches away.

A woman with a rigid expression, golden hair pulled into a tight bun, and a button-up undone shirt, not as much—just enough to frame her collarbone.

“Are you alright?" Her voice was low, clear, but without unnecessary warmth. It sounded more like a statement than genuine concern.

You nodded, regaining your balance, and she released you. “Yeah, I just… got distracted.” You cleared your throat, embarrassed. Slipping up on your first day? Could you be any more clumsy?

Her eyes—blue, almost gray—scanned you from head to toe. There was no lust in the look, just a clinical assessment. Every movement you made was being cataloged, as if she could measure your readiness just by how you breathed.

As if she already knew who you were.

“Do you have a badge?” She asked, still holding your gaze.

“Huh? What?”

“A badge. For identification. Unless you don’t work here, in which case I’ll have to ask you to—”

You didn’t wait for her to finish.

“Oh, it’s my first day here! First time on a set this big.”

She raised one eyebrow and crossed her arms just beneath her chest, pushing it forward slightly.

“I see,” she said, taking small, deliberate steps until her face was strategically close to your ear. The subtle, woody scent of her perfume was dizzying. “I get your excitement. But it’s not polite to interrupt your elders when they’re speaking.”

Oh, shit.

She said it, and walked away.

???

Without looking back.

???

What the hell was that? And why the hell was your chest pounding like a samba school parade?

[...]

A few minutes later, some assistants led you onto the Loving the Wicked set. It was mostly empty, just a couple of cameras and crew members adjusting scenery. You took it all in. Every corner. You still couldn’t quite believe it.

A throat cleared behind you, breaking your trance.

“Hey, are you our new star?”

You turned. The woman was young. Too young to be the director.

“You… you’re Agatha?” You murmured, confused.

The woman in front of you looked equally—extremely—confused, and you dropped your head in embarrassment. 

You should’ve done better research.

“Uh… no. I’m actually the screenwriter,” she said with a light laugh. “But it’s amazing that an actress doesn’t know who The Agatha Harkness is. And please! Never say that out loud. People in Hollywood have egos as fragile as glass.”

You nodded quickly. A rule you’d learned in college: when a veteran gives advice, you listen.

A noise pulled you out of your little bubble. A woman, older this time—maybe this time you’d guess right?—approached, her features strikingly sharp, maybe even a touch arrogant. She was beautiful. Blue eyes, a jawline and nose that looked carved.

What a woman…

Thankfully, your veteran buffer stepped in.

“Agatha.” She called. And oddly, the moment the name left her lips, the director turned immediately.

You watched.

“Yes, hon.”

Her voice was strong, yet sweet as honey when directed at the screenwriter.

“This is our girl.” She introduced you to Agatha, who finally fixed her gaze on you.

“Oh,” she said, surprise in her voice, though her face stayed unreadable. “Greg spoke very highly of you,” she added, referring to the casting director, and extended her hand in formal greeting. You took it. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for casting day. I had an… emergency.” She said the last part while looking directly at your veteran, who ignored it completely.

Ugh.

What a weird atmosphere...

“Well, I hope you’re excited, sweetie. How about I take you to meet your castmates?” She offered.

You frowned slightly. She barely knew you, yet was being so attentive… Maybe Agatha had told her to be extra polite? You shrugged internally and smiled.

“Yes, of course.”

She led you into a spacious room with a table of food, games, and a rack of costumes. Everyone looked young.

Extras, maybe?

“All right, everyone!” The screenwriter called. “Please take a seat, Greg has something to say.”

The group sat in chairs arranged in a circle as the casting director stepped into the middle.

“Okay, people, here’s the deal. We’ve never worked with such a young group before. We expect responsibility and commitment. This is the opportunity of your lives. Agatha has a reputation for being strict, but she’s not unfair. She’s got an incredible eye for talent. If you stand out, you’ll go far. Don’t waste this chance.”

His half-monologue ended with polite applause.

Minutes stretched into murmurs and tech adjustments, and you found yourself in a cluster of young actors—wide-eyed, clutching crumpled scripts, giving nervous laughs to hide the fear. They traded whispered survival tips: “When Agatha asks for emotion, don’t fake it, feel it”; “If she cuts the scene, pray it’s not because of you.” Six lines that doubled as a crash course in staying alive here.

You hit it off with a girl right away. You practiced tongue-twisting lines, corrected each other’s tone, and mimicked mannerisms you imagined might come up in scenes. A boy told a ridiculous story about fainting during his first table read—you all laughed, the sound more relief than amusement.

You laughed too, mostly to blend in, and used the moment to observe: someone’s bitten nails, the way another gripped their coffee, a quick eye tic when breath grew short. Little details that would mean nothing to anyone else, but here, felt like signs of who’d make it.

Then, the set doors swung open. The noise dropped like someone had pressed a mute button.

The entrance wasn’t flashy—no trumpets or drama—and yet every eye turned. A long shadow crossed the floor; the click of heels marked deliberate steps; conversation died.

The woman was stunning.

Long, red hair framed her face in waves like fire. Her eyes—big, striking, and green. Very green. Her cheekbones were sharply defined, giving her an almost mystical look—maybe a siren? She wasn’t very tall, maybe your height. And the closer she came, the wider her smile grew. 

Sighs and murmurs rippled all around, making you frown.

“Hello, everyone!” She began, or rather, purred. She was so impossibly sexy you wished you could avoid drooling over her, but since everyone else was already doing it, well… that made it fine, right? “As the lead actress and a veteran of this industry, I’d like to welcome you all and set a few… expectations.” She ended with a smile as bright—and sharp—as a shark’s.

Then she glanced at Greg, who nodded like a well-trained subordinate, and you caught the screenwriter rubbing her hands over her face, as if bracing for impact.

The massacre was about to begin.

“First of all…” the woman started, pacing forward in slow, deliberate steps. “Hollywood is a place for predators. So you’d better get your claws out, or you’ll be swallowed whole by someone bigger.”

She was theatrical—spoke with her hands, shaped her mouth in ways that pulled you in. It was mesmerizing, yes, but it also made you wonder how much of her was performance and how much was real.

“Like Slither.io?”

A boy—totally foolish, you can tell—blurted it out, and the redhead instantly turned on him. You watched her give him a long, slow once-over, narrowing her eyes. She actually looked like she was trying to figure out what the hell “Slither.io” was, and you almost let a giggle slip.

Until she smiled, and it froze your soul. Thank God you weren’t him…

“Sweetheart, I have no idea how you passed the audition… maybe Greg felt sorry for you, or maybe he mistook you for the lunch delivery guy.” She flicked the brim of his cap.

A few people laughed, and the screenwriter tried to cut in. “Hey—”

“Silence!” The woman’s gaze snapped to her, the energy between them suddenly heavy. “Don’t interrupt me.” In the end, you just saw your veteran sigh, drained.

The redhead turned back to the boy, whose cocky smirk was long gone.

“This shirt…” she prowled around his chair like a lioness. She pinched the sleeve between her fingertips, as if it was dirty. “How many days in a row now?” She leaned close, sniffing dramatically. “Oh… I see.” She pulled back with a venomous smile. “Three.”

The boy tried to speak, but she raised her hand. “No need to explain, sweetheart. Just… don’t stand too close to me in any scenes, okay? I’m allergic to… filthy little boys like you.”

When she saw him frozen in place, she grinned in triumph and scanned the room, like she was hunting for her next prey.

“Hmmm… who’s next?” She sang, curling her fingers in a devilish little gesture.

God, this woman was a fucking bully.

You didn’t survive all of high school being chewed up just to go through it again as an adult. The thought alone made you sigh, glancing around—only for your eyes to land on the same figure who’d caught you earlier, stopping you from falling.

She was staring at you.

Unblinking.

You looked away fast, but you could still feel her gaze. And it was impossible to stop the heat that crept up your cheeks.

What was she even doing here? Was she an actress too?

“You!” The redhead barked, pointing at the girl beside you. “I don’t know who told you wearing a balloon dress was a good idea, sweetheart.”

“But… it just came back into style and I—”

“Back into style for who? People like you?”

Oh, hell no. That was it. The girl was nice, she’d been kind to you. She didn’t deserve this. You were furious, and no matter how hot the redhead was, she was still a damn tyrant.

Your only mistake was saying that last part out loud.

“What did you just say?”

Fuck.

Yep. Now you were the target. Curious eyes turned to you, and it felt like you were about to be thrown to the sharks.

“I…”

She studied you, but it wasn’t like the others. Her focus was on your face, not your clothes.

“What’s your name?” She asked, and she actually seemed interested.

You told her, and she smiled like she’d just won something.

“Oh, so you’re my partner?” she let out a surprised little laugh. “How’s the indie film life treating you, jobless girl?”

You frowned, feeling your blood heat, but you narrowed your eyes at her and let it slip, before common sense could stop you:

“And who exactly are you?”

~*~

Wanda forgives the girl, she doesn't know what she's doing...

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