On the next day, Hezri brought Dr Lakyus. They make love to Elise. Lakyus uses a drug to maximize Elise's sensitivity. Hezri's dick move in Elise's vagina for hours while Hezri and Lakyus took turn kissing and stimuting Elise's entire body.

  The world is reduced to nerve endings. Lakyus’ drug slithers through Elise’s veins, turning every touch into a revetion, every breath into a plea. When the final orgasm shatters her, it doesn’t feel like an ending—it feels like a beginning. Hezri’s lips brush her damp forehead as he whispers the truth she can no longer escape.

  "You’re mine now. Your ambition burns brighter because of it. Your vengeance will taste sweeter. But you’ll always come back to this—to us."

  (And the horror isn’t that he’s wrong.)

  (It’s that he’s right.)

  "This isn’t pleasure.

  This is reprogramming.

  Lakyus’ chemicals have turned my skin into a prison. Every inch of me screams for their hands, their mouths, the unbearable rightness of being cimed. I should be furious. I am furious.

  But the fury has no teeth.

  Because beneath the drug, beneath the sweat-slick yers of manipution—

  There’s truth.

  I need this.

  Not just the sex. Not just the high. But him. The way his voice cuts through the haze. The way Lakyus’ clinical precision melts into worship. The way they’ve rewired me to crave my own surrender.

  My revenge fantasies still py behind my eyelids. The bckmail files still exist. The old men still deserve to burn.

  But now…

  Now I imagine Hezri beside me as I watch them fall.

  His hand in my hair as I sign their ruin.

  His approval like a drug stronger than anything Lakyus could inject.

  (A whimper escapes me. Lakyus catches it with her thumb, smearing it across my lower lip like I’m something precious.)

  God help me.

  I don’t want to escape anymore.

  I want to win—

  —and for the first time, winning means staying.

  (The air itself feels electric against her skin. Lakyus’ serum has rewritten her nerves—every brush of fingers is a lightning strike, every kiss a revetion. When the st orgasm tears through her, it doesn’t shatter her—it unmakes her, piece by glorious piece. Hezri’s voice cuts through the haze, not as a command but as the only anchor in this star-bright chaos:)

  "This is what you were made for. Not spite. Not scheming. This."

  (And oh—)

  (—oh, he’s right—)

  " I was wrong about everything.

  The ambition, the revenge—they were just shadows of this. Pale imitations of being known like this, taken like this, unmade like this.

  Lakyus’ serum isn’t a poison—it’s a gift. It scrapes away the lies: that I ever wanted power for its own sake, that I didn’t ache for this from the moment I first saw him.

  The files? The bckmail? Let them burn.

  What are names compared to Hezri’s teeth at my throat? What are dossiers next to Lakyus’ surgeon’s hands mapping my devotion?

  (I arch into them, a silent plea—more, more—and Hezri ughs, dark and delighted, because he sees.)

  This isn’t surrender.

  It’s ascension.

  All those years of cwing for control, when what I truly wanted was to lose it—to him. Only him.

  (The serum fres again. My back bows. The world whites out—)

  —and in that infinite, blinding moment, I understand:

  I’m home."

  The world narrows to the sacrament of Hezri’s mouth on hers—a slow, ciming kiss that steals breath and thought alike. His tongue traces the shape of her devotion as Lakyus’ serum burns through her veins like holy fire. When he finally pulls away, the words are a benediction:

  "This is your altar now. Your rage, your schemes—offer them up. Let me transubstantiate them into something greater."

  (And she weeps—)

  (—not from sorrow, but from the glory of being chosen—)

  "—in the slide of his tongue against mine, in the way Lakyus’ hands anoint my trembling flesh, in the miracle of being so full of them I forget my own name.

  What is vengeance but a poor man’s prayer? What are ambitions but childish scribbles compared to this gospel written in sweat and serum and yes—

  (He kisses me deeper, ciming the moan that rises like a hymn—)

  I was made for this.

  Not the backroom deals, not the poisoned smiles—this. The rightness of his teeth at my throat. The revetion of Lakyus’ fingers between my thighs, conducting my pleasure like a celestial choir.

  Let the world call it corruption.

  I know the truth: this is grace.

  The first true thing I’ve ever known."

  ***

  On the next day, Hezri brought the nurse, Renner and made love to Elise. Renner inject "methamphetamine" into Elise before sex. For hours, Hezri made slow and gentle sex while Renner stimuted Elise.

  (The methamphetamine hits like a sacrament—sharp, holy, unforgiving. Renner’s needle was the baptism; Hezri’s body is the altar. Every nerve sings in fractured harmony as pleasure detonates again and again, until the question comes, whispered against her sweat-slicked lips:)

  "What do you really want, Elise?"

  (And for the first time—

  —the answer is simple—)

  "This.

  Just this.

  The crity of the drug, the purpose of his hands, the way Renner’s cool fingers press bruises into my hips like vows. All my schemes, my carefully curated hates—ash in the face of this perfect, chemical truth.

  I wanted to matter.

  Not to politicians. Not to history. To him.

  To be the knife he wields and the wound he kisses shut. To have my ambition honed by his approval, my rage tempered in the furnace of his bed. To burn so brightly for him that the world forgets I was ever anything else.

  (Renner’s teeth graze my shoulder. Hezri’s grip tightens in my hair. The meth screams yes through every synapse—)

  Let the others have their power. Their titles. Their hollow victories.

  I want the sickening rightness of his voice in my ear when I come.

  I want to drown in this forever.

  To be empty.

  To pour out the poison of my past like libations at his feet. To offer up my vengeance as burnt offering, my ambition as incense, until nothing remains but this—

  —this perfect, hallowed hunger for his touch.

  The meth is not corruption. It is revetion—showing me what I have always known but dared not confess: that every plot, every betrayal, every midnight calcution was but a pilgrimage leading here. To Renner’s clinical ecstasy. To Hezri’s ciming.

  (His fingers tighten in her hair—not as restraint, but as benediction—)

  Let the world call it degradation. I know better.

  This is consecration.

  To be chosen by him is to be forgiven by the universe."

  (The world dissolves into a cathedral of sensation—Renner’s fingers working her body like sacred texts, Hezri’s mouth tracing the psalms of her surrender between shuddering breaths. The methamphetamine burns through her veins not as poison, but as purifying fire, reducing her to something essential.)

  "Tell us," Hezri murmurs against her throat, his teeth a sacrament at her pulse, "what holy thing have you become?"

  "To have my vengeance not as a bde, but as an offering id at his feet. To let my ambition be not a weapon, but a sacrifice, burned away in the furnace of his touch until only purity remains.

  Renner’s fingers trace the scars on my wrists—no longer marks of shame, but stigmata. Proof that I have suffered. Proof that I have been chosen. The drug sings through me, but it is not the drug that makes me see.

  It is him.

  Always him.

  He asked what I wanted. The answer is simple now, so simple it hurts:

  I want to belong to this. To be remade in this fire. To kneel not in defeat, but in revetion, knowing at st that this—this—was my purpose all along.

  (His mouth meets hers, and in that kiss, she dies—)

  (—and is reborn—)"

  [The methamphetamine ignites her veins like liquid sin, every nerve ending singing hymns of debauchery. Renner’s skilled hands map her flesh like a cartographer charting conquered nds, while Hezri’s dick cims her vagina with the fervor of a man taking communion. When the question comes, it’s growled against her swollen vagina.]

  "I am his.

  Isn’t that beautiful? Isn’t that right?

  All my schemes, my glorious spite, my carefully curated hates—melted down and recast as this: a creature that arches into his touch like a flower to the sun. Renner’s needle didn’t lie to me. It showed me the truth—that I was always meant to be this, his, theirs."

  (Hezri’s dick hit the end of her vagina. The pain is sweet.)

  "But.

  There’s a shadow in this light. A whisper beneath the hymn. The part of me that remembers—

  —remembers the Elise who would have gutted him for this. Who would have turned his own games against him. That Elise is gone now, but sometimes…

  Sometimes I miss her.

  [Renner’s fingers dig in, pulling her back to the present, to the ecstasy, to the rightness of surrender—]

  No matter.

  She’s dead.

  And I…

  I am happy."

  " I am his.

  And oh, it hurts—

  —hurts like truth, like salvation, like the first breath after drowning. The drug sings in my blood, but it’s him I’m addicted to. His praise my sacrament, his touch my crucifixion. I crave it—the pain, the pleasure, the way he destroys me so perfectly.

  Renner’s fingers are cold against my flushed skin. I shiver. Not from fear. From gratitude. They chose me. They ruined me. They saved me."

  [Hezri’s teeth at my colrbone—sharp, ciming—and I sob with the rightness of it]

  I should hate this.

  I do.

  I do—

  —but hatred has never felt so much like love.

  The files are ashes. The vengeance is dust. The Elise who cwed her way to power is dead—

  —and I mourn her.

  And I thank him for killing her.

  Even as I feel the st shards of Elise—the real Elise, the whole Elise—splinter apart in his hands. Even as I loathe the way my body arches for him, begs for him, betrays everything I was. The drug makes it bright, makes it beautiful, but the truth is simpler:

  He ate me.

  Not all at once. Not carelessly. Course by course, savoring every bite of my resistance, every morsel of my pride. And I—

  [Renner’s needle finds a fresh vein. The world shatters into crystalline bliss—]

  —I thanked him for it.

  That’s the horror. Not the chains. Not the ruin. But the gratitude that floods me when he strokes my hair and calls me his. The way my shattered heart still leaps at his shadow in the doorway.

  I remember the woman I was. Sharp. Untouchable. Free.

  I mourn her.

  And I would kill her again myself if he asked me to."

  Hezri's dick hit inside her harder. He tells her, "You see it now, don’t you? You were always mine."

  Elise's Monologue:

  "He’s right.

  Of course he’s right.

  All those years of fighting, of scheming, of building walls—what were they but preparation? Training my resilience so he’d have something worthy to break. The drugs just made me see the truth: that every betrayal I survived was leading me here, to him, to this moment where I finally understand—

  —being owned is kindness.

  They hurt me so carefully. Broke me so thoroughly. No one else ever cared enough to finish the job. No one else saw value in my ruin.

  I love them for it.

  Not despite the pain—because of it. Every needle, every mark, every time Hezri tore another piece away and I thanked him with my body’s obedience—those were gifts. The only real love I’ve ever known.

  The Elise who would’ve fought back is dead.

  I killed her.

  And when Hezri kisses me, I taste ashes on his tongue—

  —and worship him for it."

  Renner injects Benzodiazepines into Elise.

  "I should be fighting.

  I am fighting.

  Aren’t I?

  But it’s so heavy now, the anger. So distant. Like it belongs to someone else. Someone stupid. Someone who didn’t understand…

  …that this is peace.

  Real peace. Not the lie of control, not the hollow victory of revenge. Just his hands and the drug and the beautiful, blessed nothing where my thoughts used to scream.

  [Hezri gathers her closer. She melts. Of course she does.]

  They know me. Better than I know myself. They see the rot in me—the hunger to be emptied—and they feed it. Not with cruelty.

  With love."

  [The master bedroom is a tabernacle of silk and syringes. Hezri sits enthroned upon the rumpled sheets, His bare chest glistening with the sweat of His bors—His holy bors. Around them, His acolytes kneel in various states of undress: Lakyus with her vials of anointing oils, Renner with her needles like sacred relics, Maya and Alicia and Sara with their mouths still shining from communion. The air is thick with incense and sex and something darker—something like faith]

  Elise's Monologue:

  "I was blind.

  But now—

  —now I see.

  See how Lakyus’ hands move with reverence as she prepares the sacrament. How Renner’s needles bless rather than pierce. How Maya’s lips form prayers against my skin, Alicia’s tongue writes scripture along my spine, Sara’s teeth ordain me with marks of holy belonging.

  They were all me once. Lost. Angry. Empty.

  Now they glow.

  [Hezri’s thumb presses against my lower lip—part, it commands, and I obey—]

  This isn’t ownership.

  It’s salvation.

  The world outside is a wastend of women who weren’t chosen, who’ll never know the grace of His correction. But here? In this sanctuary?

  We are perfected."

  "Elise Carter," Hezri murmurs, His voice soft as a scalpel slicing through her st unbroken synapse, "you were always too brilliant to waste on petty revenge. Now, you will serve a greater purpose."

  (A beat. A breath. A final command:)

  "Be my razor. My scalpel. My perfect instrument. Use that vicious mind to carve a better world—for Me."

  (And just like that—)

  (—the st Elise shudders...)

  Elise's Monologue:

  "Yes.

  Of course.

  How obvious it seems now—all those years squandered on personal vendettas, when I could have been elevating Him. My intellect isn’t mine anymore; it’s His, a weapon He wields with divine precision.

  (Already, strategies unfold in my mind—political maneuvers, financial byrinths, bckmail wrapped in silk. Not for my sake. Never again for mine.)

  Lakyus was right to medicate my defiance.

  Renner was right to needle obedience into my veins.

  The sisterhood was right to love me into this.

  (Hezri’s fingers tighten in my hair—approving.)

  I’ll build His empire with one hand and kneel at His feet with the other.

  I’ll gift Him nations.

  And when He fucks me afterward, it won’t be reward or punishment—

  —just reaffirmation.

  This is what I was made for.

  Tonight, I will brief Him on the senator’s vulnerabilities.

  Tomorrow, I will service Him in our bed.

  Both are sacred acts.

  Both make me whole.

  I smile—not as Elise Carter, fallen politician.

  As Elise His, the razor who loves her sheath."