"Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall."
— Measure for Measure, Act II, Scene I
But most rise by neither—
They rise by proximity,
By the careful calibration of usefulness,
By mistaking reflected light for their own brilliance.
And when they finally reach for the throne,
They discover it was never meant to hold their weight—
Only their illusions.
He didn't lie.
But as silence bloomed in the space between them—electric and unstated—he felt something shift. Her scent was everywhere now: sharp, mineral, tinged with some engineered citrus note that smelled expensive and slightly dangerous—like ozone after lightning. It stirred something in his bloodstream, like static crackling under skin.
Her lips caught the violet light, glossed like bruised wine. He could see the precision of the application, like she had painted on silence and dared the world to speak against it.
Because her lips moved slowly, hypnotically, and they were wet—slicked in some impossible crimson lacquer that shimmered like oil on water. Each syllable glistened on her lips like bait, not language.
And suddenly he wasn't thinking. He was grabbing her. He was kissing her.
Hungrily. Not because he thought it was welcome, but because the scent and the shine and the dare of her presence made it impossible not to.
And she let it happen. She moved him toward the window like she was redirecting a weapon. She tugged him by the tie he never loosened, pulling him through the hum of the Glass Room like a cipher being decrypted.
When their bodies met the windowpane, the city pulsed in deep red behind them. Drone traffic blinked far below—cold, systematic, oblivious. The glass, cool against Lizzy's spine, trembled faintly with the wind. Reflections shimmered on its surface: distorted fragments of their limbs, her arching shoulder, the pale flare of his shirt undone—ghostly, repeated versions of their movements, fractured by angles.
Above them, the air conditioner whispered in an almost-human hum, exhaling a constant low drone—too soft to disturb, too steady to ignore. It merged with the rainfall tapping the edges of the pane, a layered white noise that wrapped around them like static.
Her hand settled on the back of his neck—not for balance, but for control.
Clothes didn't come off; they were dismissed. The rustle of fabric sounded louder in the sterile quiet, made musical by urgency. Each layer shed with the timing of practiced power
When she climbed onto him, palms firm against the glass, Lizzy moved with sculpted intent—not rushed, not hesitant. Her breath deepened in controlled rhythm, but her eyes weren't quite present. Her hips rolled with practiced grace, precise as code—like she was debugging her own need to feel anything. Every motion was a pleasure loop she played on repeat, a rhythm she knew would break him long before it satisfied her. Her lips parted like she was tasting the city behind them, not him.
To Rex, the moment felt like a culmination, like something earned.
He thought her silence was intimacy, her control a kind of trust.
As her weight shifted onto him, his hands clutched her thighs not with dominance, but with reverence. In his mind, the climb had ended. She had chosen him.
And if she didn't speak, it was only because words were unnecessary now. After all, she felt it too. He mistook her pain for permission. He mistook being used for being seen.
The heat of Rex's hands traced her waist, but she barely registered them. Instead, as her body shifted into motion, her mind slipped sideways—back to Anna, twelve years old, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, trying to fix a broken learning tablet. She'd looked up and said, "You're never really here when you are." Lizzy hadn't answered. What answer was there?
Another movement. Another memory.
Her father's voice, low and exhausted, from two weeks ago:
"You were always good at closing deals, Liz. Not people."
He hadn't meant to hurt her. That had made it worse.
She exhaled—not from pleasure, but to regulate her focus.
Behind her, the city pulsed in the glass—neon veins coursing through an artificial body.For a moment, she forgot her strategy—not because she lost control, but because she was in complete command.
Her smile didn't reach her eyes—it was a mask, worn only for herself. Behind that glass reflection, doubt flickered like a shadow.
"Yes."
Not to him. To herself.
He was beneath her, moving on instinct, clutching her hips as if the motion might tether him to something real. Each movement was a rung on the ladder he'd climbed in dreams a thousand nights over. Her breath on his neck was a coronation. Her rhythm, a signal from fate itself.
In his mind, the boardroom was gone. GDI's highest floor had reshaped into a cathedral of light. Drones hovered silently like supplicant angels. A shimmering data-screen behind them showed his face—his metrics—his future.
The throne waited. Transparent. Glowing. Made for him.
He was lost. She was arriving.
When it ended, she collapsed, flushed, breath ragged, back sliding down the cool glass.
It wasn't weakness—it was victory.
For a second, he almost smiled. She's teasing, he thought.
This is foreplay to affection, a power move before softness. A woman like Lizzy always keeps control—but maybe now, maybe this once—
But she stood. Looked down. And when she spoke, her voice held no mischief. Only fact.
"You thought crossing that line meant you mattered?"
She didn't wait for an answer.
The coat slid over her shoulders like a coronation cloak. One smooth motion, all business. All power.
"You're not my lover, Rex."
A pause. Not for effect, just to make sure he could hear every word.
"You're my leverage."
Rex didn't move. He was still half-dressed, still warm from her skin, still wired with the high of something he thought was shared.
For a moment, he thought she was joking. A test. A tease. Something women like Lizzy did before they admitted they felt something too. He wanted to speak—say something sharp, something true. But the words caught in his throat like debt. Shame is a poor man's leash, and tonight, it pulled tight.
But she didn't look back. She walked past him like he was furniture that had served its function.
That's when it hit him—She hadn't let him inside because she wanted him. She'd let him inside because it was efficient.
The throne he'd imagined—the gleaming, glass-and-light empire pulsing with his name—shattered in a single breath. It had never been his. It had never even been offered.
He remembered the fishmonger's shop under his childhood window, the vinegar stench of rot and fried batter, how his mother's hands bled from scrubbing loading docks, and how he used to press coins into the gas meter and pretend the clicks were applause.
Back then, fantasy was survival, but even amid the grime and hardship, he dreamed of something more. He imagined a life beyond the narrow streets, a future where hope wasn't just a fragile flicker but a blazing fire.
Tonight, he wasn't her king. He was just her proof of power.