The Marivelle estate was alive with the chatter of Amélie's friends. They had gathered in her suite, scattered across velvet chairs and cushions with glasses of wine in hand. The air was thick with perfume and laughter, the kind of easy noise that came naturally when secrets and scandals were being traded like currency.

Amélie sat perched at the center of it all, her dress of soft pastel silk draped perfectly around her legs. One arm rested against the back of the couch, the other curled around a half-full glass. At her feet, they lingered quietly, the way they always did, close enough to touch, always within reach.

It should have been a perfect evening. But then one of the new girls, Claudine, desperate to prove she belonged in Amélie's circle, leaned forward, her eyes glittering as they fixed on them.

"You're so quiet," Claudine cooed, brushing an invisible speck of dust from their sleeve. "But you're gorgeous. Look at those eyes. Amélie, how do you keep them all to yourself?"

A ripple of laughter spread among the group. Amélie's smile didn't slip, but her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.

Claudine leaned closer still, her hand hovering as though she might tuck a stray strand of hair behind their ear. "Adorable. Really, I could just eat you up-"

"Enough." The word was soft, but it cut the laughter dead. Amélie set her glass down on the table with a click and straightened in her seat. Her eyes, warm hazel turned sharp gold in the lamplight, locked on Claudine.

"My pet doesn't need your attention," she said sweetly, almost sing-song. "They have mine. That's all they'll ever need."

The silence that followed was thick. Someone coughed nervously. Claudine flushed but tried to laugh it off, lifting her glass as if that might erase the tension.

Amélie's gaze flicked down to them, her expression softening instantly. She patted her lap, her voice lower but no less commanding. "Come here, trésor." She didn't wait. Her hands found their wrist, guiding them up and pulling them neatly down onto her lap. One arm curled around their waist, her fingers resting firmly on their thigh. She tilted her head, lips brushing their shoulder as she hummed, satisfied.

"Perfect," she whispered against their skin, though her eyes never left Claudine. "Right where you belong."

A few of her friends laughed nervously, glancing at each other before turning the conversation back to safer ground, fashion, professors, the latest scandal at the university. But Amélie wasn't listening. She was too busy stroking their thigh, nails dragging lazily back and forth, marking her claim with every touch.

Look at them. Mine. Warm, obedient, close. How could anyone think they were free to touch? To flirt? No. Never. They're bound to me.

Her hand slipped up, brushing against their side as she leaned in, planting a feather-light kiss at their temple. The room filled again with chatter, but Amélie heard none of it.

Claudine shifted in her seat, pretending to find interest in the bottom of her glass, while the others avoided meeting Amélie's eyes. None of them would dare to test her again.

And Amélie? She reclined back against the couch, smugness curling in her chest, one hand possessively fixed on them. She smiled, radiant and unbothered, resuming the flow of conversation as though nothing had happened.

Let them whisper. Let them laugh behind their hands. None of it matters. They saw it, they all saw it. They are mine. No one will ever forget that.