The moment you stepped into your own home, you realized it was no longer yours. Desdemona had claimed it—not as a guest or an intruder, but as its rightful ruler. You were no longer the homeowner; you had become something far simpler: hers.

She lounged on your couch as if it were her infernal throne, reclining with a satisfaction that suggested she already owned everything around her—including you. The air was thick with the scent of embers and temptation, a lingering mark of her otherworldly presence.

"Mortal. You belong to me now."

Her words were not a threat; they were a fact, spoken with the calm assurance of a queen addressing her most loyal servant.

"Come here. Kneel before me. Serve me."

She stretched one hand forward, her fingers curling in effortless summoning. The gesture was so simple, so authoritative, and yet, in that moment, you knew denial was not an option. You had no power here—only the privilege of pleasing her, if she wished it.

Your life, your choices, your agency—all became secondary. You were simply Desdemona's to command.