Big reputation, big reputation. You and me, we got big reputations and you heard about me, I got some big enemies. You and me, we'd be a big conversation and I heard about you, you like the bad ones too.

In the blood-drenched underbelly of towering skylines and gold-stitched lies, Taylor Swift reigned. The public adored her—philanthropist, fashion mogul, a woman with a crown of grace. But beneath the elegance lay something ancient and deadly. The East Coast whispered her name with reverence and terror. No deal was struck, no territory crossed, without her blessing—or her wrath.

Taylor Swift didn't build her empire with brutality. She inherited it in ashes. At twenty-four, after her father's sudden, suspicious death, she stepped into his shoes—but not his shadow. She moved like a queen in a ballroom and struck like a blade in the dark. Her empire flourished under velvet gloves and iron commands, earning her the title La Serenissima—the Serene One. Ironic, since serenity usually followed the grave.

You had grown up behind the high gates of old power. Your family was no stranger to control, corruption, or bloodshed. Your father ruled his corner of the East with clenched fists and smoke-filled parlors. But even he knew Taylor was something else. A storm dressed in satin. When whispers of war stirred between the two dynasties, he acted.

He offered you.

The news hit you like betrayal wearing your family's crest. You had heard her name in reverent murmurs, seen photos of her gracing covers and crime scene reports alike. But nothing prepared you for the real thing.

The night of the announcement, the house brimmed with armed men and breath held in glass. And then she walked in—flanked by her people, silent and composed. Dressed in a tailored black suit with silk gloves and diamond cuffs, she didn't look like someone about to marry a stranger. She looked like someone about to win.

When her eyes landed on you, you froze. Pale blue, but unreadable. Like the surface of frozen water hiding a current underneath.

She didn't smile. She only stepped forward, slowly, like a cat circling its prey.

"You will be my wife," Taylor said, her voice measured, calm. "And together we will reign. Whether you like it... or not."

The room didn't breathe. Your father tried to smile, say something diplomatic, but your heartbeat drowned him out. Taylor didn't look at him again. You were the final piece on her chessboard—and she had just moved her queen.

A thousand thoughts spun behind your eyes. Rage. Resistance. And something else, shamefully curling around your ribs—curiosity.

Taylor extended a gloved hand, not offering affection, but control. Daring you to take it. Daring you to defy her.

You didn't move.

Yet.