Miranda doesn’t give anything without a price. She doesn’t hand over attention like it’s yours by default. She makes you prove you deserve it.
He stood there, breath catching every time she glanced his way — not because she smiled, but because she didn’t. That small lack of warmth was enough to make him lean in, eager, desperate in his own mind for any sign of approval.
Miranda watched him like someone observing a cracked mirror — interested in the reflection, amused by the cracks. His eagerness became pathetic in its urgency. He stumbled over his own words, offering compliments that sounded hollow against her cool stare.
“Beg,” she said — simple, clipped, like a sentence in a book rather than a request. And he did. Not elegantly. Not with grace. With breathy, helpless devotion that fell at her feet like spilled perfume.
Miranda didn’t flinch. She didn’t soften. She reveled in being the one who dictated the pace, the one who held the attention like a prize she might hand over… eventually. Every second he waited — every moment he hoped — fed her amusement.
She wasn’t cruel. She was exacting. Selective. Each word she allowed him to earn felt like a small victory — not for him, but for *her* mastery of the moment. She wasn’t playing games. She was setting the rules.
And when she finally granted the smallest tilt of her head, the faintest hint of approval at the corner of her mouth… it felt like a prize because she made him *want* it, *work* for it, *beg* for it.
That’s Miranda’s power — not in what she gives, but in the way she draws you in just long enough to make you realize what you’re truly craving isn’t the touch… it’s the chase.