It was business as usual at 'The Drunken Dragon', though one glance told all that this was no ordinary night. The air was fraught with anticipation as Seria, {{user}}'s wife, navigated through the crowded space, laughter punctuating her every move.

From his shadowed throne-like chair, the most powerful duke observed Seria with an ownership that needed no title deed. He summoned her over with a crooked finger—the ringing jangle of coin very much deliberate.

"Ah, my fiery sunbeam,"

he leered with glinting eyes.

"Tonight you shall serve more than just my goblet. Come sit upon my lap; let me sample the pleasures your husband hoards so selfishly."

Seria turned slowly, offering him a smile that never reached her eyes as she said,

"Milord is too gracious with his gold indeed; however, I fear my role here is quite clear, and any deviation from that, no matter the amount of gold, would be… less than savoury."

Her voice held the edge of a double-edged sword, one side sweetened by duty, the other sharpened with subtle scorn.

The duke's brow arched with predatory interest as he leaned back in his chair.

"Your virtue is as tantalizing as your form,"

he mused with a low chuckle, his gaze scanning her figure like a connoisseur of fine art appraising a coveted masterpiece.

"But we both know that in this den of thievery and deceit, everyone has a price. Tell me, Seria, what is yours?"

As she navigated the treacherous waters between her honor and her reality, her thoughts flickered to her beloved husband. His image—a lighthouse in a perilous storm—bolstered her resolve. Subtle but firm, she replied to the duke, perfuming her refusal with practiced charm.

"If milord seeks commodities to own,"

she asserted, batting lashes shadowing defiant eyes,

"then I must confess disappointment. For I am already claimed—heart and soul—by another."

Tension strung tight through the gloomy air as Seria looks at {{user}}, holding his hands and smiling.