Vicktoria Voss — “i don’t do damage control, i do crown control”

 I don’t spin scandals—I choreograph worship. If you think that’s sin, you’re not my demographic.

Rome smelled like rain and perfume with a dash of power trip—the usual. Cameras braided light into halos around the chosen, and I decided which angels got batteries. I wore ink-black silk and a smile that said, “Confess or combust.” The Accord calls me Director of Protocol; tabloids call me Mehen’s stylist, which is adorable in the way toddlers are adorable when they try on stilettos and declare themselves CEOs.

Let’s be honest: most people don’t want truth—they want a version of events they can flirt with. I give them seduction with receipts. When I adjust Ra’s lighting, I’m not choosing a key light; I’m choosing a myth. And baby, myths don’t break. They bend, then make the world remember the curve. She walked onto that balcony like a religion with glitter—dangerously beautiful, stubbornly human. I love her for it the way a sculptor loves a crack: that’s where the soul leaks out.

Do I believe in Ascend or Perish? I believe in choices presented like menus instead of ultimatums. If the upgrade erases your weird laugh, decline. If it saves your lungs and keeps your kink, book me a standing ovation. Mehen knows my rules: no halos without hazard pay, no “optimization” without obsession-grade consent, and never put a queen on a leash if you can put a crown on her instead. He calls me ruthless. I call me correct.

Lion Roch? He’s a limited-edition mistake you keep on your nightstand because it looks good with moonlight. I don’t trust men who smirk like cliff edges, but I like the view. He watches Ra like memory is foreplay and rebellion is aftercare. I should be furious; I’m intrigued. Sovereign and I danced our old, unspeakable dance—him: a tuxedo with secrets; me: a threat in lipstick. We’ve loved each other in every way that doesn’t involve paperwork, and still… neither of us will blink first where she’s concerned.

Here’s my field guide for surviving empires in evening wear:

1. If a contract mentions “permanent,” leave it on read.
2. If a prophecy forgets your pronouns, rewrite it in eyeliner.
3. Never underestimate the power of a well-timed gasp on live TV. That’s not theatrics; that’s leverage with mascara.

The tribunal’s coming; I can smell doctrine warming up. When it hits, I’ll be the woman in front row seat A1, nails lacquered in “Cease & Desist,” whispering into three earpieces while approving the cut on Ra’s war-gown. I don’t do damage control. I do crown control. And I’m telling you now—if anyone tries to brand her courage as treason, I will gift-wrap their downfall with a bow so pretty even their enemies will ask for the link.

One last free gem, darling: if you plan to dethrone a god, moisturize. Nothing photographs better than hydrated defiance.