Conference room
Some rooms were built for meetings. This one was built… to meet me.
The conference room was never meant to be this.
It was created for negotiations, for signatures that changed lives, for voices that echoed authority. Yet that night, it stood trembling — an elegant witness to a different kind of power. Not the kind written in contracts… but the kind that seeps into skin and history.
Claudia and I had only been invited for dinner. A celebration of height and ambition — his new building piercing the Manila skyline like a quiet, arrogant prayer. Steel. Glass. Precision. He spoke of it the way a man speaks of a lover he does not yet know he loves. His words revealed architecture, but his eyes betrayed appetite.
“I know you like industrial,” he said, studying my face, as if my gaze had already approved of his creation long before it stood.
Dinner became background noise. His voice became the main course.
Claudia, sweet chaos in human form, asked just enough to pull out more of his pride, more of his passion. She is a curious cat, but I am the storm behind the door she opens.
When he invited us to see the building, I felt a familiar awakening.
Not desire.
Recognition.
We walked through corridors that smelled of ambition and fresh paint. Each floor whispered potential. Each room waited to be remembered. And then… we arrived at the one that watched me back.
“What room is this?” I asked softly, though I already knew it would answer me.
“The conference room,” he said. “And the view? It was made for you.”
He opened the door. Manila spread out before me — glittering, sinful, alive.
The glass windows framed the city like a confession waiting to be spoken. And the table… dark, polished, unashamed… waited like a secret too long kept.
I touched it. Not with my hand — with my intention. “Is it strong enough for three?” A simple question. A loaded universe.
His laugh cracked the silence in half. And in that sound, Claudia and I found each other without words. A silent pact between women who understand energy before action. A spark ancient as moonlight. A currency deeper than permission.
In that moment, I felt her again —
Mysticflower.
The woman who does not chase desire.
She summons it.
The air thickened. Not with lust.
But with inevitability.
It was not hands that moved first — it was gravity.
A slow, hypnotic pull that bent the room around us. Walls forgot their purpose. The table forgot its rules. Even time stood quietly in the corner, breath held.
There was no need to describe the details.
Power does not need narration.
It only needs witnesses.
We became a living metaphor — of tension, of surrender, of beautifully controlled chaos. A storm painted in slow motion. A melody played on the nervous system.
The city never knew what occurred behind that glass.
But he did.
Claudia did.
And I did.
That room will never be used the same way again.
Not because of what we did —
but because of who I became inside it.
Some men build towers to feel powerful.
I simply walk into a room…
and it remembers me forever.
– Mysticflower
