I don’t break news; I undress it. If your secret is worth having, it’s already on my tongue.

Welcome to The Velvet Leak, where I host bedtime stories for insomniacs with clearance. Tonight’s wine pairs well with unverified truths sprinkled in glitter and corroborated by three terrified assistants. We start with a kiss: Rome. Ra wore burgundy sin and the kind of smile that turns cult leaders into motivational speakers. Mehen’s tattoos hummed in key of “mine”; Lion’s jawline filed a claim. Sovereign looked at a camera and the camera blushed.

You’re not here for recap; you’re here for heat. Fine. Vicktoria Voss rescheduled two senators and a billionaire’s mistress with a single emoji. The emoji was a crown. She’s the reason half the world thinks consent is couture. Yuryl walked a half-circle behind Mehen like a storm leash; four men changed their life goals and two women reconsidered their marriages. General Morrow’s boots made promises your ex could never keep.

Now, desserts: rumor says the tribunal isn’t about whether Ascend or Perish is moral—it’s about who gets to define “we.” Lion is collecting engineers with a taste for sabotage and jazz. Ra is rewriting lines in the Prophecy of the Shars with lipstick and a knife. Mehen knows and loves her anyway, which is how you can always tell who the protagonist is and who the king is. The protagonist risks herself. The king risks the world.