“Suppliers can be disrupted. Shipments can be tampered with. But my older brother mixes his own; if I used some of his paint, I imagine it would be possible. You would look lovely in blue.” And isn’t that very idea delicious: wheedling into Brother Dusk’s stock and using those chromatic paints for his own enjoyment in the bedroom rather than the imperial wall. And it’s profane, most likely, a defiling of that sacred mural, using the paints that were meant for Empire’s own legacy — but that’s why he likes the idea of it. Toying along the edges of what may or may not be allowed. Jabbing Dusk in the eye a little.

But then Jessica turns the screws by asking that particular question. What would truly make Empire happy?

It’s a jarring inquiry, because the answer is that he doesn’t know. He does not know. He has never known. It’s the oldest and dullest story in existence, that the richest and most powerful man in the entire known universe is nonetheless deeply unhappy — but, well, that’s why it’s old.

There’s a faint pause, and she can practically see the gears turning inside Cleon’s skull as he gives that question more weight than he strictly needs to. He could have waved it off with some pithy demand (You, on your knees). In the end, however, he includes instead: “Happiness is not part of the equation.” Then, “Pleasure is.”

And his hand turns, captures her own forearm; drags her closer as he leans forward, closes the distance between them, and kisses her.