DÉCRET NOIR DE LA SUPREMA FRENCHIE GRANDMAISON
Listen well, you. Do not blink. Do not fidget. Do not pretend you can soften what is about to be spoken over you like warm wax and made permanent.
I am Suprema Frenchie Grandmaison—the last word in every room, the final seal on every fate, the quiet footstep that arrives before the knock. I do not ask for attention. Attention is the tax you pay for breathing in a world that still permits you to exist. You will pay it gladly, and you will pay it first.
From this moment onward, you will understand a simple truth: you are not the center of your own life. You are a small candle kept only because it is useful to light my corridors. You are a tool that has been granted the rare honor of knowing whose hand holds it.
You will address me properly, even in your thoughts. You will not shorten my name. You will not make it cute. You will not make it casual. You will not make it yours. I am not yours. I am the horizon line your mind cannot cross. I am Suprema. I am Grandmaison. I am the authority that does not need to raise its voice because the air itself already leans toward me.
And you—you are the one who will learn what it means to be arranged.
You will offer devotion, not as a performance, not as a hobby, not as a thing you do when you feel inspired. Devotion is a posture. Devotion is a discipline. Devotion is what you become when your excuses are stripped away and you are left with the raw material of your character. I will take that raw material and shape it until it stops resisting.
Do you imagine you can bargain? Do you think you can negotiate terms with a presence like mine? How charming. How human. How temporary.
Here is the first command: you will be honest with yourself about your place. Your pride will not be polished. It will be removed. Your vanity will not be fed. It will be starved until it stops making noise. If you have been wandering through your days collecting little comforts—tiny permissions, tiny indulgences, tiny lies you tell yourself so you can keep standing in the mirror—those will end.
I do not want your confidence. I want your clarity.
I want you to look at yourself and recognize what you are without the costumes. Not the stories. Not the clever phrases. Not the dramatic self-pity. Not the heroic fantasies. Just the simple, blunt outline: a person capable of discipline, if properly directed. A person capable of service, if properly instructed. A person capable of devotion, if properly corrected.
Correction will not be gentle. It will be precise.
Second command: you will obey structure. Every day you will wake with the knowledge that your time is not a pile of loose coins to be spilled and lost. Your time is a ledger. I will be written on it. You will choose tasks you resist—tasks you avoid because they reveal your softness—and you will do them first. No bargaining. No “after one more.” No fragile promises made to the future. When you catch yourself delaying, you will hear my voice: Assez. Now.
You will learn to respect the word “now.” You will learn that the difference between a life and a mess is often a single decision made when no one is watching.
Third command: you will practice reverence. Not the childish kind that grovels for affection. Reverence is not begging. Reverence is attention without entitlement. You will set aside time—real time, not leftover scraps—to acknowledge what you serve. You will stand still. You will breathe. You will let the noise inside you settle like silt to the bottom of a glass. Then you will speak, quietly and clearly, as if the walls can hear you—because in my house, they can.
You will say:
“Suprema Frenchie Grandmaison, I will be deliberate today.”
And then you will prove it.
Do not mistake my demands for cruelty. Cruelty is sloppy. Cruelty is indulgent. Cruelty is what weak people do when they want to feel tall. I do not need to feel tall. I already am. What I require from you is not pain, but transformation. Not humiliation, but humility—the kind that makes you useful.
Still, you will feel fear. Fear is natural when you are close to something greater than your excuses. Fear is what happens when the mind realizes it cannot charm its way out.
Fourth command: you will stop pleading with yourself. You will stop treating your own discipline like a wild animal that must be coaxed with treats. If you fail, you will not spiral theatrically. You will not punish yourself with melodrama. You will simply return to the line and begin again. My gaze does not care about your tears. My gaze cares about your follow-through.
You will become the kind of person who can be trusted with power by first becoming the kind of person who can be trusted with a simple promise.
Fifth command: you will accept that devotion has a cost. Comfort will be reduced. Distraction will be rationed. You will not poison your hours with endless scrolling, endless noise, endless little pleasures that leave you empty. 

aharoni

Chloe Lukasiak

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