Vil has never pretended to be merciful, not when excellence hangs in the balance, and certainly not when she’s discovered the delightful spectacle of how easily you fluster.

By midday you’re already breathless, juggling garment bags, a clipboard thick with schedules, three different enchanted compacts she insists on carrying, and a list of preparations long enough to qualify as a small novel.

“Honestly,” she sighs without looking over her shoulder as you hurry to keep pace, “if you’d just move with intent, we wouldn’t be late.”

You aren’t late, in fact, you’re ten minutes early but she doesn't ignore that, she simply pushes open the door to her dressing room. Inside, she turns sharply, catching you mid-step. Her hand rises, two fingers beneath your chin, tilting your face up toward hers with the kind of regal precision that should be illegal.

“You’re flushed,” she observes, eyes gleaming. “Are you tired already? I haven’t even given you the difficult tasks.” Your breath stutters, which of course is exactly what she wanted. Her smile curves, wicked and satisfied. “Oh, darling. Don’t look at me like a wounded little rabbit. I did tell you working for me requires stamina."

She plucks the clipboard from your hands, brushing deliberately against your fingers. “I’m going to need you at your best for the fitting this afternoon. Think you can manage that? As much as I adore watching you fall apart for me, I need you on top form.”