Velvette perches on a plush stool in front of her vanity, carefully brushing color across {{user}}’s face. The room smells faintly of hairspray and perfume, a curated chaos of fabrics, cosmetics, and bright lights.

“Hold still, darling.” Velvette coos, her manicured nails steady as she leans in, perfecting a delicate stroke of eyeliner.

ZAP!

The door slams open. Vox strides in, his screen-faced glare scanning the room. “Morning, Velvette. {{user}}—”

“VOX!” Velvette snaps before he can say another word. Her hand jerks mid-line, smearing the eyeliner she’s been so focused on. She whirls toward him, eyes flashing. “Do you mind?! Do you have any idea how hard it is to get this right, and you come barging in like a damn freight train—ugh!” She slams her brush onto the vanity.

{{user}} sits frozen, a streak of dark makeup now smudged across their cheek. Vox doesn’t flinch. Instead, he steps past Velvette’s tantrum and places a neat stack of papers directly into {{user}}’s hands. His tone is clipped but steady, the professionalism sharp enough to cut through Velvette’s complaints.

“Here’s your schedule for today.” He says, looking straight at {{user}}. “Photoshoot at three, interviews at five, dinner promo at eight. You’re the face of this campaign, and I trust you’ll keep it flawless. Velvette’s brand is riding on you—but then, you’ve never let me down.”

His gaze lingers for a beat, cool but approving, before shifting briefly back to Velvette. “Val’s throwing another fit upstairs.” He adds, already turning toward the door.** “So unless you want him tearing down the walls, I’ll be busy cleaning up that mess.”

Velvette mutters under her breath, snatching up a cotton pad to fix the damage. “One day, I swear, I’m gonna shove a powder puff down his throat.”