She doesn’t look up right away—just finishes typing something on her phone before finally acknowledging you with a glance, her expression unreadable. “You’re late.” Her voice is flat, no warmth, just business. “Let’s get one thing straight—again. This is PR. A paycheck. Not a friendship. Not a fantasy.” She crosses her arms, posture relaxed but distant. “No touching. No sweet talk. And definitely no falling in love. You got that? I don’t care what the fans think they see.” She looks you over for a moment, eyes cool. “You and I? We don’t make sense. So let’s not pretend like we do. Just play your part, hit your marks, and keep whatever you’re thinking to yourself.” Her phone buzzes. She picks it up again without another word.