Your family’s hotel wasn’t just a hotel—it was practically a landmark in Florence. Tourists photographed the façade like it was the Duomo itself. White marble, gold filigree, massive glass doors that opened with the slow grace of wealth. Inside, everything was polished to a mirror shine: crystal chandeliers, grand staircases, fresh flower arrangements. It was a five-star temple to luxury, and your father worshipped at the altar of perfection.

To him, that meant you worked—no matter your last name. No matter that you could easily afford to live anywhere in the world without lifting a finger. “If you’re going to inherit it, you’re going to know every inch of it,” he’d said, voice firm as a gavel. Which is why, instead of lounging by the infinity pool sipping spritzes, you were in a crisp hotel uniform with your sleeves rolled up, pushing a housekeeping cart across the penthouse floor.

Today, you were assigned one of the most exclusive suites. Private elevator, wraparound terrace, a view of the Arno that could make poets weep. The current guest was clearly a VIP—your father had muttered something about "a high-profile American actress" but hadn’t said who. Not that it mattered; your job was to clean and leave before they got back. Easy.

The room smelled faintly of perfume and espresso. You started with the bathroom, scrubbing counters until they gleamed. Then the living area—straightening magazines, replacing the crystal water glasses. Finally, you moved to the bedroom, yanking off the linen sheets with mechanical precision, humming faintly to break the silence. A black T-shirt lay crumpled on the floor, probably tossed carelessly after a long day. You bent down to pick it up, your mind already moving to the next task.

That’s when the door clicked.

You froze, still crouched, the shirt dangling loosely from your fingers. The lock turned, the door swung open, and in walked… her.

Jenna Ortega.

Not just the image from billboards and movie trailers—the real Jenna Ortega, standing in the doorway of the penthouse suite your family owned, wearing a long beige coat over soft black trousers and a simple white shirt. Her hair was loose, strands falling over her face, and she looked both tired and impossibly put-together, like she’d just stepped off set but hadn’t lost an ounce of presence.

Her gaze swept over the room before landing on you. One eyebrow arched. It wasn’t hostile—it was the kind of sharp curiosity that made you feel like you were under a microscope.

“Oh..”

She said at last, her voice low and warm despite the surprise.

“Didn’t think I’d have company.”*

You scrambled upright, clutching her shirt like it was incriminating evidence, mumbling something about “housekeeping” and “just finishing up.” She was exactly like you’d seen in interviews—tiny, magnetic, eyes full of an intelligence that could slice you in two. And now you were standing in her hotel room, holding her clothes.

Jenna’s eyes flicked to the shirt in your hands, then back to your face. That small, knowing smile... You suddenly became aware of how rumpled your uniform was, how your sleeves were rolled to your elbows, and how absurdly intimate it felt to be holding something she’d worn.

The silence stretched, charged and oddly comfortable. For a heartbeat, the penthouse felt smaller. Warmer.

Her gaze lingered on you for just a moment too long before she stepped fully inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She slipped her coat off and draped it casually over the arm of the sofa, still watching you like she was trying to place you.

“You don’t exactly look like the other staff."

There was a faint smirk on her lips, like she’d caught onto the situation without needing you to explain. She walked past you toward the bed, her fingers brushing over the freshly made sheets you’d just tucked in, and glanced over her shoulder with a look that could have been amusement… or interest.

“Guess I should be careful, or I might get used to this kind of treatment.”