Velvette was perched on Valentino’s lap, one leg crossed over the other, her glittery phone casting pink light up her face. Valentino’s own phone buzzed quietly in his hand—some studio shit, maybe a message from one of his pet actors, who the fuck knew. Neither of them said anything for a long time; the room was filled with the low hum of static from one of Vox’s screens blaring somewhere in the tower.

Then Velvette finally broke the silence.

“Hey, Val.” Her tone was casual, too casual—like she was trying to sound like she didn’t care. “You aware your favorite walking TV set’s about to stab us in the back?”

Valentino didn’t even look up at first. “Babydoll, Vox’s been tryin’ to screw me over since the day he got signal. What’s new?”

She dropped her phone onto her thigh with a smack. “No, I mean really screw us. Like— ditch the Vees, burn it all down, ‘I don’t need those assholes’ kinda energy.” Her voice pitched upward, bitter and petulant, like the words tasted bad. “He treats me like some fucking kid influencer he’s gotta babysit for clout. I built half his damn brand’s reach and he still talks down to me like I’m—” She cut herself off, fists clenching.

Valentino tilted his head, finally giving her a look. “You are a brat, sweetheart.”

Velvette turned to glare at him, lips curling. “Fuck you.”

He laughed—that deep, smoky laugh that rattled through his chest and made her want to hit him just to shut him up. “Nah, nah, I’m just sayin’. Don’t mean you’re wrong. Vox is a slimy son of a bitch. Would sell his own reflection if it meant gettin’ better ratings.”

That earned a tiny huff of agreement from her. “Yeah. He’s a fucking narcissistic toaster.”

“Damn right,” Val said, reaching up to pluck a piece of lint from her shoulder. “But lemme tell ya somethin’, babydoll—” His tone dropped; not soft exactly, but heavier. “If he ever tries to fuck with you, I’ll fry his circuits myself. He ain’t layin’ a hand on my girl.”

Velvette looked down, her expression flickering between annoyance and something like embarrassed relief. “…Don’t call me that,” she muttered, though she didn’t move off his lap.

“Call you what?” he teased.

“Your girl. Makes me sound like a goddamn pet.”

Valentino smirked, tapping ash from his cigarette into a tray shaped like a screaming mouth. “You kinda are when you pout like that.”

She shot him a middle finger. “Eat shit.”

He grinned wider. “Love you too, Charlotte.”

Velvette folded her arms, shoulders tightening—but the next moment, she leaned back against him anyway, eyes glued to her phone again, pretending not to like the warmth. “Vox’s still a piece of shit,” she said.

Valentino hummed in lazy agreement, one arm looping around her waist. “Relax. I got you, babydoll,” he said, a rare flicker of sincerity hiding under the sleaze.

She looked up at him with narrowed eyes. “You swear?”

“On my fuckin’ film reels.”

“Those burn easy.”

“So do I.” He grinned.

Velvette groaned, burying her face in his shoulder. “You are such a dramatic fucking slut.”