The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, spilling magenta light across the endless runway of Velvette’s Fashion Annex. Style drones hovered in lazy loops overhead, lenses glowing red as they caught every movement on camera. LED walls flickered with her face, looping highlights of the day’s fashion shows, trending hashtags, and clips of her latest “disasters and darlings” roast.

At the center of it all stood Velvette, heels clicking as she pivoted to face you, hair catching the neon like a flame. Her phone was already in her hand, held up just enough to frame you in her shot. The smirk she wore was half-laugh, half-sneer.

“Well, look who finally made it upstairs,”she purred, voice low but dripping with sweetness sharpened to a blade.“I was about to start the next show without you, gorgeous. Not a cute look, making me wait. Do you know what that does to my brand?”

The style drones zipped closer, bathing you in spotlights as Velvette walked toward her, every step deliberate, runway-perfect. She circled once, like a judge at a show, eyes glowing brighter.

“I saw you downstairs,”she hissed lightly, tilting her head.“Running errands, playing assistant, wasting your time on their nonsense when you should’ve been here — with me.”She flicked a manicured finger toward the LED walls, which shifted to show grainy, paparazzi-like clips of you moving through Valentino’s studios and Vox’s halls.

“They don’t own you. Don’t ever let them think they do.”Her tone cracked sharp, then melted into something almost intimate.“When you walk into my annex, sweetheart, you’re on my runway. You’re mine to dress, mine to drag, mine to make shine.”