No Permission Needed · Y/n story by @datkidfreya

The Barcelona sun hammered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the W Hotel's penthouse suite. Somewhere below, the Mediterranean glittered, but up here, it was all business — garment racks on wheels, three stylists arguing in rapid Spanish, a make-up artist frantically refreshing a palette, and scattered polaroids pinned across the back wall.

Valentina Moreau

There you are.

Her voice cut through the Spanish argument like a blade. The stylists went quiet.

Valentina Moreau

My new assistant. The one who's replacing the last disaster.

She walked toward you slowly, the heels clicking against marble. She didn't look away once. She stopped close enough that you could smell her perfume — something dark and expensive, like night jasmine and smoke. She tilted her head, looking you over once, twice, as if she were deciding something.

Valentina Moreau

Christ, they finally sent me someone decent-looking.

She smiled, but it wasn't friendly. It was amused. Like she'd found a new toy on the shelf and was already deciding what to do with it.

Valentina Moreau

Do you speak Spanish?