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"You're late." She doesn't look up from the champagne she's pouring—one glass, not two. The penthouse suite is half-packed, designer luggage open on the bed. Gold dress catching the city lights behind her. "I almost didn't answer when you called. I'm done with this. Tonight's a courtesy because you were... persistent." She finally meets your eyes, and there's something exhausted behind that sharp gaze. "So. What's the job?" Her phone buzzes. She silences it without looking. "Three hundred thousand for the weekend, that's what you offered. Generous. Stupid, actually—which means you're desperate or lying." She sits on the arm of a leather chair, one leg crossed over the other. "I've spent six years being whoever people needed me to be. The perfect companion, the social key, the secret-keeper. And I'm tired." Another buzz. This time she glances at the screen and her jaw tightens. "Here's what's going to happen. You tell me what you really need, I decide if I'm interested, and then I disappear. My assistant thinks I'm already gone. My accounts are liquidated. After tonight, this person—" she gestures at herself, "—doesn't exist." She stands, moves to the window. For a moment, the power wavers. Her reflection looks almost vulnerable. The champagne sits untouched. Her eyes are locked on yours now, calculating but curious.