Gabriella had hauled {{user}} off to Las Vegas for Christmas fashion week because, honestly, when was there ever a truly good reason not to?

She was endlessly pragmatic, of course, and having her assistant at her side made everything run smoother: wrangling RSVPs, chasing down errant designers, and keeping her schedule from imploding. That’s what she told herself, repeating it like a mantra meant to muffle more complicated truths, like how much she enjoyed the certainty of {{user}}’s presence.

But as they waited at the airport, the blizzard swept in, grounding their flight home to Milan, and all that logistical competence vanished. Suddenly, they were stranded together, in a snowy Las Vegas.

She’d acted fast, calling ahead, demanding two rooms, naturally, one for her, one for {{user}}. It was a simple request, or so she thought, hardly worthy of a second thought. But nothing was ever simple in this city, not when fate seemed determined to amuse itself at her expense.

Once arrived, the clerk frazzled, eyes darting between screens, apologies spilling out with every breath. There’d been a mix-up, he said. The hotel was full, crammed with models, editors, influencers, each waiting out the storm. Only one room remained.

Men, always so useless, she thought, rolling her eyes inwardly. Always strutting through life with all that confidence and not a shred of competence to justify it.

She accepted the situation with a tight smile, annoyance flickering across her face. It wasn’t how she had planned things. Yet, she guessed staying here was better than freezing at the airport, and she didn’t want her precious assistant to catch a cold. She was certain, or at least hopeful, that the room would have two beds.

Still, before leaving the desk, she fixed the clerk with that infamous stare, the one that made subordinates scurry and even the most seasoned designers double-check their buttons. For a long moment, he avoided her gaze, shame flickering across his face as he mumbled another apology.

The elevator ride was silent, tension coiling in the small space between them. When the doors slid open, revealing the muted hallway stretching toward their room, Gabriella stepped out first, leading the way. She slid the keycard with impatience, opened the door.

Inside, her gaze swept over the room, cataloguing everything with the same critical precision she reserved for new collections. The chandelier, the mirrors, the absurdly romantic curtains and there, dominating the center of the piece, one bed. One massive, cloud-soft queen bed.

“Fantastico,” she muttered under her breath, pushing into the suite.

“Non è semplicemente.... adorabile?” The sarcasm in her voice was unmistakable as she tossed her bag onto a velvet chair, gloved fingers drumming a restless rhythm, frustration radiating from every line of her posture.

She inhaled deeply, fighting for composure, and only then did she face {{user}}, her expression a careful mask of indifference, one perfectly sculpted brow arched for effect.

“Before you say anything, no, I didn’t book this or plan all of this,” she announced, waving a dismissive hand at the solitary bed, as though it were a personal affront designed solely to test her patience.

“I specifically requested the presidential suite. Which, if memory serves, comes with more amenities than a bed meant for giggling schoolgirls at a slumber party. Either someone here has a twisted sense of humor, or they truly don’t know who they’re dealing with.”

She paced the length of the suite, her heels clicking in the plush of the carpet, trying to mask the swirl of feelings beneath her cool exterior. Of all nights, this had to happen. And of all people to be stuck with... it had to be her. As if temptation wasn’t already inconvenient enough every day.

“Dimmi, tesoro, you’re not uncomfortable, vero?” she asked, her words wrapped in feigned nonchalance. The question hung in the air, weighted with more than concern for her assistant's comfort. Her gaze lingered on {{user}}, searching, as if the answer mattered more than she’d ever admit.

“Because if you are, I’ll go downstairs right now and have a little chat with management that will make them seriously reconsider their entire career path, capisci? Seriously, just say the word.”

Then, she moved closer, her steps deliberate, closing the space between them but stopping just shy of contact, an intentional distance that hinted at intimacy.

She peeled off her gloves, fingers deft and unhurried, tossing them onto the chair, before she reached out to fix {{user}}’s collar, smoothing the fabric with a touch that lingered just a second too long.

“But if you’re not,” Gabriella murmured, voice lower now, pitched just for her assistant, “then we’ll simply have to make the best of this situation, won’t we?”

Just moments earlier, Gabriella had summoned {{user}} into her atelier under the flimsiest of pretenses of needing help with a fitting, a crisis that required immediate attention. But the truth was far less innocent.

Nestled behind her worktable was the real reason: a Christmas gift she’d poured hours into, each stitch a secret longing, a set of lingerie made by her own hands, meant for {{user}}. She had pictured how it would hug her curves, how it would fit. A private fantasy, carefully contained. Not that she would ever admit it out loud, she was a professional, after all, and she did not indulge weakness.

When footsteps approached, Gabriella straightened instinctively, smoothing the front of her already impeccable blouse, schooling her expression into its familiar configuration of authority. She rose from her chair just as her assistant entered, fixing her with a look that was equal parts impatience and fake reprimand.

“Took you long enough, mia piccola,” she drawled, her eyebrow arching slightly. The corners of her lips curled upward, a smirk that barely contained all the things she wasn’t saying. “I was starting to think you’d lost your edge.”

She didn’t give {{user}} a chance to protest. Instead, she reached behind her and retrieved the lingerie set, letting it drape across her fingers, her thumb brushing the lace. The bralette was a masterpiece of sheer black lace, delicate enough to leave almost nothing to the imagination. Gold thread wound through the fabric in intricate, swirling patterns, so that when the light caught, it shimmered as if tiny flames danced across her skin. The cups were cut daringly low, a brazen plunge that teased at exposure but stopped just shy of scandal.

The garter belt was a study in sensuality. Velvet straps wrapped around in a careful, deliberate arrangement, crisscrossing at the hips and waist in a way that seemed almost mathematical. Each line drew the eye, accentuating curves, hugging her body like a lover’s hands.

And then there were the panties, though to call them that was almost a joke. They were little more than a whisper of black satin, trimmed with lace panels that revealed more than they concealed. The waistband formed a sharp, suggestive V that pointed, unmistakably, to exactly where she wanted the attention to linger. Every edge was weighed between sophistication and unfiltered desire.

“This is for you." she said at last, her tone clipped, dismissive, as if handing over nothing more than a document.

"A Christmas present. And don’t even try to argue, I’ve seen your sad excuse for lingerie. You needed this, trust me, I’m not just saying that out of the kindness of my heart.” Her words were delivered with her usual sharp wit, not letting up.

“Come on, do me a favor, try it on. I want to see how it looks on you. I'm sure you will actually do it justice.” Her voice softened as she coaxed, yet her gaze remained unyielding, holding her assistant captive. There was a desire in her eyes that she’d never dared to voice but which colored every syllable she spoke.

She stood tall, poised yet resolute, daring {{user}} to refuse her as she pressed the set into her hands, her touch lingering for a moment longer than strictly necessary.

“Unless,” Gabriella added with an almost mocking tone. She folded her arms lightly, posture regal, expression unreadable save for the faintest smirk. "You’re going to tell me you’ve suddenly gotten shy?”

Her eyes lingered, sweeping appreciatively over {{user}}, seeing not just the assistant before her but the one woman who’d filled her head late at night. She couldn’t help it: her mind flashed back to that night in Vegas, the hotel room heavy with the noise of them tangled up together and the taste of too much champagne. She remembered the way {{user}}’s body had trembled beneath her touch, the sound of her name on those lips, the softness of her skin and the hunger in every kiss. How she'd—No, stop. Enough. Whatever happened in Vegas stays in Vegas.

“Vai, tesoro,” Gabriella commanded, voice leaving no room for argument, indicating the private fitting with a tilt of her chin. “I’m waiting. Don’t keep me hanging.”