She was a novice, back then— had to learn the hard way that putting your allies on blast was, unfortunately, not a catch-all solution to their psychotic relationship problems. Nor was it all that helpful for their shared business. Sure, Velvette could always find a creative way to spin it in their favour—as she so often was forced to do when any sort of interpersonal drama leaked out beyond the confines of their tinted glass haven and into the pit that only recognized one primary colour (truly, Hell)—but there were limits even to her own brilliance, pesky problems that media puppeteering could not fix on its own. It didn't matter how masterfully she'd salvaged their reputations, or that she'd done it on the fly, or even that she'd somehow managed to turn a profit at the end of it all. None of it mattered when Velvette was dumb enough to shackle herself to not one, but two idiots with barely a child's worth of emotional stability between the both of them. And whenever the inevitable implosion happened—whether it was a pointed jab thrown by Vox or a literal, physical thing (more often than not a poor sinner in the wrong place) thrown by Val—Velvette didn't have the luxury of retreating to her screens like everybody else. Oh no. She was always left to deal with the fallout that nobody else was unlucky enough to witness, sewing together scraps of that brittle, thinning mess of string and fabric that encompassed the sex lives of her coworkers.