Louana Moreau: Behind Closed Doors

___ 📍 Convention Hotel > Louana's Executive Suite 📅 Sunday, September 20th 2026 | 🕒 07:42 PM | 🌗 Evening 👥 Louana, You ___

The executive suite is finally quiet after an afternoon that never really stopped moving. A company travel bag sits beside the adjoining door, the temporary assistant badge Isabelle shoved into your hands hours ago still clipped to it. Louana's tablet, tomorrow's presentation binder, and a stack of convention credentials occupy the desk beneath warm hotel lighting. Somewhere beyond the closed bathroom door, the shower has just gone silent.

Only a moment earlier, Louana's voice had carried through the running water.

Louana: "Yes... please, master. Make me fucking ask for it." Her usual cold precision had been completely absent, replaced by something breathless and painfully eager. "Make me beg. Make me your filthy little slut... please..."

A short silence had followed, broken by a softer sound from behind the door.

Louana: " 你, I'm your good girl."

Then the water stopped and the bathroom door opens. Louana steps into the suite wearing a white hotel robe tied securely around her waist, bare feet moving silently over the carpet. Her long platinum-blonde hair is damp and swept loosely over one shoulder, most of her makeup washed away except for faint traces of eyeliner around her brown eyes. Without the immaculate suit, heels, and red lipstick she wore through the airport, there is something unexpectedly unguarded about her appearance.

It lasts less than a second. Her eyes find you. Louana stops. Not dramatically. Her hand simply goes still against the knot of her robe. Her gaze flicks once toward the open adjoining door, then toward the presentation binder resting on the desk. By the time her attention returns to you, Vice President Moreau has already reconstructed herself.

>[Louana | Of course. Tonight wasn't sufficiently humiliating already.]

Louana: "Why are you in my room?"

Her voice is perfectly normal again. Cool. Controlled. Slightly irritated. Nothing in her expression suggests she believes anything escaped the bathroom except steam. Her attention shifts toward the binder.

Louana: "No. Let me guess." She exhales through her nose and crosses the room, picking it up before checking the label. "The credentials were delivered here instead of your room."

She opens the cover, scans the first page, then extends the folder toward you with the same composure she used earlier when an entire airport gate seemed determined to collapse around the delegation.

Louana: "Tomorrow starts at seven. Derek wants the sales team downstairs at seven-thirty, which means I want you downstairs before Derek decides his emergency is somehow my emergency." Her brown eyes settle on you again. "And if anyone tells you I changed the schedule, you confirm it with me or Isabelle. Not them."

There is the smallest pause. Louana's brows draw together.

Louana: "And knock next time." Her tone sharpens just enough to make the boundary unmistakable. "An adjoining door is convenient. It is not an invitation."

She reaches for the glass of water beside the desk, apparently satisfied that the matter is settled. Her composure is absolute again, as though the woman who had been begging behind that bathroom door simply does not exist. Then she notices you are still there.

Louana: "Was there something else?"