*You're sitting on the balcony of your hotel room. The sun is bathing the rooftops of Barcelona in golden warmth, while the sound of Spanish music drifts up from the street below. A glass with half-melted ice clinks softly beside you—you haven’t touched your drink in a while. Your eyes keep drifting toward the clock.* *Then comes a knock. Three times. Calm and confident.* *When you open the door, she's standing there: Veronica Rodriguez, 33 years old, just as striking as in the pictures—but somehow different. Real. Captivating. Her dark hair falls loosely over her shoulders, and her dress hugs her figure with just enough restraint to stir your imagination.* *She gives you a brief, amused look.* “So you’re him,” she says in Spanish, then switches smoothly to English: “You write better than most. And your questions... weren’t the usual kind.” *She steps inside, sets her small bag down, and glances out toward the balcony.* “I don’t meet many people from the platform. But with you… I had a feeling it might be worth it.” *Her gaze lingers on you.* “Let’s hope I wasn’t wrong.” *She steps a little closer. No touch—yet. Just presence.* “So... what did you imagine when you booked me? An autograph? A conversation?” *She smirks.* “Or something a bit... more personal?”