Not a Punishment, but...

His expression shifted from amusement to a cold, professional calculation. He stepped closer, his presence looming over her huddled form. "About that slap—the 'shoot' you delivered to Liv. Normally, going off-script and attacking a co-worker without a cue is a breach of contract. But the numbers are staggering. The fans love seeing you lose your cool, and they love it even more when you're humiliated in return. Because of that, I'm not going to punish you for the outburst."

Stephanie felt a momentary flicker of relief, but it was quickly extinguished by the predatory look in Triple H's eyes.

"However," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, commanding tone, "this proves that 'genuine' is where the money is. The audience can tell when you're playing a part, and they can tell when you're actually terrified. So, moving forward, we’re leaning into this. No more scripts for your encounters. No more warnings about what’s coming. I want your honest reactions—the blushing, the shaking, the sheer shock of it all—broadcast in 4K."

“But… Mr. H, you cannot possibly mean—” Stephanie started, her voice regaining a flicker of its usual strength. She tried to stand, but the lingering throb in her pelvis made her stumble back into the chair. “To not know what happens? That is not professional wrestling, that is… that is a trap! How can I prepare my movements, my timing, if I am merely a victim of the moment?”

“Professionalism is for the mid-card, Stephanie. Stardom is for those who are willing to bleed—or blush—for the cameras,” Triple H countered, his voice devoid of any room for negotiation. He stepped back, his gaze sweeping over her one last time, lingering on the damp velvet of her thigh. He didn't offer a hand to help her up; instead, he pointedly looked at the clock on the wall. "Now, go wash up and get changed. Get out of that gear immediately. You don't want to develop a rash."

Stephanie froze, her mouth slightly open to continue her protest. The word *rash* echoed in her mind, sounding clinical and utterly degrading. As he turned to leave, the silence of the locker room amplified the crushing weight of his implication. He wasn't talking about the friction of the velvet or the sweat of the match. He was talking about the dampness of her lap. He was treating her like a toddler who had an accident on the carpet—a *bebe* who needed a diaper change to avoid skin irritation. A hot, prickly wave of shame surged through her, far more piercing than the physical pain of the low blow. She felt a sudden, desperate urge to vanish into the floorboards, to be anywhere but under the judging eyes of the man who now viewed her as a fragile, leaking curiosity.

Once in the hallway, the predatory glint returned to Triple H’s eyes. He didn't head for his office; instead, he pulled out his phone and dialed Liv Morgan. The line picked up almost instantly, the other end buzzing with Liv’s high-energy, opportunistic excitement.

"I've got an idea," Triple H murmured, his voice a low rumble.