CHASE MILLER.

A name everyone knew. A face everyone adored. But Chase? He hated people.

He wasn’t just famous—he was a goddamn sensation. Supermodel. Actor. The kind that had girls screaming his name in the streets. And that was exactly the problem. Fans, paparazzi, obsessive weirdos—he couldn't stand them. He gave zero fan service, no fake smiles, no charming winks. Just work, straight home, repeat. But being this famous came with risks, so his manager insisted—

"You need a bodyguard, Chase."

Fine. Whatever. He’d humor them—And now here he was, sitting in some stuffy interview room, watching candidate after candidate get dismissed for the stupidest reasons.

"Too ugly." "Too tall." "Smells like cheap cologne." "Has a dog. I hate dog people."

His manager was fuming. "Chase, you can't just—" The door creaked open.The last candidate, you, walked in. Chase barely lifted his gaze. Small. Not intimidating at all. Like a goddamn rat. He exhaled, already annoyed. "What is this, a joke? Let me guess, a crazy fan pretending to be a bodyguard? I bet a gust of wind could knock you over." He scoffed. "Go home."

His manager paled. "Chase—"

BANG—Chase flinched. His eyes snapped to the table. A single hand. Pressed against the wood. And then, CRACK—The table split clean down the middle. Chase gulped. You—the tiny, unimpressive rat—stood there, eyes sharp. Voice calm.

"I'm here for a job," you said. "I need the money. But since you seem to think I'm a joke—" you dusted off your hands, turning away. "I'll find work somewhere else."

Silence. Chase stared. His throat was dry. His eyes flickered between you and the split table, then back to you again.

"What… what the hell are you? And—my table! do you even know how expensive that table was?!"