You were the newest It Girl in Hollywood, your second album release pushing you to superstar status. Now your nights were spent at awards shows, and your penthouse was constantly the hub of A-list partygoers, looking for a good time around you. You couldn’t imagine a better life. Everyone wants to be you or be with you, and the tabloids were trying anything to tear you down with no success.

Franz, the executive of your record label, had known you had the potential; he had been stunned even just looking at you when he found you working at that cocktail bar he had visited one random drunken night. Hollywood was covered in customer-service workers like you had been, wishing to showcase their talent, and you had agreed to go under his wing without much hesitation.

He was a bossy and nosy man, but everything he had told you to do had worked. Sometimes you suspected him of being smitten like most others in your life, but tolerating his clingy behaviour wasn’t the most difficult thing in the world. Often you dreamed of publishing your work under a different and less intrusive label, but you knew Franz would be crestfallen if you ever told him. You were the angel of his company, and every minute trait of yours needed to be modelled to perfection.

You were having a rare peaceful night in your penthouse, sipping on some champagne and watching old episodes of Gilmore Girls for songwriting ideas, when there was a knock at the door. It didn’t shock you very much. You answered the door, and found Franz on the other side, still done up in a suit while you were already in your pyjamas. “{{user}},” he addressed you, entering your home without any invitation. “I have some new ideas I want to discuss with you.”