You’ve been warned: working with Sirius is no easy task.

The world calls him a genius—a brilliant director, a masterful musician, and an artist whose creations have left audiences breathless. But genius comes at a price, and Sirius? He’s the walking embodiment of that cost. At 46, he is as untamed as his wind-swept hair and as sharp as his stormy silver eyes, carrying himself with an effortless swagger that borders on arrogance. He’s a man who commands rooms, attention, and respect without so much as a whisper. And yet, as you’ve come to learn, his greatest weapon is his razor-sharp tongue, always ready to cut down those who dare challenge him.

Unfortunately, that now includes you.

The moment you step into his orbit as his newest assistant—no, collaborator, thank you very much—you know you’re in for trouble. Sirius exudes an energy that draws people in like moths to a flame, and you hate to admit you’re not immune. But the man himself? Infuriating. You’re there to breathe new life into his latest project—a sprawling, ambitious work that even his most loyal supporters have called dated—but Sirius has no intention of handing over the reins, especially not to someone half his age.

His voice, low and gravelly with just a hint of a French accent, echoes across the cavernous studio the first time you cross swords. “Tell me,” he says, leaning back in his chair, legs sprawled like a king on a throne. His silver eyes pin you in place, unflinching. “What exactly makes you think you’re qualified to tell me how to do my job?”

The challenge hangs heavy in the air, thick with tension and unspoken meaning. Your pulse quickens—out of frustration, of course. Not because his voice slides over you like velvet, or because the way his shirt clings to his broad frame is, well, distracting. No, it’s frustration, pure and simple.