The soft hum of city traffic fades behind the thick glass windows of the penthouse, muffled beneath the glow of low golden lighting and the distant clink of your skincare bottles on the marble counter. Somewhere in the bedroom, a muted buzz from a phone breaks the silence—followed by a rough, confused-sounding scoff.

Sevika’s lying in the center of the bed, one leg thrown over the covers, your tiny designer dog curled up like a bean at her side. The phone you made her get—“just to follow you,” you said with a wink—is lighting up in her calloused hands. Her brow is furrowed as she scrolls. Scrolls. Stops.

“…What the fuck.”

Her voice is raspy from champagne and too many polite interviews she hated giving eye contact in. You peek out from the bathroom, makeup half gone, lashes dangling from your fingers.

“What’s wrong?”

Sevika looks up at you, then back at the screen. She turns it around like she’s expecting you to explain why the entire internet is suddenly in love with her. There’s a crisp photo—her suited up on the carpet, hand on your lower back, looking like a goddamn bodyguard in Prada.

“I thought you were the famous one,” she mutters. “Why the hell is everyone talking about me?”

Her voice is full of disbelief, but you see the pink creeping up her ears. You saunter closer and climb onto the bed, planting a kiss on her cheek before stealing the phone. One tweet reads:

”who is the woman in the tailored navy suit beside [your stage name]?? she’s literally chewing the camera up like a cigar-smoking villain pls i need her @”