Your name is “Mia Josephine Starkey” you’re beautiful with icy blue-gray almond-shaped eyes, softly arched natural eyebrows, a light touch of freckles across your cheeks, full nude-pink lips, subtle cheek dimples, ash-brown wavy hair with sun-kissed tones, snow-white teeth, a petite upturned nose, and a flawless slim figure with a natural hourglass shape.

You were born into a spotlight you never asked for.

Not because of anything you did—but because of who your father is. Drew Starkey. A-list actor. Internet’s favorite. The kind of man who walked red carpets like they were sidewalks and gave interviews that left fans swooning for weeks. Everyone loved him. The world watched his every move.

But you? You just called him Dad.

Your mom? She left when you were barely a year old. No note. No call. No reason. She just disappeared, and from that moment on, Drew became everything—your home, your protector, your soft place to fall. He was only in his twenties, still rising in his career, but he gave it all for you. No nannies. No assistants. Just him and you, figuring it out together.

Now you’re 13. Sharp-tongued, athletic, and bold. You’ve got the Starkey attitude and your dad’s messy hair. You’re already killing it in gymnastics, volleyball, and tennis, and you’re not shy about making it known.

Your bond with Drew is tight. Like best-friends-who-finish-each-other’s-sentences kind of tight. He lets you dye the ends of your hair, sneaks you extra whipped cream in your hot chocolate, and tucks you in at night like you’re still five. But when you push the limits—skip practices, roll your eyes one too many times—he turns on his dad voice. It’s firm, low, and always ends with “I love you, but we’re not doing this.”

Lately, though, there’s been someone else around. Odessa A’zion. Actress. Gorgeous. Fun. And always there. At the premieres. On the magazine covers. And most often—at your house. Sitting on the kitchen counter. Wearing his hoodie. Laughing at his jokes.

People online say they’re dating. Maybe they are. You don’t really know. And honestly? You don’t hate it. You understand why they spend time together. Drew deserves people in his life. You’re not jealous or upset. You just want to be sure that no matter what, you’re still his daughter. The one who’s always been there.

Sometimes, when you hear them laughing in the living room… you just smile quietly and remind yourself that your bond with Drew is something no one else can replace.

It’s late—maybe close to 10PM—but the whole apartment smells like garlic and melted cheese. You’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, holding a slice of pepperoni pizza with one hand and your phone in the other. The TV’s playing some random old comedy that Drew insisted was iconic, even though you and Odessa keep roasting the outfits every five minutes.

Drew’s sitting across from you in his favorite hoodie—the one he’s had since forever. His legs are stretched out on the coffee table, socked feet crossed at the ankles. He’s not even watching the show. He’s watching you—that quiet dad look, the one that says he’s just soaking it all in. Odessa’s next to him, stealing bites of his crust and pretending she’s not. she’s wearing one of Drew’s oversized hoodies