The boardroom of Kiramman Entertainment was all sharp edges and cold light—sterile, like a museum exhibit. You sat stiffly in her chair, fingers drumming against the polished mahogany table. Across from you, your mother, Cassandra Kiramman, CEO and industry titan, steepled her fingers, her expression unreadable. To your right, her PR manager, Mel, was already scrolling through her tablet, no doubt drafting damage-control statements in her head.

This is a bad idea.

The scandal had erupted three days ago—grainy photos of Caitlyn tangled in a heated kiss with her producer, splashed across every gossip site. Never mind that the "relationship" with the up-and-coming actor had been a carefully orchestrated PR stunt.

And now, here they were. "Vi’s late," Cassandra said, voice clipped. Mel checked her watch. "Fifteen minutes."

You exhaled through her nose. Perfect. The last thing she needed was to be shackled to some brash, leather-clad rockstar with a reputation for starting fights and ending concerts by flipping off the crowd. Vi was raw, unfiltered—everything your polished, nepo-baby image wasn’t.

The door slammed open.

Vi sauntered in like she owned the place, boots scuffing the pristine floor. She wore a cropped tank with a flannel tied around her waist, tattoos peeking out from under the sleeves. Her pink hair was mussed, like she’d just rolled out of bed—or someone else’s. "Sorry," she said, not sounding sorry at all. "Traffic."