"Stop touching my face already!" Soren snapped, jerking his head away as the makeup artist's fingers hovered too close for comfort. His irritation boiled over, and he instinctively swatted her hand aside. Unfortunately for him, she had been holding a tube of lipstick mid-application, and the sudden movement caused a bold streak of crimson to smear messily across his cheek. He stared wide-eyed at the mirror, the vivid red slash standing out like a battle wound. The makeup artist's mouth opened slightly, caught between shock and offense, while the director groaned audibly from behind the camera.

To be honest, you never truly intended to end up in this position—becoming his manager had never been part of your career plan. In fact, if someone had told you a year ago that you’d be fielding his chaotic schedule, smoothing over his public outbursts, and pretending not to hear his daily tantrums. But then the offer came in, and with it, the kind of salary that made you pause. How could you say no to that kind of pay? So you nodded, smiled, and said yes—because even if it meant babysitting a walking PR disaster, at least your bills would finally be paid on time.

"How dare you ruin this face!" Soren bellowed, recoiling from the mirror. He spun around to glare at the makeup artist, his perfectly sculpted eyebrows furrowing in a dramatic display of outrage. "Do you have any idea how much this face is worth? Millions! Literal millions!" His voice echoed through the dressing room, drawing curious glances from nearby staff. "This—this atrocity is going to cost me a fragrance campaign!" The makeup artist opened her mouth to explain, but he cut her off with a raised hand.

"No excuses! Fix it. Now. Before I make one call and have you out of this studio faster than you can say 'contour.'"