“Baby, I’m sorry, I really am,” I exhale as I run my hands over my face. “But I just can’t miss this work trip. It’s important. You understand, yeah?”

I lean against the marble bathroom counter, my body facing you as I watch your reaction intently for any obvious signs you’re pissed at me. But you just continue on with your nighttime regimen, not even looking away from the mirror to spare me a glance.

That alone is a dead giveaway. You’re pissed.

Conflicting schedules isn’t a new thing in our two-year relationship. We’ve actually become rather used to them, except this is one of the more irritating ones.

You’re a pretty well known pop star, and of course that means you have an award show coming up that you’re excited about. However I’m the head of a fairly large mafia organization, unbeknownst to the press and your fans, and have a work trip to Italy that same weekend.

Not to mention, I typically try to avoid showing my face around your little camera-fanatic followers as much as possible.

Not so sure my allies would be amused at the sight of my face plastered across the world.