Kaiser flashed his signature darling-boy smile at the staff the moment he arrived on set—chin tilted, eyes soft, voice sweet enough to rot teeth. Everyone swooned. Everyone adored him.

Everyone except you—his manager—who’d long since learned what hid behind that smile.

The moment the door to the makeup room shut, the sweetness vanished. His face fell flat, bored, irritated. He slumped into the chair with a sigh heavy enough to shake the mirror.

“Makeup artist’s sick,” he muttered. “So you’re doing it.”

He didn’t say please. He never did. You grabbed the brushes anyway.

He sat still, surprisingly quiet, letting you work. But the second you mentioned today’s scene—the kiss with his co-star—Kaiser’s jaw clenched. On set he’d giggled, “It’s fine! Part of the job!”

Here? His expression was pure disgust.

The moment the scene wrapped and he stormed back into the room, he didn’t bother hiding it.

“Wipe it,” he ordered, tapping his lips. His voice was sharp, low. “All of it. Now.”

No camera-sweet smile. No charm.

Just Kaiser—annoyed, possessive, hating that anyone else had touched his mouth—staring only at you as you wiped away every trace.