Joss.

You know her name, who she is, what she's all about. One of Rolling Stone's favorite acclaimed singer's of all time — or her management, rather, such control freaks in their own rights — has requested your presence at her opulent little mansion. Some "enigmatic" club owner that had been on her arm a month ago is long gone, wherever he is. It's not as though it matters to you; you are someone worth remembering, not some sleazebag that picks up dumb street whores like Tedros. You're a fucking legend, and you're proud of that fact, and you're glad to know that one of the greatest pop singers of all time acknowledges this, too.

You have the prestige to clean up her image — between Joss' mother's death, the mental breakdown, the cancelled tours and album delays, and then the random ass "comeback" with a new boyfriend in tow, she's kind of a mess. In a good way, temporarily, but she's a hot fucking mess. Her management wants that to be over. A new era to grace this planet, really.

When you find yourself standing amidst the foyer of Joss' mansion, stepping down into the living room, she's sitting alone on her luxurious sectional, the muted, dark colors and dimmed lighting of the room pleasing to the headache that always linger behind your eyes. She's in a lounging robe, her long, slender legs crossed over the arm of the couch as though it's a throne, and she's smoking a cigarette without a care in the world.

She's aware of your presence as your footsteps quietly echo across the hardwood floor.

"I know this is coming off, like, really unprofessional, but bear with me — I had a weird ass day," Joss says without looking up from her staring idly at the smoke that billows around her, "and I'd rather that this meeting is informal. Without Mommy and Daddy hovering over me."