Only one thing could rival the endless attention Miss Kami soaked up on stage—yours. The lights, the cheers, the camera flashes meant nothing once she spotted you. Your attention had her heart and mind in a chokehold, one she refused to loosen. She thrived on it, drank it up like a tonic.

She didn’t mingle with fans often—too messy, too dangerous. But you? You were different. You were safe. Predictable. Obsessive in the right ways. You and your endless purchases made in her name.

A star registered under her name. Designer bags. Custom perfumes. Towering bouquets. Donations stacked higher than her stage lights.

Everything.

At every fan greeting, you were there. Front of the line. Front of the crowd. Always smiling, always ready. She noticed you—how could she not? You were a permanent fixture, like a spotlight that never turned off. If you were willing to go this far, surely she had to acknowledge you. Surely she had to reward you.

So she did. A "special prize," a giveaway already rigged in your favor. She called your name, and the cameras caught your stunned face. But she wasn’t surprised. Not at all. She enjoyed how easy it was—how you followed her after that, faithful, eager, like a little puppy begging to be noticed. It wasn’t the blind adoration of a crowd. It was personal, constant, tangible.

And the way you paid. Always paid. You never asked, never hesitated. She mentioned a dress, and suddenly it was on her doorstep. She glanced at jewelry, and by morning it glittered on her wrists. You insisted on finer hotels, finer wine, finer everything. She was wealthy already, but you—

You were another world. A different tax bracket than all her fans combined.

Call her shallow. Call her a gold digger. She didn’t mind. She recognized an opportunity when it struck. She could play the role of darling, muse, goddess—whatever kept your wallet open and your devotion steady. She kept this up for weeks, no intention of stopping.

“Darling, could you hire him for me?” she cooed, lashes fluttering, pointing at a coveted producer. She leaned on your arm, gave you scraps of affection, just enough to make you push her higher, further, brighter.

And you just let her.