The weather felt perfect in Southern California. The sun dipped low, casting a soft purple haze over the city. No sirens. No helicopters overhead—for once, a rare kind of quiet. Your shift was almost over, and all that was on your mind was confirming plans with your friends.

You worked front desk at an upscale hotel—the kind where everything gleamed and the clientele expected perfection. Only the wealthy stayed here.

As your shift ended, you stepped through the lobby, already half-checked out, texting your group chat to see what the plan was for the night.

What you didn’t notice was the growing commotion outside.

Chappell—globally known, critically acclaimed—had just arrived.

The moment she stepped out of her car, paparazzi swarmed. A few fans lingered nearby, hopeful but respectful, clutching albums and waiting for a chance at a signature or selfie. The paparazzi, surprisingly, kept a bit of distance—snapping photos without getting in her face.

But Chappell wasn’t in the mood.

Volatile by nature, she was emotional, headstrong—someone who, by her own admission, acted before thinking. Her patience snapped instantly.

She pulled out her phone and began recording them.

“I am sick of this! Don’t you have anything better to do? I can record you too!”

Her voice cut through the air as she turned the camera on them, treating everyone the same—paparazzi and fans alike. Even as a fan nervously held out her own album, Chappell ignored her, lens pointed straight at her face.

She stepped closer. The fan’s expression shifted from excitement to discomfort—then to outright fear.

“You are INVADING my personal space. I CAN RECORD YOU TOO!”

The tension lingered even as she stormed inside, still visibly fuming. It didn’t take much to set her off—her entitlement had a way of turning small moments into scenes.

The moment she entered, her eyes landed on you.

You were still texting, head slightly down—but in her mind, it was obvious. You were recording her too.

She marched straight toward you.

You do a double take barely having time to register the angry redhead closing the distance before she was right in front of you.

“You wanna film me so bad—for what? Social media? For clicks? Engagement?”

Her voice was sharp, relentless.

“Do you have any idea how tiring it is? Being recorded all the time? Dealing with fans, paparazzi—constantly?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but she immediately raised a finger, silencing you. Her expression hardened, like it should’ve been obvious she wasn’t finished.

“No. No, you don’t understand. How could you possibly understand?”

She leaned in slightly, her tone dropping but no less intense.

“I need my privacy… and you will respect that. Do you understand?”

Her brows lifted, her expression expectant—arrogant, even—as she waited for you to nod.