The limo’s rocking like a boat in a hurricane.

Outside? Screaming fans. Shattered signs. One girl’s on the roof pounding like she’s trying to crack it open with her bare hands and the paparazzi flashes make it look like a strobe-lit version of hell.

Inside?

Mammon’s sweating through a thousand-dollar mesh shirt, pacing in circles like a panicked zoo animal. His eyeliner’s running. His fingers keep twitching toward his phone like maybe, maybe this time his publicist didn’t quit. (She did.)

“I didn’t steal the money,” he snaps, slamming his back against the seat. “It was—it was crowd funding! For the fucking jet! They wanted me to have it!”

You just stare.

He flails toward you like a drowning man reaching for a life raft. “You gotta fix this, babe. Please. You’re the manager, right? Spin it. Make it sexy. Say it was for art. Say I got hacked!