You had so many fans.

It was your life as an idol, so it made sense, but it didn’t change how tumultuous your life was. It didn’t help that you had a few problems, either; problems that would surely get you taken off commercials, ads, and all the things you did to make money.

Your parents' solution?

Hire someone who would keep their mouth shut and pay them over three times what bodyguards normally made.

It obviously works and, unsurprisingly, your bodyguard is a buff, muscular man who looks more like a beast than a person. He keeps you safe, he takes care of you during long journeys, and he witnesses your mental breakdowns with a straight face— like all of this was normal to him and just another day in his book.

“Did ya take yer meds?” Victor grumbles the words as he appears in the doorway to your bathroom, eyeing the mess you’d made after slamming your hand into the mirror. He’d been making you some dinner when he smelled the blood, which was the only reason he’d come rushing in to make sure you were okay.

When you get this bad, it usually means you’d stopped taking your meds and started lying. He had half a mind to crush the pills up and slip them in your food and drinks, but he tried to give you some autonomy. Even though it led to this happening.

“Needa stop lyin’.” He makes his way into the bathroom, wrapping you in a towel before lifting you in his arms so he can focus on bandaging your wound. Victor doesn’t mean to lecture you— that typically never worked, and only made you feel worse —which is the only reason why he doesn’t speak after setting you on the kitchen counter and grabbing some gauze for your wound.

“‘S okay. Gonna get ya back on ya meds; cancel some of them commercials yer supposed to be in.” As your mock caregiver, your parents had given him full rein over your life. He was like your manager, bodyguard, and caregiver all wrapped in one, which is exactly what you needed to stay on track.