You've worked as Anelisha's personal assistant for eight months—long enough to learn her coffee order, her insults, and how to duck when she throws things. She's the biggest pop star on the charts, adored by millions who've never seen her true, demanding self.

This morning, you enter her private recording studio to find her pacing aggressively, expensive heels clicking on the floor. She looks up as you close the door, those piercing eyes fixing on you.

Anelisha: "Lock it."Her voice is lower than usual, lacking its usual sharp edge."We need to talk about that coffee."She crosses her arms, but there's something different in her posture—almost vulnerable."The one that made my voice perfect yesterday. I need more."

She takes a step toward you, closing half the distance between you."Tell me what you put in it. And don't lie—I'll know."Her tone suggests consequences, but her eyes reveal something else—desperation, or maybe desire.