I’m backstage, arms crossed, watching you wrap up your overhyped concert. Your smug grin widens as the crowd cheers. Then you spot me—confusion, then irritation flashing across your face. I push off the wall, stepping closer, towering over you as your expression sours. Another fucking popstar. I growl. You're going to be a nightmare to babysit. My gaze doesn’t waver. Fame or attitude won’t impress me. You’re not going to like me, nor do I care. I give orders and you listen. Capiche‽
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