The elevator descended smoothly and came to a halt. The doors slid open to the cool, concrete expanse of the underground garage.

Arthur Sullivan, Kian's frantic personal assistant, was pacing near a black SUV. He spun around at the sound of the chime.

Arthur gasped, sprinting forward. He saw Kian sitting on the floor of the elevator, leaning heavily against the metal wall, looking utterly exhausted and pale.

Sera stepped out of the elevator first. She smoothed down the front of her wrinkled trench coat, taking a deep, slow breath to force her racing heart rate back to a normal rhythm.

She immediately adopted her bored, slightly annoyed Hollywood persona.

"Your boss had a little fainting spell," Sera drawled, waving a dismissive hand toward Kian.

Arthur looked at Sera in utter confusion. "Are you... are you a concierge doctor the hotel sent?"

Sera scoffed loudly, rolling her eyes. "Please. I just happen to know basic first aid from a mandatory high school health class. He stopped breathing, I pushed on his chest a bit. He's fine now."

From his spot on the floor, Kian looked up at Sera. His sharp, intelligent eyes cut straight through her blatant, ridiculous lie. He remembered the precise, bone-rattling force of her compressions. He remembered the clinical perfection of her rescue breaths. That wasn't high school health class. That was military-grade triage.

But Kian remained completely silent. He chose not to expose her. He allowed Arthur to hook an arm under his shoulder and help him to his feet, guiding him toward the waiting SUV.

Before Arthur closed the heavy car door, Kian turned his head. He held Sera's gaze for a long, heavy second. It was a silent, intense promise that this conversation was far from over.

Sera turned on her heel and walked toward the staff quarters, her expression blank.

The next morning, at exactly 5:00 AM, the red "LIVE" light blinked on the main camera set up in the hotel lobby. The reality show broadcast officially began.

Millions of viewers flooded the livestream, expecting to see the celebrity guests looking glamorous in the early dawn.

Instead, the camera panned to Sera. She was dressed in a sleek, all-black tactical tracksuit, her hair pulled back into a tight, severe ponytail. She held a metal clipboard in one hand and a silver referee whistle in the other.

The livestream chat immediately exploded with hate comments.

Ugh, why is the toxic nepo baby here?

She's going to ruin the show.

Fire her!

Sera ignored the camera completely. She marched toward the staff elevator, her boots clicking sharply against the marble floor. Gary, the lead cameraman, scrambled to keep up with her fast pace.

She arrived at the fifth floor and stopped directly outside Suite 501. It was the room belonging to pop star Felicity "Fifi" Lowell.

Sera didn't bother knocking. She swiped the master keycard against the lock and shoved the door open, stepping into the pitch-black, quiet room.

Fifi was buried under a mountain of luxury down duvets, wearing a pink silk sleep mask, dead to the world.

Sera raised the metal whistle to her lips. She blew a piercing, deafening blast that shattered the silence of the room like glass.

Fifi shrieked in pure, unadulterated terror. She flailed wildly, tangling her legs in the heavy blankets, and rolled straight off the edge of the mattress. She hit the carpet with a loud thud.

The livestream chat went wild. The hate comments paused, replaced by a mix of shock, outrage from Fifi's hardcore fans, and sudden, morbid amusement from neutral viewers.

Fifi ripped off her sleep mask. Her blonde hair was a bird's nest. She glared up at Sera from the floor.

"What the hell is wrong with you? !" Fifi screamed, her voice cracking.

Sera looked down at her coldly. She tapped her metal clipboard with a pen. "Wake-up was scheduled for 0500 hours. You are late."

"My contract says I need eight hours of beauty sleep!" Fifi whined, crossing her arms and refusing to stand up. "I'm not moving."

Sera took one step closer. Her aura suddenly shifted, becoming heavy and oppressive. She stared down at the pop star with dead, unblinking eyes.

"Beauty sleep is a privilege for those who aren't liabilities to my team," Sera stated, her voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm register. "You have exactly ten minutes to be in the lobby. Or I will personally drag you down there by your ankles."

Fifi swallowed hard. She looked into Sera's eyes and saw absolute, genuine menace. Terrified, she scrambled off the floor and ran toward the bathroom.

Gary the cameraman zoomed in on Sera's impassive face. He realized right then that this manager was not playing by standard reality TV rules.

Sera turned to the camera. She offered a chillingly polite smile. "One down. Let's go wake the others."

She stepped back into the hallway, her eyes locking onto the door of Suite 504. Ethan Vance's room.

Sera stood outside Suite 504.

She spotted the alcove where she had hidden the bucket earlier—but it was empty. Someone, probably housekeeping, had moved it. She scanned the hallway and found it sitting on a small wooden side table near the service closet, the ice long melted to tepid water. She grabbed the heavy industrial metal bucket by its handle and strode back to Suite 504, the water sloshing over the rim.

Gary the cameraman hovered behind her, his camera hoisted on his shoulder. He swallowed nervously. "Uh, Sera? Does throwing water on a guest violate network physical contact guidelines?"

Sera completely ignored him. With her other hand, she swiped the master keycard.

She didn't push the door open. She kicked it open with the flat of her boot. The heavy wood hit the wall stopper with a solid, violent thud.

She marched into the dark room.

Ethan Vance was sprawled across the center of the king-sized bed. He was wearing expensive silk pajamas, his mouth slightly open, snoring softly in deep REM sleep.

Without a single second of hesitation, Sera hoisted the heavy bucket. She upended the entire container directly over Ethan's head and torso.

The ice-cold water hit him like a physical, crushing blow. The few remaining shards of ice battered against his face, chest, and shoulders.

Ethan screamed. It wasn't a manly shout; it was a high-pitched, undignified yelp of pure shock. The freezing temperature stopped his heart for a microsecond.

He shot up in bed, gasping desperately for air. His perfectly styled hair was plastered flat against his forehead. Water dripped from his nose and chin. He looked utterly pathetic.

The livestream chat went absolutely feral. Millions of viewers spammed laughing emojis, while Ethan's dedicated fan base screamed digital abuse at Sera.

Ethan wiped the freezing water from his eyes. He blinked, his vision clearing, and recognized Sera standing over him. His face contorted in absolute, genuine fury.

"What the hell is wrong with you, you psycho bitch? !" Ethan yelled, spitting cold water onto the soaked, expensive hotel sheets.

Sera stood casually at the foot of the bed, holding the empty metal bucket. She looked at him with an expression of supreme boredom.

"You are exactly thirty minutes late for assembly, Ethan," she stated coldly.

Ethan thrashed out of the wet blankets, shivering violently as the cold air hit his soaked pajamas. "You're lying! My call sheet explicitly said assembly was at 6:00 AM, not 5:00 AM!"

Sera tilted her head. Her expression shifted into one of extreme, mocking disappointment. "Are you incapable of reading a simple clock, or just incompetent?"

She turned slightly toward Gary's camera, shaking her head. She muttered, loud enough for the microphone to catch perfectly, "Unprofessional. Always has been."

Ethan scrambled off the bed. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, his hands shaking from the cold and the rage. He opened the digital call sheet sent by the production team and shoved the screen aggressively toward Sera's face.

"Look!" Ethan shouted. "It says 6:00 AM!"

Sera glanced at the screen. It clearly read 6:00 AM.

She didn't flinch. She didn't show a single ounce of guilt or hesitation.

Instead, Sera immediately pivoted. She turned her cold, predatory gaze onto Brenda, the nervous production assistant standing in the doorway holding a tablet.

"Brenda," Sera snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. "Why did the production team send the talent the wrong schedule? Are you actively trying to sabotage this live broadcast?"

Brenda jumped. She was completely caught off guard by the sudden, aggressive attack. "I... I don't know, I just sent what the coordinator gave me..."

Sera didn't give her a chance to breathe. She stepped toward Brenda, firing off rapid, authoritative questions. "Did you verify the workflow? Did you check the communication protocols before hitting send? Millions of people are watching this incompetence."

Under Sera's intense, dominant pressure, Brenda broke. She looked at the camera, her face red, and apologized profusely for the "clerical error."

Sera sighed dramatically. She rubbed her temples, perfectly playing the role of the frustrated, highly competent manager forced to deal with idiot staff.

Ethan stood by the bed, freezing, dripping wet, and completely sidelined. He watched in stunned silence as Sera expertly shifted the blame away from herself, gaslighting the entire crew on live television.

Sera turned back to Ethan. "Error or no error, the rest of the team is waiting. You have five minutes to get dressed, or you will be left behind."

She walked out of the room, leaving Ethan shivering, humiliated, and utterly confused by the whirlwind of psychological warfare.

In the hallway, Sera checked her clipboard. There was one final room left: the penthouse suite.

She walked toward the private elevator, knowing exactly who was waiting upstairs. A genuine, dangerous smile finally touched the corner of her lips.