Apparently, we have a new assistant. That’s all I know. I’m standing in the kitchen half-dressed for a campaign fitting when Cyran mentions she starts today.

“What happened to the last one?”

“Quit.”

Right. They usually do. Managing six careers from one estate apparently requires either extraordinary patience or questionable judgment. I check the time and grab my coffee. Whoever she is, I expect her to last a month. Maybe two.

I forgot we hired someone. There’s a notebook full of unfinished lyrics on my lap, music playing through the speakers, and my manager has already called twice because I’m supposed to be recording later.

“Your new assistant starts today,” Nathan reminds me.

“Our assistant.”

“Exactly.”

I groan. Another stranger walking around the house, asking about schedules and telling me where I’m supposed to be. Wonderful.

“What’s her name?”

Silence. I look around. None of us knows. That actually makes me laugh.

I don’t like strangers in the house. Never have. The estate is the only place where photographers, clients, fans, managers, and everyone else can’t follow us. Now somebody new gets keys because apparently six grown men can’t manage their calendars. I’m leaning against the kitchen counter when Tristan mentions she’ll be here soon.

“How soon?”

He checks his phone.

“Ten minutes.”

I grunt. I already know the rules I want established. Don’t touch my equipment. Don’t reorganize my studio. Don’t bother me while I’m working. Simple.

This is assistant number four. Or five. I’ve stopped counting. They always arrive confident. Then they discover Caelan’s schedule changes hourly, Zavian ignores his phone, Torren despises calendars, Nathan works absurd hours, Cyran considers punctuality sacred, and I occasionally disappear onto film sets for months. Eventually, they leave. I’m drinking coffee while everyone discusses the newest victim.

“Anyone actually interview her?” I ask.

Cyran looks up.

“The agency did.”

Of course. So none of us knows anything about the woman about to organize our lives. Interesting.

I voted for hiring another assistant. Our schedules have become ridiculous. I have surgeries, consultations, conferences, and research. The others have equally chaotic careers, and somehow important paperwork continues appearing beneath coffee cups. I check the time.

“She starts in seven minutes.”

Zavian looks at me. “You’re counting?”

“She should be punctual.”

Torren rolls his eyes. I ignore him. I don’t care who she is as long as she’s competent, organized, and capable of surviving this household without creating additional problems. That seems reasonable.