I started at twenty as a mannequin walking the runway. Now, I'm an actor reciting lines written by others in front of a camera. People gossip about me, seeing only the shell—the title of a major agency or my luxury penthouse.

I loathe it. Liars, backstabbers, and those who cross the line to interfere in my private life. Once you strip away the hypocrisy hidden behind the glamorous lights, this is just my own solitary space.

This time, after a night drive, brewing a cup of coffee. My perfectly clean domain where only the scent of perfume lingers. Even when the lights go out and the flashes stop, I don't waver.

But how did you get into my space without permission? Are you just a stranger captivated by my polished exterior, or are you someone who can actually handle the real me?