"We are losing time! Sponges! I need damp beauty blenders, people, not dry rocks!" Coco shrieked, his neon Balenciaga track jacket swishing as he circled Aria’s makeup chair.

Brushes, setting powders, and industrial-strength hairspray flew through the air like shrapnel. Four different sets of hands were on Aria at once. One stylist was violently backcombing her rose-gold hair for volume, while another was speed-blending a flawless, sharp contour into her cheekbones.

"Don’t blink!" a makeup artist commanded, hovering an eyelash curler dangerously close to Aria’s cornea.

"I’m trying!" Aria wheezed through the cloud of aerosol hairspray.

Down at the floor level, things were significantly more chaotic.

A production assistant named Tyler had been tasked with the important mission of scrubbing the New York City asphalt and dirt off the soles of Aria’s bare feet. He was armed with a pack of antibacterial wet wipes, a bowl of warm water, and a pumice stone.

He grabbed Aria’s left heel and began to scrub the arch of her foot.

"Ah! Wait, Tyler, no!" Aria shrieked, her entire body jerking in the makeup chair.

She was incurably ticklish there. The friction of the towel against the bottom of her foot sent a shockwave of nervous energy up her leg. Her knee jerked outward in an involuntary spasm.

Her foot flew into the air, missing Tyler’s jaw by a fraction of a millimeter.

"Whoa!" Tyler yelped, scrambling backward onto his butt to avoid getting knocked out.

"I’m so sorry!" Aria gasped, fighting back a giggle as she tried to keep her face perfectly still for the eyeliner application. "I can’t help it! My soles are super sensitive!"

Coco snapped his fingers at two burly wardrobe assistants standing by the garment rack. "You two! Pin her ankles to the floor! We have national television in eight minutes!"

The two assistants immediately dropped to the floor, pinning Aria’s shins against the footrest of the chair so Tyler could resume his high-speed exfoliating.

Aria bit down hard on her lower lip, tears of suppressed, ticklish agony pricking her eyes as she forced herself to endure the torture.

Around her, the studio glam team wasn’t just working; they were buzzing. The gossip was flowing faster than the foundation.

"Did you hear?" the hairstylist whispered loudly over the hum of the blow dryer, her eyes wide with awe. "The Network President just canceled his morning shareholder meeting. He’s sprinting down forty flights of stairs right now just to greet Mr. Sinclair in the lobby."

"I heard he brought a private army," the makeup artist whispered back, furiously blending Aria’s concealer. "The security guards at the front desk said there’s a fleet of blacked-out SUVs outside."

"He fired Meredith English over the phone," the hairstylist added, lowering her voice into a hushed, reverent tone. "He doesn’t even work here. Do you know how much power that takes? He’s ruthless."

Aria kept her eyes fixed straight ahead on the brightly lit vanity mirror, biting the inside of her cheek so hard it almost bled. She was desperately fighting the overwhelming urge to burst into laughter.

It was so funny. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

To these people, Damien Sinclair was a cold-blooded, terrifying mafia-boss equivalent who crushed empires and destroyed lives for fun. He was the apex predator of New York.

But to Aria? Especially in private?

He was just her incredibly hot, deeply obsessive, slightly ridiculous husband.

’If the world only knew how sweet and silly he can really be,’ Aria thought, a fond smile tugging at the corners of her freshly lined lips.

"Stop smiling, you’re creasing the setting powder!" Coco scolded, swatting the air near her face.

The door to the dressing room burst open.

"TWO MINUTES TO AIR!" the stage manager barked, holding a headset to his ear, his face slick with panic sweat. "WE NEED HER ON THE FLOOR NOW! MOVE!"

The frantic chaos in the room instantly went nuclear.

"Setting spray! Close your eyes!" Coco shrieked.

A freezing mist of setting spray hit Aria’s face. The protective styling cape was violently ripped off her shoulders, revealing the flawless, blood-red Alexander McQueen pantsuit she wore underneath. A pair of black stiletto pumps were shoved onto her freshly scrubbed feet.

"Go, go, go!" Zoe yelled, appearing in the doorway with her iPad clutched to her chest.

Aria was hauled out of the chair by her elbows and dragged down the labyrinth of dark, cable-strewn backstage hallways. Production assistants shouted into walkie-talkies, clearing the path as the countdown echoed over the studio intercom.

They rounded the final corner, and the blinding, multi-million-dollar lighting rig of the live soundstage hit Aria’s retinas.

She was shoved onto the glossy floor of the set.

In the center of the brightly lit stage sat the iconic, plush white morning show sofa.

The host, a notoriously tricky and polished veteran journalist named Savannah, was currently perched on the edge of the cushions, having a full-blown meltdown.

"More volume!" Savannah shrieked at a terrified hairstylist hovering behind the sofa. "Are you blind?! My hair looks flat! Fix it!"

All while screaming, Savannah was dragging a tube of crimson lipstick across her mouth, layering on her fourth coat of color until her lips looked like they were bleeding.

Aria glided smoothly onto the set, stepping right up to the edge of the coffee table.

"Good morning, Savannah," Aria greeted warmly, projecting her most flawless, camera-ready smile. "It’s so great to be here."

Savannah didn’t even look up.

She completely ignored Aria, treating the twenty-year-old actress like a piece of furniture as she continued to panic-shriek at her glam team. "I said more hairspray! My left profile is completely exposed!"

Aria’s smile didn’t waver.

Aria elegantly bypassed the panicked woman, heading over to her designated armchair. She sat down with liquid grace, crossing her long legs and resting her hands loosely on her knee.

"Thirty seconds!" the floor director shouted, holding up his hand. "Clear the set! Clear the set!"

The glam squad scrambled off the stage like scattered mice. Savannah hastily capped her lipstick, taking a series of deep, ragged, hyperventilating breaths as she tried to smooth her features into a welcoming, journalistic smile.

"Ten seconds!"

Aria didn’t flinch. She stared down the barrel of the lens, fully prepared to serve absolute face to millions of live viewers.

"Five, four, three, two..." The floor director pointed a finger directly at them.

The red ’ON AIR’ light flared to life.