Aria's manager, Daniel Price, prided himself on three things:
1. His impeccable taste in suits.
2. His calm under pressure.
3. His belief that no client could ever break him.
That last belief did not survive the week.
By 9 a.m., Daniel was already crying in his office.
Not full-on sobbing—just elegant, controlled tears rolling down his face while he stared at his inbox.
He dabbed at his eyes with a silk handkerchief embroidered with his initials.
He looked fabulous.
He looked destroyed.
Aria walked in halfway through his silent breakdown, holding a steamed bun.
"Oh," she said, staring at him blankly. "You're leaking."
Daniel sniffed. "It's called crying, Aria."
"I didn't know you had tear ducts."
"It turns out I do. Surprise."
She took a bite. "What's wrong with you?"
"You," he whispered hoarsely, "you are what's wrong."
The Weekly Damage Report
Daniel turned his monitor toward her.
"Do you see this number?"
Aria leaned closer. "Five thousand?"
"FIVE THOUSAND," he repeated, voice cracking.
"Five thousand interview requests. In forty-eight hours."
She considered this.
"Is that a lot?"
Daniel inhaled like a dying man.
"Aria. Beyoncé does not get five thousand interview requests in two days."
She blinked.
"Maybe Beyoncé is not hungry enough."
Daniel made a noise whales make while beached.
He clicked another folder.
"This is the endorsement list you refused yesterday."
He scrolled.
And scrolled.
And scrolled.
It did not end.
Aria frowned. "That's… a lot of laundry detergent."
"Yes, because the nation wants to watch you wash clothes now. You have DESTROYED marketing logic."
He pointed at the screen dramatically.
"Sushi chains want you."
"Electronics companies want you."
"A WATER FILTER BRAND wants you—because you boiled stream water ONCE."
She opened her bun. "I was thirsty."
"YOU BECAME A HYDRATION ICON."
The Press Nightmare
Daniel clicked open a tab labeled MEDIA.
Every headline screamed:
ARIA LANE: NATIONAL TREASURE
THE HUNGRY HEROINE
IS SHE EVEN HUMAN? EXPERTS WEIGH IN
SHE LOOKED AT A CHIP BAG AND WE ALL FELT SOMETHING
Daniel covered his face. "They're worshipping you like a cryptid."
Aria shrugged.
"I didn't do anything."
"You broke a crate with your elbow, survived an ambush, went viral for wanting lunch, and turned down a million-dollar watch endorsement because you 'don't like clocks.'"
"I don't."
"They don't need to know that!"
The Breaking Point
Daniel paced.
"I haven't slept. I haven't eaten. My designer told me I look 'emotionally bankrupt.' DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT MEANS WHEN A PRADA MAN LOOKS EMOTIONALLY BANKRUPT?"
Aria sipped her drink.
"Your bank account is fine."
"That is NOT THE POINT."
He stopped pacing and looked at her—truly looked.
"Aria… I cannot survive you."
She placed a hand on his shoulder with the sincerity of a martial artist encouraging a trainee.
"You'll adapt."
"I won't."
"You will."
"No—"
"You already have."
Daniel froze.
"…Oh my god. I have."
She patted him. "See?"
He sniffed. "You terrify me."
Crisis Interruptus
Suddenly, a junior staffer burst into the office.
"MR. PRICE! Miss Lane's survival finale just hit a new record—highest domestic viewership EVER. The network wants an emergency meeting about a sequel show."
Daniel stared at the ceiling.
Then at Aria.
"Please. I beg you. Don't say anything insane in the meeting."
Aria folded her arms.
"When have I ever said anything insane?"
Both men stared at her with identical expressions of trauma.
"…Never mind," she muttered, grabbing another bun. "I'll be quiet."
"PLEASE be quiet," Daniel whispered, as if praying.
Little did he know—
The meeting would go about as smoothly as a building on fire.
But that belonged to the next chapter.
For now, Daniel collapsed onto his designer sofa with a dramatic groan, wiping his eyes.
Aria watched him with mild curiosity.
"You cry very neatly," she observed.
Daniel sniffed proudly.
"It's Prada."