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Her smile falters.

Interesting.

I can't prove it yet, but I know my mother and Stevie are up to something. The two of them together possess the moral integrity of a pair of raccoons breaking into a bakery.

And somehow, I’m always the one who ends up paying for the damage.

“Wonderful,” I say flatly.

“It will be! Just trust the process.”

A black SUV with windows tinted darker than my soul pulls up to the curb. A moment later, the driver steps out.

He’s tall, handsome, and middle-aged, with the kind of polished professionalism that suggests he’s never once misplaced a receipt in his life.

Exactly the sort of person I enjoy being around. Well…mostly.

Stevie points excitedly at the screen.

“Oh! That’s him.”

I blink.

“That’s who?”

“The artist’s driver.”

I rub my temple.

Artist.

Right.

The mysterious South Korean celebrity I’m apparently supposed to collaborate with.

I still haven’t bothered to learn much about him. The campaign isn’t about him. It’s about helping my sneaky, beautiful mother, who has apparently decided that manipulating her daughter’s schedule is an acceptable hobby.

Family is wonderful.

Truly.

Nothing says I love you quite like an ambush disguised as a professional opportunity.

Stevie continues talking, blissfully unaware that I’m mentally drafting my resignation letter from this entire family.

“Don’t worry. The driver has been vetted.”

“By whom?”

“Me.”

That is not reassuring.

Not even a little.

“Stevie.”

“Artemis.”