Irina's first morning as Samantha Ludona hit like a slap of cold water. Liam Conor's world moved at breakneck speed and calls came in like rapid fire, appointments shifted by the minute, and Liam himself was a walking storm. His temper had no fuse.
"Where's the script? I asked for that twenty minutes ago!" he snapped when she handed him the wrong file. Irina swallowed her retort and focused. This wasn't just a job. It was a battlefield.
By the time the sun reached its peak, Irina was juggling interviews, last-minute wardrobe fixes, and a flood of texts from nervous producers.
The mansion buzzed with nonstop activity, but at its center was Liam, unsettled, chain-smoking, rehearsing lines under his breath.
Despite his razor-edged tone and impatient demands, there were glimpses of something gentler, fleeting smile and also cool fatigue in his eyes. In those moments, Irina caught sight of the man beneath the star.
Then entered May Winters, a Hollywood darling and Liam's carefully curated girlfriend. She swept into the mansion like a queen in silk, her smile dazzling but empty. Her words, coated in sugar, cut deeper than knives.
When her eyes found Irina near the kitchen, they narrowed with instant dislike. "So, you're the new assistant," she said, her tone light but loaded. "Try not to mess up." Irina said nothing, but her clenched jaw spoke volumes. May wasn't just a complication, she was a warning shot.
Working for Liam meant playing a constant game of chess, and May was the queen who moved with silent threat. Her visits increased, each one thick with tension.
Liam barely noticed, too buried in scripts and stress. But Irina saw it, every icy glance, every veiled jab. The message was clear: stay in your place.
Days pass and Irina is now a worker, and she's currently staying with Liam in their mansion.
It was in the night and Liam was preparing for a high-profile awards event, Irina went to retrieve a shirt from his dressing room. The room was quiet, the city's hum a faint backdrop.
She inspected the shirt, brushing away a faint stain on the collar. So focused was she that she didn't hear the approach behind her until a sudden gasp froze her in place.
May stood at the doorway, her expression a twisted blend of amusement and accusation. "Well, well," she purred, "looks like Samantha's gotten comfortable."
The air turned sharp, what was a simple task now looked suspicious in May's hands.
Irina held her ground. "I was fixing his shirt," she said calmly, locking eyes with May. The other woman stepped closer, her smile turning icy. "Be careful. One wrong step, and Liam won't just fire you, he'll destroy you."
But underneath May's venom, Irina caught something unexpected: fear. Was May worried she might be losing control?
As May turned and disappeared into the hallway, Irina remained still, heart pounding and shirt clutched in her hand.
The message had been delivered loud and clear, she was no longer going to be just an assistant, she was in the game now and she's paying it her way even if it means acting like a spy and May had just declared war.