Behavior

The scream cuts through the surrounding noise of the restaurant like a knife.

"I said I wanted the table by the window!"

You're three tables away, finishing your own meal, when Jang Wonyoung—yes, the Jang Wonyoung—launches into what can only be described as a full-scale meltdown. She's standing now, chair knocked backward, pointing at the manager with one perfectly manicured finger.

"Do you have any idea who I am? Do you? DO YOU?"

The manager is stammering something apologetic. The staff are frozen. Other diners have their phones out, recording. This is going to be all over social media in about four minutes.

Your phone buzzes. A text from your contact at Starship Entertainment: She's doing it again. Please.

You sigh, setting down your fork. There goes your last night off.

"You're all incompetent!" Wonyoung is still going, volume increasing. "I will have every single one of you fired, I will—"

You stand up and walk over. She doesn't notice you until you're right there, and even then she barely glances at you before continuing her rant.

"—have this place shut down, my fans will—"

"Having fun?" you ask cheekily.

She whips around to look at you, eyes blazing. "Excuse me? Who the fuck are you?"

"Your new babysitter." You smile (half) apologetically, before you grab her around the waist and hoist her up over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes before she can process what's happening.

"What—put me down! Put me down right now!"

Her fists pound against your back. Her legs kick uselessly. She's tall—5'8"—but you've got the leverage and she's light enough that it doesn't matter. You nod a wordless apology to the manager and start walking toward the exit.

"I will have you arrested!" she shrieks. "I will sue you! I will—"

"Yeah, yeah, keep it coming. I've heard worse threats."

You push through the restaurant doors into the cool night air. She's still struggling, still yelling, drawing stares from everyone on the street. You spot the black company car idling at the curb and head toward it.

"Let me go, you fucking psycho!"

"Not a chance, princess."

The driver—bless him—has the door open before you even get there. You dump Wonyoung into the backseat with absolutely zero ceremony. She immediately tries to scramble back out but you're already sliding in after her, pulling the door shut.

"Drive," you tell the driver. He doesn't need to be told twice.

Wonyoung is glaring at you with enough venom to kill a small animal. Her hair is mussed, her designer outfit rumpled, and her face is flushed with rage.

"You have no right—"

"Actually, as of about fifteen minutes ago when Starship signed the contract, I have every right." You pull out your phone and show her the electronic signature on the agreement. "I'm your new behavioral specialist. Congratulations."

You give her some very authentic and heartfelt jazz-hands.

She snatches the phone from your hand, reads the document, and her face goes through several interesting color changes.

Huh. Didn't know skin could do that.

"No. Absolutely not. I refuse."

"You don't get a say."

"I'll fire you."

"You can't. Only the company can terminate my contract, and given how much they're paying me to fix your little attitude problem, that's not happening anytime soon." You lean back in the seat, completely relaxed. "So here's how this is going to work. You're going to go home, and I'm going to start doing my job."

"Your job?" She laughs, sharp and bitter. "And what exactly is your job?"

"Teaching you how to behave like an adult instead of a spoiled child throwing tantrums in public."

The look she gives you could melt steel. "I'm twenty-one years old—"

"Then start acting like it."

Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. You can see her searching for a comeback, for some threat that will make you back down. She's not going to find one.

"I hate you," she finally says.

"Aw gosh I just love you too, sweetheart. Now, are you going to walk into your apartment building like a civilized person, or am I carrying you again?"

The murderous silence that follows is answer enough.

~~~

She does, in fact, walk into the building like a civilized person. Barely. She's radiating fury with every step, and the doorman takes one look at her face and wisely decides not to make eye contact.

The elevator ride up to her penthouse apartment is silent except for the occasional sound of her grinding her teeth. You're scrolling through your phone, completely unbothered. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see her planning your murder.

Note to self. Don't eat or drink anything she makes. Second note. Check packages for pipe bombs.

The doors open. She storms out toward her door, fumbling with her keys because her hands are shaking with rage. It takes her three tries to get the key in the lock.

"Need some help with that?"

"Shut the fuck up."

She finally gets the door open and stalks inside. You follow, taking in the space. It's exactly what you'd expect—expensive, immaculate, probably costs more per month than most people make in a year. Floor-to-ceiling windows, designer furniture, all the usual spoiled-girl stuff.

Wonyoung whirls around the moment you close the door, pointing at you with that same accusing finger from the restaurant.

"Get. Out."