"Seriously?" Riven groaned, slamming the file he'd been handed shut and tossing it back onto the desk. "Babysitting some pop diva is the 'special assignment' you have for me?"

"It is a special assignment, Riven" Saladin, the head of the security agency Riven worked for, stated. Riven rolled his eyes at the old man's claim. Saladin was a smart guy – sharp, even for his advanced age, with years of experience under his belt – he should know that this was not an assignment Riven would be enthralled with. "Lots of people would kill for this assignment. Musa is a megastar and a Hollywood darling. I had the chance to meet her when we were discussing her situation and she seems like a great girl. I think you two could get along great."

Riven's eyes remained blank, unimpressed. The old man shook his head – he knew Riven wouldn't want the job – he hated working with celebrities – but he was the only valid option as far as Saladin was concerned. Musa had been very clear on what she wanted in a bodyguard and Riven was the only available member of his team that fit the criteria. Saladin sat back in his chair, reconsidering his approach. "It pays really well."

"How much?"

"Grand a day."

He had the grumpy agent; he was sure of it. For all of Riven's attitude and general sourness, he could still be very expressive once you knew him well enough. The gleam in his violet eyes and the cocked eyebrow made his newfound interest in the assignment blaringly obvious. Riven leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the tops of his thighs. "Alright, I'm listening" he admitted.

"Thought that would catch your attention. Plus, room and board is included since it's a 24-hour gig."

"Hold up. I gotta live with her too?"

Saladin sighed as he rubbed his hand over his eyes. Riven was one of his best agents, truly, but he could be so very irritating sometimes. He reminded Riven that, per the briefing file he'd just read not even five minutes ago, he'd be having his own room in Musa's Manhattan penthouse apartment. "Sublet your place while you're working this gig. Think of the money you could save up. Maybe get that fund for you and Nancy to buy your own place moving."

"Darcy" Riven reminded him. Saladin had met Riven's girlfriend at least half a dozen times since Riven had started working for him two years ago, but the old man could never remember her name. Darcy was far from forgettable, and Saladin usually had a great memory. He could remember minor, insignificant details from the first few jobs he'd worked back in 1989; it seemed that Darcy's name was the only thing that the old man could never remember.

"Right, sorry. So, what do you say?"

"Let me talk to Darcy about it and I'll let you know asap." Riven walked out of the office before Saladin could say anything else. It was fifteen steps from the old man's door to the employee locker room where Riven grabbed his personal phone. He was out the door and in the elevator within seconds, ignoring the salutations he'd gotten from his coworkers and the subsequent dirty looks when he didn't return the hellos. Riven didn't care for them much anyways; besides Timmy, their head of tech, they were all morons.

The building was on West 43rd between 8th and 9th avenue, irritatingly close to Times Square, so it was always packed with tourists who'd wandered away from the main stretch of the hellscape. He walked around the block to the nearest coffee shop that wasn't a fucking Starbucks – a surprisingly hole in the wall place. Along the way, an older couple – French, he assumed from their accents – stopped him to ask which way the M store was. Apparently, they'd promised their grandchildren they'd bring back some fun flavours that weren't available back home. Riven usually ignored tourists – you just don't talk to people on the streets in New York and if the morons that flocked here wanted the full New York experience, he was happy to offer it – but this older couple looked so sweet and reminded him a bit of his grandparents, so he patiently explained that they'd have to go up to 48th and then down, that there was no way they'd miss it.

"Merci, young man" the woman said, squeezing his arm appreciatively. His scowl – the one that seemed permanently etched on his face according to just about every person he'd ever met – lightened and he offered the woman a sincere, but small, smile. He wished them a nice day – Darcy, and all his friends except maybe Flora, would mock him mercilessly if they'd seen him be so nice to strangers – then finally ducked into the café.

"Coffee, black. Right?" The barista, a young man named Francis, that Darcy was certain had the hots for him, asked. Riven himself wasn't convinced; Francis was just good at his job. How hard was it to remember black coffee, especially when Riven came here almost every day, sometimes twice a day? He spent more money on coffee than he should, he knew that, but he couldn't stand the piss that Saladin kept in the office.

Francis handed him his coffee and Riven briefly wondered if he should start carrying around that reusable mug Flora had sent him for his last birthday. He could practically hear the brunette going on about how awful throwaway cups were for the environment, especially at the industrial quantity of cups that Riven went through. At some point earlier in the year, he'd wanted to use it, but he always forgot it. He just couldn't seem to remember to take the mug out and put it somewhere he'd see it in the mornings.

Ducking into one of the back corner tables of the small café, Riven pulled out his phone and called Darcy. It was just past noon, she'd be on lunch now, and, as he'd predicted, she answered on the second ring. The woman was attached to her phone. She'd sometimes spend hours talking to Isidora, who they'd appropriately nicknamed Icy since she was a stone-cold bitch, and/or Sarabeth, who's name in no way, shape or form suited her, so they'd call her Stormy. It didn't matter that the two both lived in New York and they saw each other regularly, they'd still find something to talk about for three hours if they'd seen each other that very morning.

"Hey" Darcy's cool voice came through. "What's up?"

"Saladin just offered me a potentially long-term gig." Until then, most of Riven's jobs had been short, a week or two, the longest being a month, usually protecting incoming politicians, diplomats and the like, sometimes the odd B-list celebrity or up-and-comer while they were in the city, and the odd event gig. Darcy's voice remained neutral until Riven told her the salary, at which point her excitement shot through the roof. He hadn't even told her what the gig was, and she was already urging him to take it, and wondering why the fuck he was even asking her for her opinion.

"It's a 24-hour job; I'd be live-in, full-time security."

"Oh shit. That's a lot." Riven nodded silently, aware that Darcy couldn't see him. A beat passed where neither of them said anything. Two and a half years together and he knew her quirks; could practically see her twirling the spaghetti he knew she'd packed for lunch while she thought. That's what she did: she fiddled with whatever was in her hand or her hands themselves whenever there was something on her mind. "Who's it for?"

"Musa."

"The popstar?"

"Yeah. Apparently, she's having some issues with a fan."

"Sucks" she commented. "I think you should take it."

Riven was surprised. Darcy could be quite possessive; didn't like other women around her man as she liked to call Riven. "Not worried I'll fall in love with her or something?" he teased. Darcy barked out a laugh, assuring him that she knew Musa was no threat to their relationship. She knew Riven thought Musa was a fake, talentless hack. "So, I take it?"

"Yeah. It's a great opportunity and a lot of money." It was a lot of money – thirty grand a month was nothing to laugh at. He could do a lot with that money: pay off his motorcycle, get a new car that wasn't a beat-up piece of junk, save for a down payment on a place of their own. He could even do something less responsible like buy a boat or a plane, but then he'd have to learn how to drive those. Or maybe he and Darcy could take a trip. She'd always wanted to see Norway; he could take her for their third anniversary. Or fourth if this contract lasted more than a few months.

"Alright. I'll tell Saladin I'll take it. Should make the old bastard happy."

Riven tossed the coffee cup and made his way back to the office building. After scanning his badge at security and taking a solitary ride up to the tenth floor, Riven made his way to the back of the office to Saladin's office. His secretary tried to stop him, claiming she had to see if the old man was free before he could go in, but Riven ignored her and marched in anyways. Saladin looked up from his computer and smiled at Riven knowingly. "Is that a yes?"

"Yeah, yeah. When do I start?"

"Tomorrow night. Musa is in LA right now; she'll be back tomorrow evening. You'll be meeting her at her home."

"Okay." He took the file he'd left on Saladin's desk and returned to his own, propping his feet up on the desk. His desk neighbor glared at him. He hated when Riven put his feet on his desk. Riven didn't care. It was his desk; he would do as he damn well pleased. Before he got to reading the file more attentively, he sent a text to Darcy suggesting they go to dinner and requesting that she wear something nice. She'd understand what he meant. If this was his last night of freedom for the next god knows how long, he'd spend it fucking his girlfriend.

He'd been right. Darcy had gotten the message loud and clear. When he got to her apartment, she was in a skintight dark purple dress. It was of a modest length, hitting just above her knees but its tightness hugged every curve, showing off her ass so perfectly. And on top of being so tight there was no way she could wear underwear with it, it had a neckline so low-cut it should be illegal.

They'd had dinner at a nice restaurant – one of those fancy places Riven loathed but Darcy loved that charged ninety bucks for a plate and gave you the smallest of portions on a giant plate with a whole lot of fancy looking plating. They'd split an ice cream sundae at the parlor down the street from the restaurant and then they'd gone home and fucked till the early hours of the morning.

His morning had consisted of Darcy making him pancakes in nothing but one of his t-shirts and him feasting on her followed by the pancakes. Then he'd dropped her off at work and packed his stuff. It had been decided that Darcy would sublet her place and move into his while he was on assignment – he had a nicer apartment than she did – which was fine by him; not having to take care of the subletting thing was one less task on his to-do list. Lastly, he reread the file for the twelfth time, memorising every detail he considered worthwhile.

Riven met Saladin at the office just past five. Musa was confirmed by her manager to have arrived at her apartment five minutes prior to Riven and Saladin's meeting. The two took a company car to a skyrise building on East 68th just two blocks off from Central Park. The building gave him the impression that its worst apartment would cost upwards of two million, if not two million and a half. Musa's assistant, a shy, perky girl named Mirta with red hair so dark that, if it hadn't been for his own naturally unnatural hair (and eye) colouring, he would have assumed was dyed met them outside the building and led them in.

On the elevator ride up to Musa's penthouse, it dawned on Riven that he should have taken a walk that day, possibly even through Time's Square itself regardless of how miserable that would have made him. Today would be his last day of privacy and anonymity; Musa was recognised everywhere she went. He couldn't even count the number of times he'd seen obvious paparazzi shots of her on magazine covers while he waited in line at the grocery store or that he'd heard mention of her being spotted somewhere in that gossip rag TV show Darcy watched some nights, TNZ or something like that. Yes, everywhere Musa went, there were paparazzi or fans hounding her, and since he now had to go everywhere she went, there would constantly be people around him. What a joy.

Mirta unlocked the door - a simple black door with stained glass windows along the side - and announced herself. Before he'd even entered the apartment, Riven was hit by blaring music and loud singing – one good voice in a small sea of not so good ones. The hallway was simple – wood floors, grey walls with a single sideboard that housed a bowl, some candles and a vase of flowers. The walls were lined with artwork – photos and paintings alike. A simple wood staircase waited at the back of the hall, which seemed to veer off to the left. The apartment looked exactly like he'd expected it to: like it had come out of a magazine with no discernible personality of its own.

Mirta motioned him and Saladin into the kitchen – the first door on the right – where Musa stood at the stove singing and dancing her heart out, paring knife in hand. She wore minimal make up, but enough that he was certain she had some on, and a black jumpsuit with short sleeves and wide legs. Beside her, singing horribly, was a redhead who stood a few inches taller than the songstress. Riven was shocked by how small Musa was; in the few clips he'd seen of her, she always came off as such a big personality that he'd assumed she'd be much taller. At the island counter sat two girls: a Black girl who held her hand in front of her face to cover her mouth as she laughed and a light purple-haired girl with teal eyes that bordered on unnatural who was staring at her phone and, it seemed, ignoring the three girls around her.

This was the second letter she'd received from him. It had come a week ago to her PO box. Mirta had read it and had a panic attack. It had taken Musa and Faragonda, her agent, close to an hour to calm the girl enough for her to tell them about it. The letter said something about them being destined to be together and how nothing could stop him from being with her. Pretty much the same as the first one, only somehow so much more. This wasn't just a celebrity crush anymore; it was a full-blown obsession. Or, at the very least, enough to make Faragonda decide that Musa needed permanent security with her.

The woman, old enough to be Musa's grandmother but extremely knowledgeable in her field, called in an old friend, someone she'd known way back in the day. The man seemed far too sweet to be deadly, but according to Faragonda he'd been a SEAL in his youth before an injury forced him out and he started a private security company.

While Saladin tried to find someone that met Musa's requirements – professional, knowledgeable, strong and wouldn't fawn over her, at the very minimum, but she'd like someone friendly enough too – she would be in LA with her friends. Saladin had deemed that safe enough; the PO box was a New York address so the stalker would assume she lived in New York. Because Musa was constantly hounded by paparazzi, though, she was to always stay with at least one other person in case he found out she was in LA and decided to make the trip out. Musa agreed, albeit reluctantly as she quite liked being alone. She didn't have much choice, she couldn't not go to LA. Stella, one of her oldest friends – also her personal designer as well as a world renowned one – was getting married and Musa was to be her maid of honour. Stella would murder her twelve times over if she missed it. Plus, Musa was looking forward to it. The only bummer was that her boyfriend, Jared – an actor that had starred in one of her music videos a year and some months back – was filming in Italy, so he wouldn't be able to make it.

It had been a beautiful wedding, though Musa had expected nothing less from Stella. If the blonde knew how to do anything besides make nice clothes, it was throw a party. The wedding had been attended by two hundred people – a surprisingly modest number for social butterflies Stella and Brandon – all of which were close family and friends, and the most elite that Hollywood and the fashion world had to offer.

Brandon had been a model for Stella's very first line, back when she was still a nobody, and it had been love at first sight for the both of them. Brandon had had a girlfriend at the time though, so Stella had had to wait. She'd settled for him being her first pick male model for every single shoot just so she could look at him. At some point, Brandon had broken up with his girlfriend and the two had gotten together a year after they'd first met. Now, four years later, they were getting married.

Stella had designed her own dress – a champagne coloured mermaid number with a see-through jeweled sleeve and a train so long Musa worried that she'd make it to the altar and the train still wouldn't be all the way through the door. She was stunning, but that was no surprise; Stella was the type of girl that could wear a paper bag and still look like a million dollars. The bridesmaids' dresses, all a deep emerald green, had also been designed by the bride and, thankfully, were nothing like the bridesmaids' dress monstrosities Musa'd seen at some weddings. Instead, they were beautiful, feminine dresses that were suited to each of the girls' personalities. A flowy, loose skirt, high neck and cap sleeves for the modest Tecna; sleeveless, sweetheart neck with an empire waist and a-line skirt for the sweet, girly Bloom; strappy sleeves and a low back for fit and confident Aisha; and off-shoulder sleeves and a high slit in the skirt for confident and flirty Musa (though Musa would disagree on that flirty bit, and possibly even the confident part on the off day).

The ceremony had been at a church that Brandon's family insisted on, which the couple was happy to agree to. Brandon had been raised in that church and, though he'd have been fine marrying Stella anywhere, he did like the idea of getting married there. He wasn't even particularly religious, but it held good memories for him. And, if Brandon was happy, Stella was happy, so she more than willingly agreed to the church as well. Of course, she Stella'd the place up by adding hundreds of dollars' worth of flowers and lights. Kind soul that Stella was, she even agreed to leave the flowers and lights there when the priest mentioned to her a few weeks before the wedding that there was a ceremony half an hour after hers ended and that the couple didn't have much money for decorations. Apparently, the other bride had cried when she'd learned that Stella was offering her décor and insisted on sending the blonde a handwritten thank you letter.

The reception had taken place at a mansion with high ceilings and beautiful crystal chandeliers. Again, several hundred, possibly even thousands, of dollars' worth of flowers adorned the space along with enough candles that Musa was certain she'd be perishing in a fire that day (at least she wouldn't have to worry about a stalker if she was dead). From drinks to food to ambiance, everything had been perfect. Musa had serenaded the couple for their first dance – perks of being friends with a world-famous popstar, Stella claimed when she'd asked – and then the DJ had started the party.

Once the reception had ended, an afterparty at a nearby club that Stella had rented out awaited them. Musa must have gotten to bed somewhere around 6 AM, but she wasn't entirely certain it wasn't later. She and Aisha had drunkenly crawled into the king-sized bed of their room in the shared suite and slept until Bloom jumped on the bed and woke them just past 3 PM insisting that she was hungry and wanted to get food.

They'd been on a flight back to New York at noon the next day after having seen Stella and Brandon off on their honeymoon that morning. Two weeks in Turks and Caicos sounded like paradise, but Musa had to return to New York to keep recording her next album. So, instead of sneaking into Stella's luggage like she'd wanted to, she boarded the flight back to JFK with the others.

Which brought them to now, standing in her kitchen singing their hearts out and making complete asses of themselves as they cooked supper. Moments like these were some of Musa's favourites, alongside being on stage. These were Musa's favourite people in the universe, alongside her cousin, Helia, who had been the main person to encourage her to pursue music, Stella, and her father. The girls had all come into her life at different points, but they all meant the world to her.

Stella was first. They'd met in their first year of high school. Until she met Stella, Musa had been a loner. The blonde introduced her to tons of new people and helped her come out of her shell, though Musa still very much enjoyed her solitude. To this day, Stella was still the one to push Musa the most when she needed it. Which, in Stella's mind, meant forcing her into outrageously sexy stage outfits that Musa had eventually become comfortable-ish in.

Musa and Tecna had met in their senior year of high school after Musa'd involuntarily ended up with physics as her elective as it was the last available option. She'd known who Tecna was, but they'd never interacted until the teacher had volunteered Tecna to tutor Musa before she failed. It turned out Tecna was much funnier than Musa had thought; the girl came off as standoffish, but she was actually very friendly once you got to know her. Tecna was also a whiz with anything technical so when Musa'd somehow been given the choice of who she wanted on her tech team during her second tour, she'd practically begged Tecna to take the position. After Musa had changed labels, Tecna went with her.

Aisha had been a dancer for her first ever music video. Musa had freaked out about halfway through the day – she had been so nervous and seemed to be doing everything wrong. She'd missed her marks, lip sung horribly and accidentally elbowed one of the dancers in the face. Aisha had found her hiding out in a bathroom stall and succeeded in coaxing her out. She'd then proceeded to spend the half hour she'd had for a lunch break cheering Musa up and helping her with the steps she'd not been able to nail. Three years ago, when her choreographer had moved to Chile to live with her fiance, Musa had demanded that Aisha be hired to replace her. She was also one of Musa's main dancers, and one of her, if not her actual, closest friends. Like Tecna, Aisha had followed Musa after her label change.

Bloom had only come along about two years ago when she started dating her boyfriend, Sky. Sky and Brandon had grown up together and had been practically attached at the hip until after high school when Sky had gone to university and Brandon had chosen to pursue modelling. Bloom and Sky had met at university three years ago and, after being friends for six months and six months of dating, had doubled with Brandon and Stella. The two girls had hit it off right away and Stella had practically forced Bloom into their group. She'd not had much work to do, though, because Bloom had fit in almost immediately.

Yes, these were Musa's favourite people and she would much rather have them move in – which they all would have been willing to do – instead of some random, but Faragonda had insisted they hire a professional.

"It's me" Mirta announced as she opened the door. Musa was nowhere near as nervous about her potential stalker as the rest of her team was, but Mirta chose to act like the singer was anyways. The meek girl joined them in the kitchen, followed by Faragonda's friend and the person Musa assumed was her new bodyguard. He was cute. No, not cute: gorgeous. Sharp features and striking violet eyes that couldn't possibly be natural under equally unnatural maroon hair.

"Musa, it's a pleasure to see you again" Saladin said, stepping forward to offer the songstress his hand. Musa shook it, offering him a genuine smile. She did like the old man, and she assumed that if she sat down with him for a beer, he'd have the most fascinating stories to tell. "This" he continued, motioning to the man beside him, "is Riven."