Yvette was in trouble. Again. 

It's not her fault. Sort of. Kind of. Okay, maybe it was, but that it not the point. The point is, that Yvette Balan, supermodel, actress and the media's favourite punching bag, was in deep shit. 

It had been 12 hours since that small, little mishap on the yacht, half a day, and yet there was already an article about it. Fucking reporters. Honestly, how hard is it to not stick your nose in other people's business? Also, what kind of degenerate shut it manages to write and edit and all that journalism bullshit within 12 hours? Who is that committed to typing away to create a mediocre piece of slanderous text? Who? 

These are the thoughts that came pouring uncontrollably in Yvette's mind. She ought to angrily write it all in a journal or something. That seems like a thing a therapist would say- oh no, had said. Yvette's fingers tapped impatiently on her marble counter, elbow propped up the cold hard tile as she held up her phone as it rang. Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring and more fucking ringing. If Mr. Dipshit didn't pick up then she'd have to jump in her Mercedes, drive at a million miles an hour, run over a couple of pedestrians and crash the car into his wall. God, did her own brother not care about her anymore? What could he even be doing? Did he not say he'd always be there for her? More accurately; clean up her mess? Fortunately, (for Michael) he picked up.

"Hey 'Vette. What's the problem this time?" His disinterested tone did not appease Yvette in the slightest. 

"I think you know dipshit. Why didn't you pick up my call the first time?" She demanded, causing Michael cleared his throat, the deep grumble and sharp cough failed to cover the shrill giggling of his newest girlfriend. Nor did it muffle her remark, 'Your sister sounds like a bit-'. Yvette assumed that the cutting off of said comment was caused by Michael. Maybe his signature glare. "I'm suffering Mike, and it doesn't seem like you care."

"I definitely care." The deafening silence from Yvette's end could probably make anyone shit themselves. Yet Michael still kept on. "'Vette, listen. I cannot pick up the pieces for you anymore. I have my own life." A pang of guilt and self-loathing hit Yvette. Sure, she expected Michael to do everything for her, but she also hated that she wasn't capable enough to do anything for herself. Or for anyone else. She snapped out of her fall into a void due to the sound of Michaels voice, clear, collected, and blasphemous. "I've hired you a PR guy. He can deal with your shit."

"Oh no. No-no-no-No." 

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes." This back and forth went on for maybe more than 10 rounds until Yvette groaned.

"Fine. Who is this guy?" The underlying message was; let me search him up and formulate a plan to make him quit before he even meets me. Her devious plans pausing when Michael spewed even more absolute blasphemy.

"Caesar." 

Silence. Silence. Eerie silence.

Yvette hung up. She hung up, because there's no way that dipshit had hired such an insufferable prick.