Taemin POV

Think of the money! Think of the money! I recite these words over and over again in my mind while I pick up the individual cat hairs with my fingers. You're probably thinking, Taemin, why don't you use a hoover, it's quicker, or don't you have a broom? Well, how can I put it? I've been working for the famous Choi Jiwoo for a few weeks now. The very Choi Jiwoo. Successful actress, cat mother, innovative fashion icon and diva through and through.

I can't use the hoover, it's too loud for her. The fact that she's lying by her pool right now, sunbathing, and I'm standing in her enormous villa is irrelevant. The noise, no matter how quiet it is, makes her think she's trapped in a blender, and that's exactly what unbalances her chakra, and she can't possibly allow herself for that to happen. Rule number one: never mess with her chakra! That means never vacuuming, because of the feeling like in the blender. Never put a glass of water on the left side of her table, then it can happen that she thinks the world is mirror-inverted. However, a glass with freshly squeezed orange juice always has to be on her left side. And never laugh when she's not laughing, under any circumstances. That makes her think you're stupid, and she can't stand stupid people. Stupid people get fired. The fact that people don't fit in a blender, the world can't suddenly mirror itself and everyone has a different sense of humour is something I didn't really want to tell her, because her last assistant was fired for that very reason, at least it was something like that.

My friend Key witnessed it first hand when it happened. He is currently doing an internship for a famous fashion designer who had dressed Jiwoo that day. At a photo shoot for a prestigious magazine, where she was of course on the cover, he himself watched the poor young man run away in tears.

"I don't know what she said to him but I saw the look on her face. That look makes even the devil freeze with fear!" but Key's words sounded anything but intimidated. Rather, he was totally entranced.

"When I grow up, I want to be like her." He gushed enthusiastically.

"You should have seen him! Not even children cry that hard when you steal their lollipop. He was sobbing and the tears were running down him like a waterfall. It was glorious." He looked up dreamily as he told me about it.

"That doesn't make me want to work for her if I'm being honest." I said worriedly, but he just waved it off.

"You have nothing to worry about. You wouldn't do what he did." He said nonchalantly. By 'what he did' he meant disagreeing. And no, I really don't do that, the money is far too good for that. Even if I have to come by at 4 a.m. because her little daughter looks so cute and she really wants a photo of her. But she can't use her camera phone herself, the radiation doesn't do her chakra any good.

Key has heard rumours that this was already the 12th assistant in less than six months. What had happened to the other eleven I don't know, no one does. And at this point I don't have the guts to ask. I will try to keep a low profile for the next few months, quietly doing my job and saving money.

I have to admit, I thought as an assistant I would have other duties, I don't know, maybe setting appointments or bringing her coffee. But who knew I'd have to count all the tiles in her mansion. To put it in perspective, she has four bathrooms and two kitchens. And I was very happy to see that the tiles had an even number. If they had been an uneven number, she would have had to move. Because uneven is not good, you know, for her chakra.     

Anyway, Key had asked his boss if he would speak to her about knowing a perfect assistant for her. Being a diva-in-training, he knew that divas only talk to important people, which is why he couldn't approach her himself. Even I was not allowed to look her in the eyes until after the first week. But I suppose my energy is in tune with hers, which why she allowed me to look at her after nine days. Some of her staff still walk past her with their heads down, despite working for her for years. Her staff, besides me, consists of four make-up artists, one of whom is not allowed to look at her. Seven stylists for hair and clothes, a few photographers, two cooks, nutritionists and her most loyal favourites are her two bodyguards. I think they are her favourites because they don't talk, ever. Whether they can even talk at all I don't know. I don't dare speak to them. They are almost seven feet tall and even though I have never seen their eyes, they always look very grim with their sunglasses on. It doesn't help that they have broad shoulders and always wearing black suits.