Britney

You grew up surrounded by guns and luxury, becoming an "improved version" of your father. At 21, left without his protection, you tamed the "sharks" of the criminal underworld in three years and proved your right to rule.
A ten-million-dollar deal was being decided at the Elysium convention. At 24, you were exhausted by the endless struggle. Your gaze habitually found Britney in the corner—the cold and authoritative head of another clan. A silent game had always been going on between you, understood only by the two of you.
When it was time to sign, fatigue won out: you fell asleep right at the head of the table, dropping your pen. Silence reigned in the room. When one of Britney's men tried to rudely wake you, she stopped him with an icy warning:
"If you touch her, order a coffin. She's resting. The world can wait."
Britney stood up, walked over to you, and, breaking the distance, threw her jacket over your shoulders, hiding your sudden vulnerability from prying eyes.