The moment Alexander finished speaking, two rows of uniformed staff flanking the grand foyer chimed in unison:
"Full production support—activated!"
The Career Spotlight crew stood frozen, their equipment suddenly feeling inadequate against the Sterling estate's gilded opulence. The director gaped at the man in the bespoke tailcoat, mistaking him for staff.
"Th-thank you, butler," he stammered.
Alexander Sterling's laughter rang like a warm cello note. "Butler? Flattering, but incorrect." He adjusted his emerald cufflinks with a grin. "Alexander Sterling—Sophia's father, household CEO, and chief snack curator."
The director's cheeks burned scarlet. He'd just misidentified one of the country's most infamous "trophy husbands" as hired help.
"Though you're not entirely wrong," Alexander added, rescuing the younger man's dignity. "I do command this domestic empire. From wine pairings to WiFi passwords, the buck stops here."
At 48, Alexander defied every stuffy billionaire stereotype. His salt-and-pepper stubble framed a face more suited to romance novel covers than PTA meetings, his eyes crinkling with the ease of a man who'd traded stock portfolios for soufflés.
The crew slowly remembered—this was the MIT prodigy who'd walked away from Silicon Valley to become the ultimate househusband.
"Apologies, Mr. Sterling! We didn't—"
"None needed!" Alexander clapped the director's shoulder, his Cartier Santos watch glinting. "Domestic engineering is a career. Frankly, wrangling my daughter's espresso addiction deserves its own Nobel category."
When production had received Sophia's updated "Mama's Girl" job description, they'd panicked. Career Spotlight prided itself on gritty realism—firefighters, neurosurgeons, startup grinders. How does one film… this?
But five minutes with Alexander Sterling converted every skeptic. The man was reality TV catnip—a disarming blend of Martha Stewart and George Clooney, unafraid to joke about his role as the family's "glorified sommelier."
"Shall we start with Sophia?" the director asked, eyeing the grand staircase.
Alexander checked his Piaget pocket watch. "Our leading lady's still in her beauty hibernation cycle. But she authorized Plan B—documenting the sacred dinner prep ritual."
He gestured to the living room's absurdly lavish snack spread: gold-dusted macarons, Japanese musk melons sliced like jewels, water bottles that cost more than the crew's daily per diem.
As the camera crew marveled, a sleepy warble floated from above:
"Daddyyyyy… hydration emergency!"
Every head snapped upward.
There, leaning against the staircase's carved mahogany newel post, stood Sophia Sterling in all her unscripted glory—hair a riot of bedhead curls, silk pajamas clinging haphazardly, face bare as a newborn's.
The crew collectively forgot how to breathe.
Other celebrities needed three hours and a glam squad to film "waking up" scenes. This spoiled heiress had rolled directly from 1,000-thread-count sheets into frame, yawning like a sun-drenched cat.
Alexander was already ascending the stairs with a crystal goblet. "Code Red protocol—vitamin C splash, coconut water base, two ice cubes precisely."
Sophia chugged the concoction, then blinked at the cameras. "Oh. You're early."
The director found his voice. "Ms. Sterling, we're here to—"
"—document my groundbreaking career, right?" She plopped onto the stairs, rubbing sleep from her eyes. "Let's establish terms. If you film my bedhead, you must include Dad's lecture on silk pillowcase pH balance."
As the crew exchanged glances, Alexander called over his shoulder: "Acidic scalp ecosystems destroy cuticle layers! It's science!"
Sophia smirked. "See? Harvard should give him an honorary degree in Helicopter Parenting."
The director suddenly understood the show's skyrocketing ratings. This wasn't a career showcase—it was a masterclass in absurdist luxury, served with self-aware humor.
His producer whispered, "We're gonna need more memory cards."