Chapter Text

Chapter one: Excuse me

The morning of Saturday, February 20th, began like any other.

The sun rose over Berlint’s horizon, birds sang between the bare branches of the trees, and the cold morning wind swept through the streets with its usual indifference. At first glance, nothing seemed out of place.

But something had changed.

Something small, uncomfortable, and impossible to ignore. A fissure in the familiar order of things.

Society, after all, was used to everyone staying where they belonged. Actors on red carpets. Musicians on stages. Heirs inside their mansions. Pop stars on tour, in interviews, and in the carefully imagined romances the public loved to invent for them.

And, until that morning, Damian Desmond and Anya Forger belonged to completely different worlds.

Damian was a well-known actor, famous for his serious roles and even more famous for being one of the heirs to the Desmond fortune. Not long ago, he had come out of rehabilitation, a fact the tabloids had chewed on for weeks with the same cruelty they reserved for fallen idols. His reputation did not help either. Depending on who was telling the story, Damian was either troubled, arrogant, irresistible, or simply another rich boy who had never learned the meaning of consequences.

Then there was Anya Forger.

A beloved singer with a bright voice, a charming personality, and the kind of stage presence that made people feel as if she were singing directly to them. She had won the hearts of millions, not only with her music, but with the easy warmth she showed in interviews, backstage clips, and late-night posts that fans analyzed as if they were sacred texts.

Most people had already written her love story for her.

In their version, Anya would eventually fall in love with Freddy, the drummer who often collaborated with her and had spent the past few years feeding the public’s imagination with playful comments, shared photos, and the kind of friendship that looked suspiciously good under a camera flash. The fans had decided it long ago: one day, Anya and Freddy would realize they were meant for each other. They would get married, have two children, several dogs, a beautiful mansion, and more cars than anyone reasonably needed.

Except that never happened.

Instead, on the front page of Berlint Today, there was a large photograph of Damian Desmond standing far too close to Anya Forger, his face only inches from hers. The picture was slightly grainy, clearly taken from a distance, but that only made it worse, it made it more intimate and suspicious.

And above them, in enormous black letters, was the headline:

CAUGHT: ANYA FORGER — DAMIAN DESMOND’S NEW CONQUEST?

Across the city, people choked on their coffee, because this was not normal or expected. This was not part of the story anyone had prepared.

Since when had this started? How had it happened? Why had it happened? Damian and Anya moved in different circles, and had never once given the public a reason to place their names in the same sentence.

And yet, there they were together.

But the story did not begin there…

“We need to forget about Damian.”

The words fell over the conference room with the unyielding finality of a political decree.

One of Eden Entertainment’s senior investors leaned back in his leather chair, fingers laced over his stomach, looking pleased with himself, as if he had just uttered something painfully obvious. “He’s costing this company money.”

It was a Tuesday morning, several months after Damian Desmond had returned from rehabilitation, and apparently, that was all the patience the industry was willing to extend.

Becky Blackbell sat near the end of the long mahogany table, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her face calm in a way that took effort.

The worst part was that, strictly as a businesswoman, she understood their point.

Damian was a disaster. He had no active projects, no studio was willing to front the insurance for him, and half the directors in Berlint seemed to have suddenly forgotten his phone number. The public still remembered the scandals, the women, the blurry photos outside bars, the headlines waiting for him the moment he left rehab.

He was expensive, he was volatile, and according to the consensus in that room, he was no longer worth the trouble.

Perhaps Becky would have nodded along with them if she had been carved from the same cold marble as everyone else at that table. Unfortunately, she possessed a highly inconvenient problem of her own: a heart.

Damian had gone through hell. More than any of these suit-wearing executives cared to acknowledge. He was also one of her husband’s closest friends—though that particular detail carried less weight at the moment, considering she and her husband weren’t exactly on speaking terms. Still, friendship aside, Becky knew what abandonment looked like, and she refused to watch it happen in silence. “We can’t just throw him away,” she said, her voice cutting through the murmurs.

A few heads turned toward her, dripping with condescension.

“No one wants to work with him, Miss Blackbell,” one investor scoffed.

“The company’s shares have dipped significantly because of his association,” another chimed in, barely looking up from his tablet.

“He was in rehabilitation,” Becky replied, keeping her tone even, masking the spark of anger igniting in her chest. “He is clearly navigating a difficult recovery.”

“Difficult?” The first investor let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Miss Blackbell, 'difficult' is when an actor gets bad press for a messy divorce. Damian Desmond is radioactive.”

Becky dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands, maintaining a rigid, unbothered posture. She refused to let them see her flinch.

“We could change the narrative,” she countered smoothly. “We could make people interested in him again.”

For a second, no one said a word.

Then, from the head of the table, came a low chuckle.

Benjamin Blackbell—owner of Eden Entertainment, majority shareholder, and her father—looked down the length of the table at his daughter. He wore the indulgent smile that instantly made Becky feel twelve years old and entirely furious all over again.

“Becky,” he said, his voice laced with lazy amusement. “I know he’s your friend. But when an asset is no longer useful, you don’t keep it around out of pity. You throw it in the trash.”

Becky’s eyes narrowed into slits. “He’s not trash.”

“He is a liability.”

“He is one of the finest actors this company has ever signed.” The words came out fierce because it was the truth. Damian possessed a rare talent for the screen. But deeper than that, beneath the corporate logic, it was the truth because Becky still chose to believe in him.

“He was,” Benjamin corrected, leaning forward to emphasize the word. “Past tense.”

“He can recover.”

“The boy can barely get invited to a charity gala without the organizers asking if there’s going to be an open bar.” A ripple of suppressed laughter echoed around the table. Becky didn't join in. Her gaze remained locked on her father, who was watching her with an air of superiority.

“You’re letting your feelings cloud your judgment, Becky,” Benjamin sighed, waving a dismissive hand. “Business and personal matters must remain strictly separate. You know this.”

“No,” Becky said, her voice dropping an octave. “I’m taking it seriously.”

“Well, that would be a first.”

The barb hit harder than it should have, slicing through her professional armor. But Becky didn't break. Instead, she let a slow, dangerous smile spread across her face—the exact expression her father knew to fear. “You want to get rid of him because it’s easy,” she said, her voice carrying beautifully across the silent room. “Because rebuilding his image would require actual strategy, actual work. And because everyone in this room is terrified of a bad headline to recognize an opportunity when it’s staring them right in the face.”

The chatter around the table died down.

Benjamin’s amusement dimmed, just a little, as his dark brown brows rose “An opportunity?”

“Yes.”

“To do what? Save Damian Desmond with the power of friendship?”

Another wave of snickers broke out among the investors.

Becky waited until everyone in the room had finished talking. Her expression didn’t change.

“To make everyone talk about him again,” she said, each word clean. “We turn public disgust into curiosity. Curiosity into sympathy. Sympathy into interest.” Then she looked straight at her father. “And interest into profit.” For once, no one at the table had anything to say.

Benjamin studied her across the expanse of the table. For the first time that morning, his patronizing demeanor faltered into genuine attention. But then, the arrogant smirk returned “All right,” he said, raising his hands in a mock gesture of surrender. “Fine. Since you seem so entirely confident.”

Becky’s internal alarms went off. She did not like his tone.

“If you can do it,” Benjamin continued, his eyes gleaming with a challenge, “if you can actually make Damian Desmond profitable again... I’ll retire, step down, and leave you in charge of the company.”

For one brief second, the world seemed to stop. Nobody breathed.

Then, the entire room burst into laughter. It was loud, humiliating, and immediate. They laughed like she was a child playing executive.

But what none of them seemed to remember—what her father always managed to overlook—was that Becky Blackbell had never been good at backing down from a joke. Especially not when that joke sounded exactly like a dare.

She straightened her spine, her shoulders square and unyielding. “I accept.”

The laughter died out instantly, choking on itself.

Benjamin blinked, a rare flash of genuine confusion crossing his features. Becky held his gaze with a serene, unbreakable calm, even though beneath her tailored blazer, her heart had started beating like a trapped bird.

Her father stared at her for a long, quiet moment before letting out a softer laugh, shaking his head as if she were merely being adorable. He still thought she wasn't serious. It was one of the unfortunate side effects of being raised by wealthy, absent parents: they gave you everything except their attention, and then acted blindsided when they realized they didn't know you at all.

The meeting adjourned shortly after.

Becky walked out of the conference room with her chin held high. The rhythmic click of her heels echoed against the marble floor, every inch of her posture broadcasting undisputed victory.

She maintained the facade until she turned the corner into a deserted hallway. Ensuring the corridor was empty, she immediately slumped against the wall and smacked her forehead against the cold drywall with a muted groan.

“Oh my God,” she whispered to the empty space. She had lost her mind. Completely, absolutely, irreversibly.

She had let her emotions get the better of her. No—worse. She had let her emotions and her desperate, deep-seated desire for power get the better of her, which was somehow infinitely more embarrassing.

Why on earth was she ruining her life to help that idiot?

Damian was practically on a self-destructive crusade. How was she supposed to save a man who didn't even seem interested in saving himself? How was she supposed to get him booked on radio shows and television programs when half the networks had quietly blacklisted his name? How was she supposed to transform a scandal-ridden, newly sober actor into someone the public actually wanted to root for again?

Becky closed her eyes, letting her forehead rest against the wall, and took a long, stabilizing breath.

She had an astronomical amount of work to do.

Becky Blackbell sat outside the fitting room with the music video director on one side and the wardrobe supervisor on the other, her phone in one hand and a half-empty cup of coffee in the other.

She had been making calls for the past hour. Radio programs, late-night hosts, entertainment segments, charity events. Talk shows that, only two years ago, would have begged to have Damian Desmond sitting on their couch. Now, apparently, everyone had an excuse.

“We’re fully booked this month.”

“We already have a lead for that project.”

“Our schedule is packed.”

“We’re moving in a different creative direction.”

One host had even paused for three full seconds before asking, “Damian who?”

Becky tightened her grip so hard she nearly crushed her phone.

Officially, she was Eden Entertainment’s Senior Talent Manager and Creative Development Executive, a title long enough to impress people and vague enough to make them ask fewer questions. Her father had insisted she start from the bottom years ago, partly to teach her discipline and partly, she suspected, because Benjamin Blackbell enjoyed watching people struggle when it could be disguised as character development, for other reasons too —like her marriage…

So Becky had started as an assistant, then she became a junior talent representative, then a manager. Then someone who could sit in boardrooms, choose who she represented, approve creative projects, and argue with investors twice her age without a single blink.

Unfortunately, at some point in that climb, she had chosen Damian Desmond. Worse, she had been the one who had brought him into the company in the first place. At the time, it had seemed like a brilliant decision. He had talent, presence, and the features directors loved to display on a massive screen. For a while, Damian had been profitable. Very profitable. Then came the scandals, the bad temper, the rehabilitation, and everything else.

And now, because nobody else wanted to deal with him, Becky had somehow become the last person in Eden Entertainment willing to answer his calls. Mostly because she had a heart. And because she was one of the few people alive who could survive more than ten minutes of Damian Desmond’s personality.

“How does it look?”

Becky looked up. Anya Forger stepped out of the fitting room in an all-black outfit, turning once in front of the mirror with a curious little smile.

Becky studied her for two seconds. “Should we change the color of the shoes?” she asked.

The wardrobe supervisor tilted her head. “I think red shoes and red lipstick would balance it out.”

Becky nodded. “Next.”

Anya sighed, but went back inside. At least Anya was easy. Well. Easier.

Becky represented Anya too, but that never felt like work in the same exhausting, hair-pulling, blood-pressure-raising way Damian did. Anya was one of Eden’s most successful artists, yes, and Becky would never allow just anyone to damage the career she had spent years helping build.

But Anya was also her best friend.

Representing her meant long rehearsals, late-night planning sessions, backstage snacks, and the occasional emotional crisis over whether a lyric was too honest or not honest enough. Becky liked being around her. She liked protecting her. She liked knowing that, in an industry full of people waiting to take pieces of Anya apart, at least one person in the room cared about her as more than a product.

Her phone buzzed again. It was another rejection.

Becky stared at the message. Wonderful.

A few minutes later, Anya stepped out again, this time wearing tailored trousers, a structured jacket, and a formal hat tilted over her pink hair.

Becky blinked. “No. You look too much like Michael Jackson.”

The director covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.

The wardrobe supervisor nodded with professional seriousness. “Next outfit.”

Anya looked down at herself, then back at Becky. “That fast?”

“That fast.”

With another dramatic sigh, Anya disappeared into the fitting room again.

Becky returned to her phone. No response. If she had not paid for an expensive manicure, she would have started biting her nails down to the cuticle.

When Anya came out again, she was wearing a short brown dress with a black plaid ruffled skirt. It was softer than the others, but still playful, with enough edge to work beautifully on camera.

Becky lowered her phone. “That looks good.”

“Can we rest for a moment?” Anya asked, already walking toward the couch. “I’m tired of changing.”

Considering they had gone through nearly twenty outfits and approved only two, Becky could not blame her. “Fine,” she said. “Five minutes.”

Anya dropped onto the couch with visible relief.

Becky set her phone down, rubbed her temple, and turned toward the director. “All right. We also need to think about the actual music video. Any ideas?”

Anya sat up a little. “The song is called ‘Hide and Seek,’” she said. “And I wanted to do something inspired by spies.”

Becky stared at her. “You want to put Bondman in your music video? Because if you want Bondman, then we need to talk about copyright, licensing, approvals, probably three lawyers, and at least one man in a suit who will make me want to throw myself out a window.”

“No,” Anya said quickly. “Not Bondman. Just… spies. That kind of thing.”

Becky narrowed her eyes, her expression changing into suspicion. “So you’re the spy? Are you trying to fulfill one of your childhood dreams?”

“No,” Anya said at once, then she looked away. “Well… maybe a little. It could be fun,” Anya insisted.

“It could be fun if we had a plot.”

Anya opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Becky stared at her. “Oh my God,” she said. “We have been choosing outfits for a music video, and we don’t even know what the music video is about.”

Anya sank slightly into the couch.

The director cleared her throat. “What is the song about?”

Anya picked at the edge of her sleeve, suddenly shy. “It’s about a man who runs away from his feelings,” she said. “The connection between them is intense, but he keeps trying to hide what he feels. Like it scares him.”

For a moment, the room fell quiet.

Then the wardrobe supervisor lifted one hand slightly. “I’m sorry for interrupting,” she said, “but if you want the video to involve spies… maybe the man could be the one leading a double life.”

Anya looked at her with interest.

The woman continued, encouraged. “Miss Forger’s character suspects him. She follows him throughout the video, investigates him, finds clues, maybe even interrogates him. It could be romantic, but also mysterious.”

Anya’s eyes lit up. “Sara,” she said, standing so fast the couch cushion shifted. “That is a wonderful idea.” She hugged the wardrobe supervisor immediately.

Sara laughed, surprised but pleased.

Becky leaned back in her chair, thinking. Actually… it was a good idea. “We would need a strong male lead,” Becky said.

“What about Freddy?” Sara suggested.

Anya pulled away from the hug at once. “No,” Anya said firmly. “People already think there’s something between us. If he’s in a romantic music video with me, they’ll scare away every woman he tries to date because they’ll think we’re secretly in love or something.” Becky had to admit, that was fair. Freddy and Anya had been feeding the public’s imagination for years without meaning to. One spy-themed romantic music video would turn harmless rumors into a wedding countdown.

“What about André Smith?” Becky suggested. “The model.”

Anya considered it. “That could work.”

Becky reached for her phone, then stopped. “No. Forget it. He’s in America for a campaign.”

Anya deflated slightly. “That’s a shame.”

“We need someone available,” the director said. “Someone with presence.”

“And mystery,” Anya added, warming to the idea. “Someone the general public doesn’t fully understand. Someone who looks like he has secrets.”

“A bad boy?” Sara asked.

Anya nodded. “Yes. But attractive.”

The image appeared in Becky’s mind before she could stop it: dark hair, hazel eyes, expensive clothes, bad reputation, bad attitude. An empty schedule.

Becky’s first instinct was to reject the thought immediately. No. Absolutely not. She was not putting Damian Desmond anywhere near Anya Forger. Anya was sunshine, talent, and emotional stability on most days. Damian was a walking disaster with nice cheekbones and unresolved trauma. Mixing the two wasn’t a strategy. It was a lawsuit waiting to happen.

Except… Becky looked down at her phone. No one wanted Damian anywhere. No one wanted to give him a script, a campaign, an interview, or even a charity appearance. But a music video was different. A controlled environment. A limited shoot. A chance to make him look mysterious instead of unstable. Brooding instead of rude. Damaged instead of difficult.

And if the public saw him next to Anya Forger—beloved, warm, impossible to dislike—maybe some of that light would touch him too.

Becky hated that it made sense. She hated even more that it made business sense. “What about Damian Desmond?” she asked.

Anya blinked. “Damian Desmond?”

Becky forced herself to sound casual, trying to make it seem like Damian was a highly sought-after option. “He’s mysterious, handsome, the public already thinks of him as a bad boy, and he can act, which is more than I can say for half the models we could hire.”

Sara’s eyes widened. “Actually… that could be perfect.”

The director slowly nodded. “He does have the right look.”

Anya sat up straighter, visibly interested. “Is he available?”

Becky looked at her phone. Damian’s schedule was not just available. It was a graveyard. “I’d have to check his agenda,” Becky lied smoothly, keeping up the illusion that he was busy, “but I’m fairly sure we can make it work.”

Anya smiled, unaware of the chaos she had just agreed to invite into her life. Becky smiled back. Then, very privately, she apologized to her best friend in advance. If Damian ruined this, she would make it up to Anya later.

By any means necessary—even if it meant murdering Damian herself.

Damian Desmond stared into nothing and wondered what the point of his life was supposed to be. He had everything a person was meant to want. Money, a name, a house too large for one man, a career that, at some point, people had called brilliant. He had lived as well as anyone could possibly live, surrounded by expensive furniture, imported liquor he was no longer allowed to touch, and clothes made by people who knew his exact measurements.

And still, he was miserable.

The past had wrapped itself around his future like a chain, and the present had become a prison. Worse than that, it was a prison he had built with his own hands.

He lay on his couch, staring at the ceiling while classical music played through the speakers. The room was dim despite the morning outside. The curtains were half-closed. A cup of coffee sat untouched on the coffee table. Beside it, a stack of blank notebooks rested next to a fountain pen he had bought three weeks ago and never used.

He had told himself he was going to write.

That he was done performing for people who only wanted to watch him fall apart.

That maybe, if he could not be respected as a man, he could at least be remembered for something serious—a novel, an essay, a script. Anything that was not a headline with his name attached to some public failure.

The doorbell rang, but Damian did not bother to move.

It rang again, then again, and then again.

He closed his eyes. Whoever it was would eventually leave, or so he thought.

The doorbell rang five more times.

Damian opened his eyes and slowly turned his head toward the door with an intense wave of irritation usually reserved for enemies and morning alarms.

Outside, Becky Blackbell was beginning to panic.

With Anya, everything had been easy. Too easy, almost. Anya had been excited about the song, delighted by the spy concept, and unaware that she had just become the center of Becky’s most desperate professional gamble.

Damian, however, was the difficult part.

Especially because it had been six months since he had returned from rehabilitation, and in those six months, he had barely left his house. He ignored calls. He treated his own career like an inconvenient package someone else had left on his doorstep.

So when Becky pressed the bell for the twelfth time and still received no answer, a dark, worrying thought crossed her mind. What if something had happened? What if he was lying on the floor somewhere? What if she had defended him that morning in front of an entire boardroom only for him to—

The door opened.

Damian Desmond stood there in a wrinkled shirt, his brown hair slightly messy, his eyes narrowed with profound annoyance. Well... he looked alive. Unfortunately, he also looked displeased about it.

Becky let out a long breath of relief. Then, she immediately smacked him on the arm with her leather handbag. “Idiot,” she snapped. “Who is your favorite manager?”

Damian stared at her with a mix of confusion and irritation. “You’re my only manager. And even then, your husband does a better job.”

Becky’s smile died instantly. She pointed one manicured finger right at his face. “You are very lucky I am in a generous mood today.”

“You look like you want something.”

“I am your friend,” Becky said, placing a hand over her chest. “Why would you immediately assume I only came here because I need something from you?”

Damian raised one eyebrow. They had known each other for six years; neither of them could fool the other anymore.

Becky held his gaze for three seconds, then let out a defeated sigh. “Fine. I need something from you.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“No.”

“It’s a music video.”

“No.”

“It’s for a singer.”

That made him pause, his mind switching gears for a brief second. Damian leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t do music videos.”

“You do now.”

“I’m busy.”

Becky glanced past him into the dim living room, where a single untouched cup of coffee sat beside a stack of empty notebooks. “With what? Acting like a hoarder in your own home?”

Damian’s expression turned grim. “I’m going to write.”

Becky blinked. For a moment, she almost forgot why she was there. “Still with that?” The second the words left her mouth, she regretted them.

Damian looked away, his throat tight as he swallowed his pride.

It was easy to forget sometimes, beneath the scandals, the arrogance, and the self-destruction, that Damian Desmond had once wanted something quieter. Something serious. Something that belonged to him and not to his family name, his face, or the industry that had eaten him alive.

“I mean,” Becky said quickly, her tone softer now, “if that’s what you want, I can clear your schedule after this.”

“I don’t have a schedule.”

“Exactly. So it will be very easy to clear.”

“No.”

“Damian—”

“No,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “I’m done being dragged around for other people’s benefit.”

Becky stared at him, and then something inside her snapped. “Oh, for God’s sake.” She grabbed him by the collar of his wrinkled shirt and shoved him back just enough to step inside, forcing him to retreat into his own hallway. “You made this company lose an obscene amount of money,” Becky hissed, her voice low and furious. “You have no income, no projects, no goodwill left with the press, and the general public currently thinks you are either dead, or impossible to insure. Do you think anyone is going to read your book if no one wants to hear your name?”

That landed hard. Damian looked down at the floor, unable to meet her eyes.

Becky’s grip softened, but she did not let go of his collar. “This music video puts you back in front of people,” she said, her voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “As an actor.”

He said nothing.

“It’s controlled. One shoot. You show up, do your job, look mysterious, and then you can go back to brooding in the dark.”

In reality, Becky was lying through her teeth. She desperately hoped that once he stood in front of a camera again, new opportunities would magically appear, and Damian would remember why he had loved acting in the first place.

Damian looked to the side. He wanted to say he did not care. He wanted to tell her to leave. He wanted to close the door and return to the silence, to the blank notebooks that judged him far less openly than people did.

But the truth was simple. If Becky had not been there, he would have been in a far worse place than he already was. And they both knew it.

After a long, heavy silence, Damian let out a rough sigh. “Fine. I’ll do the stupid music video.”

Becky’s expression changed into triumph. “You are employed again. Congratulations.”

He looked exhausted by the word.

Becky stepped back toward the door, already reaching into her bag for her phone. “I’ll send you the details.” She turned on her heels and smiled at him over her shoulder. “Try to shower before you meet her.”

“Her?”

Becky’s smile became wicked. “Anya Forger.”

Then she stepped out, leaving him behind.

Damian remained in the doorway, his hand still resting on the frame. For several seconds, he did not move. The classical music continued to echo softly through the empty house.

Anya Forger. He knew the name, of course. Everyone did. Pink hair, bright voice, charming smile, the kind of public affection he had not felt in years. She was beloved in a way that seemed almost fictional. And now he was supposed to stand next to her in a music video.

Damian closed the door slowly. Then, he looked down at his wrinkled shirt. For the first time in six months, he wondered if maybe he should shave.

Becky showed up at his house that morning and practically forced him to hand over his car keys.

Damian had not expected her to take the driver's seat of his own vehicle. In fact, he would have preferred a hired driver, a taxi, or a sudden natural disaster that made transportation impossible altogether. But Becky had simply marched in, taken the keys from the kitchen counter, and pointed toward the garage, which meant he spent the entire ride trapped in the passenger seat of his own sports car while she gave him what she clearly believed was a motivational speech.

“You will behave,” she said, her eyes fixed on the road ahead, her hands gripping his steering wheel. “You will be polite. You will be professional. You will not insult the director, the crew, the song, the costumes, the lights, the concept, the catering, or anyone’s mother.”

Damian stared out the side window. “That is a very long list.”

“It exists because I know you, Damian,” Becky countered, navigating a smooth turn in his car. “This is an excellent opportunity for someone in your position.”

He turned his head slightly, fixing her with a flat look. “Someone in my position?”

“Do not start.”

“I think you simply had no other actors available, and that is why you chose to hijack my car and my Friday.”

Becky smiled without looking at him. “See? This is exactly the kind of attitude that makes people avoid hiring you.”

Damian looked back out the window, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he suppressed a retort. He did not want to be there. He did not want to sit under hot studio lights, listen to some music video director tell him where to stand, or pretend that this was some grand artistic return. He wanted to be back home, lying on his couch, staring at the ceiling.

Yet, beneath his irritation, a faint, deeply buried ache tugged at him. It wasn't that he didn't miss acting. He did, even if he refused to admit it out loud. Performing had been his life for years—the quiet rush of stepping into another man's skin, the control over a scene, the rare moments when the applause felt real and not just bought by his family name. He had spent a long time mastering the craft, and the sudden emptiness of the past six months had left him restless. Perhaps what he felt right now was fear—the terrifying possibility that he had lost his touch, that the camera would look at him and find nothing left. But he forced those thoughts down, refusing to give them room to grow.

Becky had dragged him here anyway, parking his car near the entrance of the studio, and there was no turning back.

The set was larger than he expected. Eden Entertainment had taken over an old warehouse and turned it into something between a film noir dream and a spy fantasy. There were fake office walls, dim lamps, glass panels, a desk covered in vintage folders, and a long crimson curtain hanging at the far end of the stage. Crew members moved everywhere with cables, light meters, clothing racks, and paper cups of coffee.

Damian stepped away from his car and immediately regretted it.

Becky appeared beside him, her hands moving quickly to adjust the collar of his dark suit before he could swat her away. “Don’t look like you want everyone here to die.”

Before Damian could answer, a woman with short dark hair and thick glasses walked toward them, holding a clipboard against her chest. “Damian Desmond,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Hilda.” Then she gave him a surname he neither understood nor cared enough to remember.

He shook her hand anyway, maintaining his best professional mask. “What are we filming today?” he asked.

Hilda smiled. “Everything.”

Damian glanced at Becky, a flicker of resentment warming his gaze. The only positive side to this disaster was that it would only take a single day of his life. The negative side, however, was that it was going to be an incredibly long day.

Before he could decide whether it was too late to run back to his car, a soft voice came from behind him. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

Damian turned. And for one brief, humiliating second, his thoughts stopped entirely.

Anya Forger stood a few steps away, lifting one hand in a small, tentative wave. She was wearing a short red dress that fit her so flawlessly it looked as though it had been tailored directly onto her skin, the vibrant color contrasting beautifully against her pale complexion and pink hair. Her lips were painted the exact same shade of crimson, and under the intense studio illumination, she looked almost unreal.

Photographs had not done her justice. That was Damian’s first coherent thought.

His second thought was less organized. She was beautiful, yes. He had seen beautiful women before; he had dated them, been photographed with them on red carpets, forgotten some of their names, and been slapped by a few of them when his temper got the better of him. Beauty, to him, was a common currency in Berlint.

But Anya Forger was different. She was undeniably attractive—the red dress made that a fact impossible to ignore. The fabric, a deep scarlet like aged wine, clung to her silhouette like a second skin. The plunging neckline revealed the soft upper curve of her breasts, firm and rounded, rising and falling with each breath. The fitted waist emphasized the slimness of her torso before the skirt flared just enough to graze the start of her hips. And then there were her legs: long, taut, with thighs that retained the firmness of someone who walked with purpose, and calves sculpted in a curve reminiscent of a cello's body. It was a silhouette to die for—breasts, waist, hips, legs, all in a single, uninterrupted line that the eye traveled before good manners could intervene.

Yet, there was also something entirely disarming about her presence.

Cute, he thought, then immediately despised himself for the mental slip. What kind of grown man looked at a woman nearly his own age and thought cute? Still, the word fit. A cute face paired with a dangerous body—a truly terrible combination for his peace of mind.

“Hi,” she said again, her smile growing a little, embarrassed despite herself. “I’m your girlfriend. For the video, I mean.” She gave a small, awkward laugh. “Anya Forger. You can call me Anya. Or… whatever feels easiest.”

Damian blinked once, trying to anchor himself. His mind, unfortunately, supplied several things he could call her. Shorty, for one. She was much smaller than he had imagined from her television appearances. He kept that observation to himself and offered her a polite nod—the same one he used at award ceremonies, press events, and conversations he wanted to end before they began. “My pleasure.”

Becky, standing just a few inches away, narrowed her eyes at him, looking as though she could read every single unfiltered thought passing through his brain.

Hilda clapped her hands once, drawing their attention back to the clipboard. “There may be a kiss scene or some close physical contact later in the schedule. Is everyone comfortable with that?”

Anya’s eyes widened, a sudden rush of color flooding her cheeks as she looked down. Damian merely lifted an eyebrow, his expression remaining smooth and unbothered. He certainly wasn't about to object to that part of the job.

Hilda let out a quick, bright laugh. “I’m joking. Mostly. We’ll discuss the choreography before we roll the cameras. No surprises.”

“Good,” Becky said sharply, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Anya turned back to Damian, clearly attempting to make her guest feel welcome despite his stiff demeanor. “Do you want water or anything?”

Whisky, he thought automatically. “Water is fine,” he said aloud.

Anya smiled and gestured to one of the nearby assistants, who hurried off and returned with a cold bottle almost immediately. Damian took it, his fingers brushing against the plastic. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The exchange should have ended there, but it lingered. Anya looked up at him with open, undisguised curiosity, as if she were trying to decipher exactly what kind of man had been delivered to her set wearing a tailored spy suit and a miserable mood.

Becky turned to her, breaking the silence. “What do you think, Anya?”

Anya stepped back half a pace, her gaze sweeping over him. From the crisp black suit to the heavy dark coat, from the fedora held loosely in his hand to the severe expression on his face, she studied him without a single trace of the nervous giggling he usually expected from young women in his presence.

Damian knew that look. He had seen it on countless faces before. The brief pause. The careful evaluation. The slow, inevitable realization. Women tended to decide very quickly that they liked the physical shape of him, even when they despised everything else about his personality.

He braced himself for the usual flattering remark.

Anya tilted her head, her eyes bright. “He’s perfect.”

Of course I am, Damian thought, the trace of a smug smile threatening to touch his lips.

Then she added, “I really like the suit.”

His smile vanished before it could even form. His suit? That was it? She was complimenting the wardrobe department?

Becky caught the exact moment his ego deflated and let out a quiet, delighted giggle, enjoying the look of profound disappointment crossing Damian's face.

Irritated for reasons he refused to analyze, Damian decided to push back, leaning into the charm that had once made him a box-office draw. “Your voice is very beautiful,” he said, his tone dropping to a smooth, low murmur. It was a direct, classic compliment. The sort of praise that usually made singers glow, especially when delivered by a man who knew exactly how handsome he was.

Anya let out a shy, breathless little laugh, her cheeks flushing deeper. “Oh. Thank you.” She looked down for a second, her fingers reaching up to rub the back of her neck in a gesture of pure vulnerability.

Damian checked it off in his mind as a victory—shyness, discomfort, the natural reaction of someone suddenly forced to interact with a man of his caliber. It made sense. It restored the proper order of things.

Becky stepped between them before he could deploy any further charm.

“A quick professional summary,” Becky said, gesturing toward Damian as if presenting a luxury product she was trying very hard not to return to the store. “Damian has extensive experience in television and cinema. Five of his feature films were major critical successes. Several won national awards. He has been nominated for Best Actor, graduated from the University of Berlint with a law degree, completed two semesters of advanced literature, and was a prominent member of Eden’s theater department with me.”

Damian glanced at her from under his brow. Everything she said was technically true, but it was also a masterfully curated list. Becky knew far more about his private life than any professional representative ever should. She knew the names of women the press had never managed to uncover, the long nights he could barely piece together, the bitter arguments with his father, the desperate phone calls from the clinic, and the ugly, heavy silence that had followed his release.

But she didn't mention a single word of it. For once, Damian felt a genuine wave of gratitude toward her.

Hilda circled him once, evaluating him with the blunt, practical focus of someone who cared infinitely more about lighting angles than celebrity reputations. “You look excellent for the role,” she noted, nodding to herself. “Very intense. Very much like a foreign actor. We want you unreadable today. Elegant, mysterious, serious.”

Damian let out a short, dry laugh before he could catch himself.

Hilda blinked, looking slightly confused. “Something funny, Mr. Desmond?”

“No,” he said, his voice smoothing out. “It’s just been a long time since a director gave me the instruction to simply look serious.”

Becky muttered under her breath, “It’s the only instruction you can follow without having to act.”

Damian chose to ignore her entirely.

Hilda clapped her hands again, louder this time, her voice echoing across the warehouse. “All right, everyone! We begin shooting in five minutes! Places!”

The set instantly came alive around them. Assistants rushed to adjust the giant lamps. A stylist stepped in to fix a stray strand of Anya’s pink hair, while Sara appeared to smooth the crimson fabric of her dress. Becky was already speaking rapidly into her phone, her eyes darting across the room as she solved three separate production problems at once.

Damian remained exactly where he was, his fingers curled around the untouched bottle of water. He still didn't want to be there. He still believed the entire concept of a pop music video was entirely ridiculous.

But across the room, Anya Forger laughed at a joke the wardrobe supervisor made, her bright, easy amusement cutting through the chaotic noise of the crew. Her red lips curved into a smile, bright enough that, for a second, everyone in the warehouse seemed to look her way.

Damian looked away, fixing his eyes on a piece of equipment.

Then, against his better judgment, he looked back.

Damn it.

Maybe this project was going to be significantly more difficult than he had anticipated. Fortunately for him, Becky hadn't forbidden him from looking.

Damian stayed at a distance —That was intentional.

He leaned against one of the set walls with his arms crossed, watching as Anya stood beneath the studio lights for the promotional photos. At least, he assumed that was what they were for. Someone kept adjusting the angle of her hat, another person fixed the fall of her jacket, and the photographer kept telling her to turn her chin slightly to the left.

Damian watched despite himself. Not bad, he thought. Then, after another second, he corrected himself. Very much not bad.

Anya had changed out of the red dress. Now she wore a fitted dark suit with a little hat tilted over her pink hair, the whole thing giving her the appearance of a glamorous spy, or perhaps a dangerous woman pretending to be one. The outfit hugged her figure in a way that made it impossible not to notice her curves, but somehow she still looked playful rather than vulgar. She possessed a body that could ruin a man’s concentration and a face that made him feel guilty for noticing.

Damian exhaled through his nose, a dry smile touching his lips. Best of luck to you, Damian, he told himself.

Across the set, Anya glanced in his direction. For a second, their eyes met. She smiled, and Damian, because he was not an animal, offered a polite movement of his lips in return. Then he immediately looked away.

He was not going to talk to her. That was his decision. He would not approach her. He would not flirt with her. He would not play whatever little game she might be used to playing with men. Anya Forger was probably that kind of woman—sweet in public, charming when necessary, and fully aware of exactly how many people were looking at her. And Damian had no intention of becoming just another face in her crowd.

“Shouldn’t you be near Anya?” He looked over. Becky sat beside him on a folding chair, legs crossed, looking far too pleased with herself. “You’re supposed to be building chemistry for the video.”

“I prefer sitting here so I don’t sweat too much,” he said, tugging lightly at the collar of his shirt. “I’ve been wearing this for two hours.”

Becky stared at him with visible annoyance. “There are people here who have been wearing the same clothes for seven hours.”

“Unfortunate for them.”

Damian picked up the music video script from the chair beside him, mostly so he would have something to look at that was not Anya Forger. That plan lasted approximately four seconds. He opened the pages. Read one paragraph. Then another. His expression slowly shifted from boredom to utter disbelief.

This was absurd. The main character follows him onto a train. Damian looked back down at the page. Perhaps because she has no understanding of personal boundaries. He is clearly running away from her.

Damian frowned at the script as if it had personally insulted his intelligence. In the story, Anya’s character pursued his character across the city, through train stations, hotel corridors, offices, and what appeared to be an interrogation room. She found clues. He disappeared. She got closer. He ran again.

Time passed.

Damian kept pretending to read. In reality, he was waiting. He had assumed, at some point, Anya would come over to introduce herself properly. Most people did. Especially women who had already smiled at him once. He was deeply familiar with the pattern: the first glance, the second glance, the casual excuse to approach, and finally, the compliment disguised as conversation.

So he ignored her with the indifference of a man who fully expected to be noticed.

Except Anya did not approach him.

She kept posing for photographs. Then she spoke with the director. Then she laughed with the wardrobe team. Then she disappeared briefly behind a folding screen so someone could fix something about her outfit.

Damian turned another page of the script, his irritation growing.

Then two men arrived on set.

Damian noticed them immediately.

The first had blond hair, pale blue eyes, and freckles scattered across his cheeks in a way that made him look younger than he probably was. He moved with the relaxed confidence of someone who belonged in studios, rehearsal rooms, and backstage corridors.

The second was also blond, with medium-length straight hair styled into four prominent points at the top, almost like a crown. His eyes were the same pale blue, and his entire appearance looked so intentionally artistic that Damian had to resist the urge to let out an audible groan. Artists these days, he thought.

Both men went straight toward Anya, who had now emerged in another spy-inspired outfit, complete with a hat that made her look even more like the heroine of some classic crime film.

Anya saw them and her entire face immediately lit up.

Ah. So that was why she had not come over. Damian leaned back slightly, watching as the two men greeted her with familiarity. One of them was probably her boyfriend. Maybe both were attached to her in some complicated artistic way. Musicians were like that.

Becky, without even looking up from her device, said, “Those are Anya’s best friends.”

Damian glanced at her, shifting his weight. “What?”

“Those two,” Becky said, finally raising her eyes. “They’re her closest friends. Freddy is a drummer who sometimes collaborates with her, and Tertius is an influencer.”

Damian looked back toward the group. Anya was laughing now, her shoulders shaking.

Freddy gestured at her structured outfit, a wide grin on his face. “Standing there with two men beside you and dressed like that, you look like a mafia boss.”

Anya put a hand on her hip, immediately stepping into the joke. “You are my henchman number two,” she said, pointing a finger at Freddy. Then she swung her hand toward Tertius. “And you’re number three.”

Tertius placed a hand over his chest, feigning injury. “I’m offended. I should clearly be number one.”

“No,” Anya said with mock solemnity. “Number one needs to be intimidating.”

Freddy burst out laughing, clapping his hands together.

Tertius looked betrayed.

Anya’s smile widened, bright and wicked under the studio lights. Damian watched them for a moment longer than he should have, his fingers tightening around the edge of his script.

She had made Damian Desmond feel ignored.

And, to his immense irritation, that realization made him want her attention even more.

“Let’s roll camera!”

The atmosphere on the set changed in an instant. Conversations died down. Crew members stepped back into the periphery. Someone adjusted the tilt of a large overhead lamp, and the assistant director moved into position, holding the clapperboard high.

“Scene one, take one.” The snap of the board echoed through the warehouse.

Hilda lifted her hand, her voice carrying over the silence. “Three, two, one… action!”

And just like that, the music video began.

Damian had honestly expected something amateurish. Not terrible, exactly—Eden Entertainment clearly spent money on Anya, whereas they never had funds for his own creative projects, and Becky Blackbell would rather throw herself into oncoming traffic than allow one of her preferred artists to look cheap on screen. Still, it was just a pop music video. Damian had built his reputation on prestigious, high-end period pieces and serious dramas. He had spent weeks rehearsing complex scenes with notoriously difficult directors who parsed every syllable. He considered himself above this sort of commercial work.

He had not expected Anya Forger to switch on the way she did.

The moment the camera lens found her, the bright, laughing girl from earlier vanished entirely. In her place stood someone possessing a natural command over the space. She moved knowing exactly how to let the studio lights hit her features. Her eyes followed invisible clues across the room with profound focus. Her hands touched loose papers, doorframes, suit jackets, and a stray glass left on a desk—each gesture carried enough weight to tell a story. She gave the camera a perfect sequence of suspicion, curiosity, longing, and frustration, all without a single hint of overacting.

Damian watched from his designated mark, his arms crossed over his chest, his face revealing nothing. A ten-year veteran performance, he admitted to himself despite his pride. So the short girl with pink hair really was famous for a reason.

The realization annoyed him. He wanted the whole thing to be over. He wanted to go home, strip off this suffocating wool suit, lie on his couch, and pretend this entire Friday had never happened. But Anya kept moving through the scene, and every single time she crossed his line of sight, Damian found his eyes following her.

When Hilda finally called cut, the rigid tension on the set loosened around them. Crew members immediately began shifting the heavy equipment for the next setup. Someone stepped in to touch up Anya’s red lipstick, while another assistant adjusted the angle of Damian’s dark coat.

Anya walked toward him, a light, easy smile on her face. “Are you enjoying the video?”

Damian lifted his chin, a wave of satisfaction moving through him. So ignoring her had worked after all, he thought. He let a smooth, casual smile form on his lips, leaning into his old movie-star persona. “It’s a new experience for me,” he said, intentionally name-dropping his credentials to see how she’d react. “I’ve strictly acted in major cinematic features before, but this is… different.”

Anya tilted her head, looking more amused than impressed by his vanity. “Different good, or different bad?”

“That depends entirely on how long we keep filming.”

She let out a quiet, breathless giggle. Then she looked up at him with that same open, genuine curiosity from earlier. “Don’t you think it’s funny?”

“What?”

“We’ve been in the same room for hours, but we haven’t really talked at all.”

Damian held her gaze, silently praising his own patience for staying dedicated to his technique of keeping her at a distance. “Well,” he said, his tone smooth, “it has been a very busy shoot, especially if we are supposed to finish the entire production today.” It was a reasonable, professional answer.

Anya opened her mouth to reply, but before a word could form, Becky appeared beside them with the precise timing of a security guard preventing a robbery.

“Anya!” Becky said, her voice dripping with cheer. “Do you need anything? Tea? Coffee?”

Damian looked down at Anya, a confident smirk touching his lips. “Let me guess,” he murmured. “Tea.”

Anya blinked in surprise, then smiled up at him. “Just water, actually.”

The corners of Damian’s smile tightened. There it was. Wrong again.

“Anya!” Hilda shouted from across the warehouse floor. “We need you in position for the train sequence!”

“Coming!” Anya called back.

She offered Damian one last polite smile before turning on her heel and walking away. Damian watched the retreat of her outfit. He knew he probably shouldn't be staring, but he didn't stop.

Becky noticed it instantly. “Don’t.”

Damian glanced down at his manager. “What?”

“You know exactly what I mean, Damian.”

He gave her his most innocent, unbothered expression—a look that had never fooled anyone who had known him for more than five minutes.

Becky stepped closer, lowering her voice so the nearby crew members wouldn't overhear. “Do not flirt with her.”

Damian raised an eyebrow, entirely unfazed. “I don’t recall seeing a clause in my contract that prevents me from flirting with the singer I am currently working with.”

“I am making it a rule right now.”

He turned his gaze back toward Anya, who was now standing near the fake train compartment while Sara adjusted her collar. “I’m bored,” Damian said, his voice dropping to a low, reckless murmur. “I’m handsome. She’s…” He raised his hands, tracing a subtle, undulating curve in the air to describe her figure.

Becky stared at him in horror. “Do not finish that thought.”

Damian could not help it. Anya Forger was stunning. She was warm, luminous, and dangerously attractive under all those wardrobe pieces, and Damian was, still a man with functioning eyes.

Becky looked as though she had just witnessed the collapse of civilization.

The truth was entirely simple: he wanted her. It had been obvious from the moment she stepped onto the set in that red dress, smiling as if she had no idea what her presence did to a room. Damian’s mind was already wandering to dangerous places. He could easily picture her at his house. He could spend three whole days ruining her—pinning her wrists to the mattress, working his way down the tense line of her neck, between her breasts, over her stomach until she shivered beneath his tongue. He imagined her legs wrapped around his waist, her breath breaking into those small, moans he'd only heard in his head. Locking themselves away in his bedroom until she begged for mercy, her voice hoarse and her thighs trembling.

Though he knew himself well enough to suspect he might lose interest the moment the chase was over.

Becky’s expression turned strict, her eyes narrowing. “I work with Anya, Damian.”

“You work with me too.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Then try to be fair.”

“I am being fair. I know exactly how you operate.”

Damian’s arrogant smile faded slightly.

Becky pointed a manicured finger right at his chest. “If you hurt Anya, I will be the first person in line to personally cut your balls off. Do you understand me?”

He stared down at her finger, completely relaxed, as if his charm would make any potential disaster disappear. “We are adults, Becky. Intelligent, mature adults.”

“Absolutely not. You are exactly the kind of man who mistakes chemistry.”

He opened his mouth to defend himself.

Becky lifted her hand, cutting him off before he could speak. “No. Listen to me. Anya is my best friend. She is also one of the most valuable artists in this entire company. You are not going to turn your temporary boredom into her problem.”

“I wasn’t planning to make her a problem.”

“You were planning to make her a weekend project,” Becky hissed. “And I am going to stay right here all afternoon to make sure you remember your manners.”

Across the set, Hilda’s voice boomed through the speakers, calling for Damian and interrupting the argument just in time.

He let out a long sigh, adjusting his posture.

Becky smiled up at him, a sweet, entirely fake expression. “Go on. Go be mysterious.”

Damian adjusted the heavy lapels of his coat and began walking toward the lights.

Damian did exactly what he had been asked to do. He stood under the studio lights, maintained a severe expression, and let Anya circle him as though she were interrogating him for high-level state secrets. It was not difficult. Looking aloof and unreadable was, apparently, one of the very few talents everyone in the industry still trusted him to deliver.

Anya, however, seemed to be struggling.

In the scene, her character was supposed to lean over the table, get impossibly close to him, and study his features as if she were trying to catch him in a massive lie. It should have been simple. A suspicious look. A tense silence. A brief, dramatic pause. Except every single time she bent forward, Damian got a very generous, unfiltered view of her cleavage.

And every single time he forced his features to remain ironclad, Anya ruined the take. First, she let out a sudden laugh. Then she covered her mouth with both hands and apologized to the crew. Then, on the third take, she looked directly into his eyes and whispered, “Why are you so serious?”

Because that is literally the only direction your director gave me, Damian thought. But he did not say it out loud. He simply stared back at her, his expression entirely blank, while Hilda called cut yet again.

They repeated the sequence six times because Anya kept laughing, missing her physical marks, or asking him how on earth he managed to look so intense without blinking. The crew clearly found it charming. Hilda seemed amused by the chemistry, and Sara had started smiling every time Anya broke character.

Damian, however, interpreted it differently: she was nervous. Women often got incredibly nervous when they were positioned that close to him. Especially when he looked at them with that specific, focused intensity. It wasn't arrogance if it was backed by years of undeniable evidence.

Still, every time Anya laughed a bit too much or leaned a fraction too close, Damian’s eyes instinctively darted toward the edge of the set. And every single time, Becky was already watching him, her gaze promising murder.

He almost admired her dedication to threatening him.

By the fifth ruined take, Damian decided he needed a plan B to get his manager off his back. 

Freddy and Tertius had left earlier, waving goodbye to Anya between takes and promising to call her later. Becky was the only person left on set who truly knew her well.

Which was precisely why Damian needed Becky gone.

While the crew reset the overhead lamps, he pulled out his phone from his coat pocket and sent a quick message to one of his closest friends.

Call Becky. Emergency. Keep her busy.

The reply came almost immediately.

What did you do?

Damian typed back with one hand:

Nothing yet.

A few minutes later, they were back in position. Anya leaned over the wooden table again, her lips twitching as she fought back another laugh. Damian looked up at her, keeping his face calm.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Becky check her phone, her expression shifting instantly. A second later, the device began to ring. She looked at the screen, frowned deeply, and pressed it to her ear.

Damian maintained his neutral gaze, though a small spark of satisfaction flared inside him.

Across the studio floor, Becky’s eyes narrowed into slits, glaring at him as if she could actually smell the conspiracy through the phone. “I need to go,” she announced to an assistant.

Before walking away, she raised a hand, pointing two fingers at her own eyes and then driving them toward Damian in a clear warning.

Damian offered her a polite, entirely innocent little smile in return.

The moment Becky disappeared through the exit doors, he felt the air around the table instantly improve. With the pressure gone, they finished the interrogation scene successfully on the very next take.

“That was great!” Anya said, brightening immediately as the director cheered. She lifted her palm, offering him a high five.

Damian looked at her hand. Then he looked at her face. But he did not move a muscle. For one awkward second, Anya’s hand remained hanging in the air. Then, instead of getting upset, she let out a soft laugh and smoothly changed the gesture, patting him twice on the shoulder instead. “Good job, partner.”

Damian glanced down at the exact spot where her fingers had touched his coat. Maybe that was just her clever way of pretending she isn't affected by me, he reasoned.

A few moments later, they ended up standing side by side near the props department while the crew prepared the next complex setup. Anya was gazing around the warehouse with that strange, thoughtful expression she sometimes wore, as if the entire room had suddenly turned into a song lyric only she could hear.

“Don’t you think it’s curious?” she asked quietly, her eyes tracking a stray dust mote under the lights.

Damian turned his head slightly. “What?”

“That we met here today.”

He stared down at her. From a purely logical standpoint, no. It was not curious at all. Becky had phoned him. Eden Entertainment had financed the project. Anya was the signed musical artist. This was a workplace. People met in workplaces all the time. There was nothing mystical about a production schedule. But Anya was looking up at him as if she meant something far deeper.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, his voice low.

She shrugged, her shoulders moving gracefully beneath her jacket as a small smile touched her lips. “I mean; we usually move in different circles. Different lives, different people, different places.” She glanced around at the fake walls and the cameras. “But today our paths crossed. We’ll spend the entire day together. And who knows? Maybe someday, far in the future, we’ll meet again.”

Damian watched her for a long moment. Ah. So she was that kind of girl. Sentimental. The type to find grand meaning in simple coincidences, to remember casual conversations much longer than necessary, and to look at a temporary professional meeting and somehow turn it into fate. It was almost sweet. Dangerous, too, if a man handled it badly.

He gave her a slow, measured look, leaning into his classic cynical charm. “Or,” he said, “we could simply say goodbye tonight and never see each other again.”

Anya blinked, the sudden bluntness catching her off guard.

Damian added, because for once he didn't actually want to sound entirely cruel to her, “Not in a tragic way, mind you. Just… realistically.”

For a moment, she seemed to genuinely consider his words, her large eyes searching his face. Then her smile returned—a small, amused expression. “That’s a very sad way to look at the world.”

“I prefer to call it practical.”

“Well, for me, it's just depressing.”

Damian let a genuine smile slip through his defenses.

Before he could offer a retort, Hilda’s voice cut across the warehouse speakers. “Anya! Damian! We need you both for the next scene! Let's go!”

Anya turned toward the lights at once. “Coming!”

Then she looked back over her shoulder at him, her eyes gleaming with playful defiance. “Well,” she said, her red lips curving beautifully, “I guess fate isn’t quite done with us yet.”

Damian watched her walk away, his gaze lingering on the movement of her dress.

Fate… Right… He shook his head once, a quiet laugh escaping him despite his best intentions.

The girl was ridiculous. Remarkable, curvy, incredibly famous, and absurd.

And now that Becky was safely out of the room, Damian had no reason to behave any more than necessary.

And so the afternoon continued. Scene after scene. Take after take.

Damian did exactly what he had been hired to do: he stayed serious and unreadable while Anya’s character chased him through the fictional world of the video.

They filmed in the fake train compartment next. Anya was supposed to run after him down the narrow aisle, one hand balancing on the back of a passenger seat, her eyes fixed on him as if he held the answer to a mystery she had been trying to solve all night. Damian walked ahead, calm and distant, his long coat swaying behind him with the kind of dramatic timing directors usually begged actors to understand. He did not smile, or break character, or ask why a woman in high heels was pursuing a man through a train when he clearly wanted to be left alone.

Anya, unfortunately, did all three.

On the second take, she started laughing before she even reached his shoulder. On the third, she lost her balance and bumped into one of the seats. On the fourth, one of her pumps slipped off entirely, sliding across the floor and disappearing straight under a fake wooden bench.

The entire crew paused, a few cameramen stifling snickers.

Anya covered her mouth, her face burning with embarrassment. “Oh no.”

Damian looked down at the empty foot, then at her. Without a word, he bent down, retrieved the shoe from under the bench, and dropped to one knee in front of her. “It’s fine,” he said quietly.

She lifted her foot awkwardly, balancing against the train wall. Damian slid the leather shoe back onto her heel. Her foot was small. Even her feet are tiny, he thought, a wave of irritation washing over him because of how strangely endearing he found the realization.

“Thank you,” Anya said, her cheeks taking on a pink hue under the lighting.

Damian stood up, brushing off his trousers. “Try not to lose the other one.”

Anya laughed again, the tension breaking. Because of the mishap, they had to reset and repeat the take from the beginning.

By the time they reached the final scene of the day, the warehouse had grown much quieter. The main production lights had been dimmed, low music played softly through the studio speakers, and everyone seemed exhausted enough to move with far less noise.

The last shot was simple. Too simple, perhaps.

Damian and Anya were supposed to stand facing each other in the center of the stage, slowly stepping closer until the space between them almost vanished. There was no kiss, nor any dialogue; this was a music video, not a romantic feature film. It was pure tension. The kind of open ending that would leave audiences wondering whether the spy had finally been captured, whether the woman had solved her mystery, or whether desire and danger were ultimately the same thing.

“Places, please,” Hilda called out, her voice weary but focused.

Damian stepped onto his taped mark. Anya stepped onto hers. For once, the playful grin was gone from her face.

“Camera rolling.”

The clapperboard snapped.

“Action.”

They began to walk toward each other, slowly, taking one deliberate step at a time.

Damian kept his expression intense and detached. That part was second nature; he had spent half his life learning how to look as though nothing could touch him. Anya looked back at him with an equal amount of focus, and then green met hazel.

For one strange second, Damian forgot the lens was pointed at them. Her eyes were incredibly green. He had seen green eyes before, obviously. He had known women with every possible variation of beauty—blue eyes, dark eyes, gray eyes, faces that belonged on magazine covers. There was nothing novel about a pretty woman looking at him. But Anya’s eyes were different. Clearer, perhaps. Brighter. They looked like polished emeralds under the studio illumination, intense enough to pin him in place and honest enough to make him feel uncomfortable.

Damian did not know why he couldn't break the gaze. He only knew that he kept looking.

Anya’s breath caught audibly in her throat. Suddenly, she took a step backward, breaking the rhythm.

“Cut,” Hilda called out, though her tone remained gentle. “Anya, sweetheart, don’t move away just yet. Hold the position for a minute.”

“Sorry,” Anya said quickly, looking down at the floor.

Damian studied her. She avoided his gaze for a fraction of a second, her fingers twisting the fabric of her jacket. Ah. There it is. Nervousness. He felt a sudden surge of his usual confidence return. Of course she was nervous. She had been standing barely inches away from him, looking up into his face, and she had lost her serenity. He could not exactly blame her.

This time, he didn't mind that she had ruined the take. They reset the marks.

“Again,” Hilda instructed from the shadows behind the monitor. “And this time, hold the look.”

They stepped toward each other again, slowly closing the distance. This time, when their faces were only inches apart, Anya didn’t pull away. Her eyes found his and stayed there, wide and unblinking.

Damian looked back at her just as steadily—for the camera. Only for the sake of the project.

“Hold it,” Hilda whispered softly.

Neither of them moved. The rest of the room seemed to disappear into the residual heat of the studio lamps, the quiet hum of the recording equipment, and the strange, suffocating awareness of being close enough to feel another person breathing.

Damian’s eyes dropped briefly to her lips. Anya noticed the shift instantly.

Then Hilda finally shattered the silence. “Okay. Cut! We have it!”

The set immediately erupted into applause.

“That was beautiful!” Hilda said, clapping her hands enthusiastically. “You all worked so hard today. Thank you, everyone.”

The crew members cheered, visibly tired but relieved to be finished. Damian stepped back at once, adjusting his cuffs and smoothing his coat as if his pulse weren't elevated. “I could perform like that all night,” he said dryly, looking down at her.

Anya let out a breathless laugh.

“Everyone, get in for a photo!” Hilda called out, waving her clipboard. “A group photo before anyone runs away to the parking lot!”

The entire crew gathered together, squeezing tightly into the frame. Anya stood near the dead center, smiling brightly for the lens, while Damian remained at the edge of the group with the expression of a man being held hostage by team spirit. Someone shouted at him to smile, but he refused to give them the satisfaction.

After the photograph was taken, people began packing up their gear. Heavy equipment was wheeled away, costumes disappeared into protective garment bags, and the makeup artists rapidly cleaned their stations. The warehouse slowly faded back into a cold, empty building.

Damian was considering slipping out into the night without saying a word to anyone when he heard his name.

“Damian?”

He turned around. Anya was approaching him. She looked a little embarrassed, but not particularly nervous—at least, not in the way he usually expected women to be.

“Could I ask you a favor?” she asked, looking up at him.

That caught his attention. “What kind of favor?”

Anya glanced toward the large exit doors. “Could you drive me home? It’s incredibly late, Becky already left to handle some crisis, there aren’t any taxis operating nearby at this hour, and I don't have a car here.”

“You don’t have a car?”

“I don’t drive.”

Damian stared at her, genuinely incredulous. “You seriously don’t know how to drive?”

Anya shook her head, even lifting both hands in a small, defensive gesture to prove her innocence. “No. I never learned.”

“How is that even possible?”

“I used to take the bus,” she explained, shrugging her shoulders. “Or the metro. Sometimes I just walked. Now Becky drives me everywhere, or my production driver handles it. But Becky left early, and my driver has the day off.”

Damian watched her for a silent moment, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. There it is, he thought. The excuse. A classic, timeless routine. The innocent request, the late hour, the isolated ride home—the perfect opportunity to finally be alone together after a full day of lingering glances and almost-touches. Perhaps Anya Forger was not quite as naive as she pretended to be. Perhaps she had simply taken a bit longer than most women to finally get to the point.

“Fine,” he said smoothly. “Let's go.”

Her face lit up. “Thank you so much.”

She informed him that she lived in a private residential area in Dahlem, in a modern complex situated right along the riverfront. Damian knew the area well; it was an exclusive, heavily secured neighborhood where public figures bought property because they wanted luxury without a dozen paparazzi waiting by the gates. He kept the observation to himself as they walked out.

The drive was significantly quieter than he had anticipated. Anya sat beside him in the passenger seat, her head turned toward the window as the dark streets of Berlint passed by in a blur of yellow streetlights and neon reflections. She did not lean closer to his side of the console. She did not touch his arm. She didn't even make a casual excuse to bring up that final intensity between them on set, or ask if he had felt the undeniable friction during the last take.

Damian waited for the conversation to shift, but nothing happened. She only thanked him once more for the ride and asked if he always listened to classical concertos in the vehicle. When he gave a curt nod, she simply remarked that it suited him perfectly.

When they finally arrived outside her building, Damian parked near the illuminated canopy of the entrance and stepped out first. He walked around the hood of his sports car and opened the passenger door for her.

Anya looked surprised by the gesture, her eyes blinking in the dark. Then she smiled. “Thank you.”

Damian watched her step out onto the pavement. The overhead entrance lights reflected softly across the pink strands of her hair. She had changed back into her casual, everyday clothes, but the crimson lipstick from the shoot was still there, slightly faded after the long hours of production. She looked exhausted, pretty, and oblivious to the sequence of assumptions he had been making for the past half hour.

For a moment, Damian waited again. He waited for her to say something more. For her to invite him upstairs for a drink. For her to give him any clear signal that this midnight ride had meant exactly what he thought it meant.

She did not. She simply adjusted the leather strap of her handbag over her shoulder and offered a pleasant nod. “Well… good night, Damian.”

Damian stared down at her. Good night? That’s it?

No. Absolutely not. He hadn't spent his entire Friday acting in a music video just to be dismissed like a hired chauffeur at her doorstep. Fuck it, he thought.

He took a swift step forward, catching her entirely off guard, wrapped a hand behind her waist, and pulled her into a kiss.

For one stunned second, Anya's entire body went rigid against his.

Damian did not notice the shadowed figure standing near the trees across the street. He did not notice the long camera lens lifting into the light. He did not notice the quiet, hidden flash reflecting behind the darkness. All his senses were focused entirely on the unexpected softness of Anya’s mouth and the brief, breathless silence that fell between them.

Then, Anya slammed both hands against his chest and shoved him back with surprising force. Before he could even recover his balance, her palm swung through the air and slapped him hard across the face.

The slap echoed through the quiet night.

Damian stood paralyzed, his cheek stinging. Oh. He had misread everything.

Anya stared at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she breathed through her nose, her green eyes wide with fury. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she hissed.

He blinked once, his hand instinctively rising to his face, far more shocked by the rejection than hurt by the blow. “Anya—”

“No.” She turned on her heel and marched directly toward the glass doors of the lobby.

“Anya, wait.” He shook off the daze and followed her across the pavement. “Anya, stop a second.”

She stopped just before the electronic doors, spinning around to face him. She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, looking as though she could not fathom why she actually had to explain basic human decency to a grown man. “I thought you were nice,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Serious, maybe. A little strange, yes. But a decent person.”

Damian opened his mouth to defend himself, but she cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“And you misunderstood me.” The anger in her tone was turning harsh, cutting through the quiet courtyard. “Why? Because I was the first person on that set to actually treat you like a human being? Because I tried to make you feel comfortable at work? Because I knew this was your first actual job in months and I didn't want you to feel like every single person in that warehouse was sitting there judging your past?”

Damian became entirely motionless, his hand freezing against his cheek. “What?”

Anya’s expression turned incredibly fierce. “Do you think I don’t look up the people I am supposed to work with?”

His eyes narrowed, a cold realization sinking in. “Becky told you.”

“No,” Anya snapped, her jaw rigid. “Becky didn’t tell me a single thing. She didn’t have to. All it takes is typing your name into Google and half your miserable life appears on the screen.”

Damian said nothing. For the first time in a very long time, his mind was entirely void of a quick, arrogant answer.

Anya’s eyes searched his face, and whatever she detected in his silence only seemed to fuel her disgust. “So it’s true, then,” she said quietly, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Everything they write about you in the papers. That you chase physical encounters and casual relationships with women like people are just objects that means nothing to you.”

A muscle twitched near his mouth. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“No,” she said, her gaze steady and cold. “And after tonight, I certainly don't want to.”

The words hit his chest significantly harder than he ever would have anticipated. Not because he cared about her opinion—of course he didn't. But because she delivered the statement with such an absolute, unblemished wave of disappointment, as if he had just failed some profound test he had never even agreed to take in the first place.

“You’re an idiot,” Anya said, her voice steadying as she stepped backward toward the glass. “And I hope I never have to see your face again. Do you understand me?”

Then she turned around, walked through the sliding doors into the bright lobby, and the heavy security barrier shut firmly behind her. The click of the lock echoed between them like a final verdict.

Damian stood alone outside the Riverfront complex, his fingers slowly tracing the side of his face where her palm had struck him. For a long moment, he simply stared at the glass reflection. Then, a slow, cynical smile forced its way onto his lips—a mask of pure arrogance, irritation, and the deeply wounded pride of a man who had expected an easy victory and received a total humiliation instead.

“Nothing about a permanent goodbye, Anya,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes staring into the lobby. “Someday, we’ll cross paths again.”

And maybe, when that day inevitably came, she would not be quite so quick to turn her back on him. Maybe she would look at him with a different expression. Maybe she would end up reacting exactly the way everyone else in this superficial city eventually did. Or maybe she wouldn't.

Damian told himself he didn't care either way. She was just a pop singer, after all. A famous one, yes. An attractive one. A thoroughly difficult one. But still just a singer. She wasn't an actress; she didn't belong to his world, and she certainly wasn't someone worth wasting his thoughts on once the night was over.

He turned around, walked back to his sports car, climbed inside, and drove away into the dark. By morning, he was entirely certain he would forget the whole pathetic incident had ever occurred.

When he finally reached his empty house, he threw his keys onto the table and stripped off the wrinkled suit. He changed into a plain t-shirt and sweatpants, then picked up his phone to dial his friend's number. The call went straight to voicemail. His friend didn't answer—which meant Becky might very well have murdered the man for helping him orchestrate her distraction.

Still, Becky hadn't called his own phone to scream at him yet, so he figured he wasn't in immediate professional danger. Exhausted, Damian threw the device onto his nightstand, climbed into bed, and closed his eyes, letting the darkness of the room take over.

So. Where were we? Ah, yes. The headline. The scandal. The entire Ostania and the world collectively choking on its morning coffee.

One of the people who did, in fact, choke on her coffee that morning was Becky Blackbell.

She stared at the front page of Berlint Today with wide eyes, wet lips, and a growing, horrifying certainty that she had made a mistake. A terrible mistake. A career-ending mistake. A possibly patricide-inducing mistake. She should not have left. She knew she should not have left.

The moment her husband called, she should have ignored him, blocked his number, changed her identity, and remained on that set with both eyes fixed on Damian Desmond until the last possible second. She had known something bad would happen if she left him alone. She had known.

And now there it was, printed in enormous black letters for all of Berlint to see. CAUGHT: ANYA FORGER — DAMIAN DESMOND’S NEW CONQUEST?

Becky slowly lowered the newspaper. She was going to kill him. No. Killing him was too simple. She was going to murder him, dismember him, use his remains as bait, and then claim every remaining asset attached to his name as compensation for emotional damages, professional humiliation, and the fact that she was, technically, still his representative.

Her phone rang. Becky froze. For one brief, desperate second, she considered throwing it out the window. Then she looked at the screen.

Benjamin Blackbell.

Her father.

Of course he would call now.

Becky closed her eyes. She did not want to answer. She truly, deeply, sincerely did not want to answer.

But she had to. After all… This was her problem now.

Slowly, Becky picked up the phone, and answered.