Adrian
Leaving Maxen this morning was harder than I expected.
He didn't say much—he rarely does when he's trying to be strong for me. But I saw it in his eyes. That flicker of hesitation. That silent plea for me to stay just a little longer.
I wanted to. God knows I did. But responsibilities don't pause for heartache, and today wasn't the day to fall behind.
A firm knock pulled me from my thoughts.
"Come in," I called, adjusting the cuffs of my blazer.
Rahel stepped in, balancing a file in one hand and my morning coffee in the other—the special blend she brings when she knows I need something stronger than caffeine.
"Thanks," I murmured, accepting both.
She didn't waste time with pleasantries. "So, what are you going to do about Vision Entertainment... and Ryan?"
I let out a slow sigh. His name again.
"Silas is mine to deal with," I replied. "As for Ryan... that's between him and Maxen. I trust Max to handle it. He has to."
Rahel gave me a look—the kind that read too much too quickly. She always saw past the surface. Always heard the unsaid.
"Okay," she said, placing the file down. Then casually added, "By the way, Mr. James requested your presence on set today."
I frowned. "Did he say why?"
"Nope. Just that he wants you there. Maybe it's time you saw your artists in action again. You've been holed up behind a desk for too long."
She offered a smirk as she turned to leave, but I wasn't amused.
I rubbed a hand down my face, trying to push away the exhaustion. The last thing I needed was another unpredictable detour. But if Uncle James was asking for me personally, I had to show up. He didn't make casual requests.
"We leave in thirty," I said.
Rahel nodded and stepped out, the door clicking softly behind her.
Alone again, I picked up my phone. My thumb hovered over Maxen's name. I wanted to check in—ask how he was holding up, reassure him, reassure myself—but I stopped.
Trust him.
He's not fragile. He's stronger than he thinks. And if we're going to make this work, we can't keep treating each other like we're breakable.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket and stood, smoothing down my jacket.
It had been a long time since I stepped onto a set for something other than damage control.
Maybe today would surprise me.
The moment I stepped onto the lot, the air changed.
There was a pulse to it—an energy. Crew members moved with purpose, lights were being adjusted, mics clipped on. Every corner buzzed with the quiet chaos of creation.
This drama was one of the most anticipated projects we'd produced. The buzz around it was already deafening. The fans were watching. Waiting.
"Good morning, everyone," I greeted firmly as I walked in.
A chorus of responses followed—nods, smiles, polite acknowledgments. Familiar faces glanced up from screens and scripts, some offering quick waves.
I spotted Uncle James by the main monitor, deep in discussion with the technical crew. He glanced up and waved me over.
"Adrian," he said, gesturing. "Come see this."
I joined him just as a scene began to roll.
Roderick, our male lead, stood across from one of Veymar's most celebrated actresses. Even through the monitor, the emotional tension was electric.
> "Ben... why are we even here again?"
Her voice trembled—restrained, yet aching.
"The closer I get to you, the further away you feel. Am I not enough?"
She turned away, her eyes shimmering, body stiff with heartbreak.
Roderick's character stared at her, jaw clenched, expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was clipped. Final.
> "Okay. If that's how you want it—then I'm done."
He turned and walked off-screen.
The moment he exited the frame, the actress collapsed inward. Her composure shattered. She pressed a hand to her chest and began to sob—deep, trembling sobs that echoed through the quiet set. It wasn't performative. It was raw. Unfiltered.
She wept like something inside her had truly broken.
After a long beat, Uncle James gave a subtle nod.
"Cut," someone called.
I exhaled, not realizing I'd been holding my breath.
I turned to Uncle James. "That was... intense."
He nodded, eyes still fixed on the screen.
We watched in silence as Roderick returned to her side, crouching down, concern etched across his face. Crew members offered water and tissues. No one spoke loudly. The respect was silent but present.
Uncle James crossed his arms and said quietly, "This is why I asked you to come."
I looked at him, waiting.
"You saw it," he continued. "That kind of depth doesn't come cheap. These actors aren't just reciting lines—they're pulling from real places. And sometimes, those places hurt. It's not just about the scene. It's about what it takes from them to make it real."
I nodded slowly. "They need more than just a director. They need people who understand what it costs to go that deep."
"Exactly," he said. "We need professionals on set—not just for safety, but for support. Emotional and mental."
I looked out over the set, watching the actress recover, still wiping her eyes.
"We've focused so much on performance and production," I murmured, "we've forgotten about preservation."
Uncle James didn't say anything, but his nod was enough.
And in that moment, something shifted in me.
I'd spent so much time managing crises and overseeing numbers that I'd almost forgotten why we did this in the first place—to create something honest.
And honesty costs something.
We stayed on set until noon.
By the time I returned to my office, the buzz of the set still lingered under my skin. But duty called again.
I picked up my phone and dialed Maxen. It was time for him to head to the hospital to see Ryan.
"Hey," I said once he picked up. "Are you getting ready to go? Should I come pick you up?"
"Hey. No, don't worry—I can go on my own," he replied.
"How's work?" he asked, his tone softer than before.
"All good. We'll talk more in the evening," I assured him.
"Alright then. I'll get going. See you at home. Love you."
"Love you too. Let me know when you get to the hospital."
"Okay. Bye."
"Bye."
I ended the call and immediately rang Dr. Sean to check on Ryan's condition. He confirmed that Ryan was doing well.
I let out a breath of relief and set the phone down.
Then I turned to my computer and pulled up Silas's contact. I wasn't even sure if he still used the same number—but deep down, I knew he did.
I attached the files.
All of them.
Evidence of his embezzlement. Screenshots. Transactions. And one particular image—him in bed with the wife of one of Vision Entertainment board director.
I hit send.
Attached with it was a single note:
> Don't mess with my family.
– Veymar
Since he insists on calling me only by my family name, I thought it fitting.
It's always good to have friends in high and low places. It had taken Win nearly twelve hours to gather everything—Silas had covered his tracks well.
But not better than us. Not better than me.
I stood and walked to the window, looking out at the streets of Aurélie Bay below. People moved briskly—unaware, focused, driven. Life went on.
Even while mine simmered with tension beneath the surface.
A knock broke the stillness.
I didn't need to ask who it was.
"Come in," I said, moving back to my chair.
Rahel stepped in, all smiley and giggles.
"Adrian," she said excitedly, "Mr. Gavin just sent an email—we got the deal. The glass project is officially ours!"
She started crying as she added, "Congratulations, Adrian."
I looked at her, stunned for a moment—then let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
We got it.
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TO BE CONTINUED...
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