The applause hadn’t yet faded from Director Stein’s spotlight when Mara’s voice slid effortlessly into the next act — champagne in one hand, attention curled neatly around her other like a leash.
“And while we celebrate legacy,” she purred, “let’s not forget the spark of the new — the talent that keeps the cameras hungry.”
Guests instinctively rotated toward the glass doors, and right on cue, the terrace lights brightened a few tones.
Two figures stepped out from behind the curtain of illumination — Imogen Celestine shimmering in sleek silver, and Lucas Reeve beside her, immaculate and calm. They were arm in arm, smiles tuned just shy of perfection. The sight alone felt orchestrated; even the air seemed to lean toward them.
“Ah, the faces everyone’s been whispering about,” Mara announced, tone honeyed, riding that perfect balance between professional pride and calculated provocation. “Our on‑screen partnership that’s got the networks talking and the internet already in love — Imogen Celestine and Lucas Reeve!”
The terrace erupted. Light strobes burst like tiny suns, journalists surged forward, and the night’s rhythm accelerated into pure spectacle.
Lucas maneuvered the attention gracefully, answering a rapid‑fire question or two with diplomatic smiles. Imogen clung to composure, bowing slightly as her eyes adjusted to the onslaught of light. Behind the smiles, tension flickered — a breath between control and overwhelm.
“Aren’t they extraordinary?” Mara continued, turning toward the eager cameras. “You’ll be seeing a lot more of this duo on‑screen. True artistry, true connection — and maybe a little serendipity, hm?” The teasing note was deliberate, engineered for tomorrow morning’s trending headlines.
A wave of laughter rolled politely through the watching crowd. Flashes painted light across the rooftop, gilding every reflection in glass and champagne. Stein remained near the arch of light, watching the display like a director reviewing a take he already knew the outcome of.
Mara thrived in the noise. “But we’re not finished,” she declared, voice rising again above the music’s swell. “Every story needs its centre, its tension, its heart. And tonight, dear friends, you’ll meet the two leads who will bring it all to life.”
A hush rippled across the terrace — the shift of collective breath before anticipation. Mara smiled, eyes glittering with triumph. “Our leading lady and the man audiences love to fear.”
Behind the terrace doors, a faint movement drew attention — silhouettes waiting in the threshold glow. Even from a distance, the aura was unmistakable: poised elegance and striking presence.
“Please,” Mara called, lifting her glass high, every word performed like a crescendo, “welcome to the floor — Claire Celestine and Strike Chucklin!”
The applause broke like thunder. Cameras pivoted as the doors opened wider, the spotlight chasing forward to meet them. The night, already full of glamour, shifted once more — toward something electric, unpredictable, and real.
The tie sat too tight. Evan wasn’t sure if it was the fabric or the expectation pressing against his throat. The rooftop shimmered beneath the twilight — glass, chrome, and a hundred small glints from champagne stems rising like quiet applause. The jazz floated at just the right volume, polished and pleasant, covering the hum of strategy disguised as conversation.
He’d walked in with Jamin, his longtime bandmate and co‑producer, who had already started sampling the hors d’oeuvres with the ease of someone immune to presentation. Evan tried to do the same, but his focus slipped between the laughter of executives, the practiced tilt of heads, and the weight of the skyline hemming them all together.
“You’ve got that face,” Jamin murmured. “The thinker one.”
“Just wondering whose show this actually is,” Evan replied, eyes tracking Mara as she moved effortlessly through the terrace. Every step seemed calculated — a measured grace wrapped in charm and certainty. The kind of woman who turned visibility into leverage. She had orchestrated every inch of this night: the press placement, the guest list, the performance order. It looked like celebration, but every smile was a business move.
Still, not everyone mirrored her pace. At the far end of the rooftop, near the arch of lighted steel and glass, Evan noticed Liliana Celestine Lee. She stood beside a tall man — mid‑fifties, composed, eyes sharp even behind the calm of conversation. They weren’t the ones laughing too loudly or clinking glasses for notice; they simply existed in a kind of still gravity that pulled attention without asking for it.
Liliana’s posture carried that quiet poise dancers never lose, the language of presence rather than motion. Even in silhouette, he could sense the control beneath the grace — an artist’s awareness. Beside her, the man’s presence complemented rather than overpowered — Jason Lee, he’d overheard someone say, the legal and strategic backbone behind several of EMC’s more intricate partnerships. They stood shoulder‑to‑shoulder, not as symbols but as balance.
He’d known Liliana’s name from past collaborations, back when she’d quietly consulted on one of Apex Prism’s smaller projects. She had that kind of influence — creative, deliberate, never loud. She moved things without ever seeming to touch them. He’d respected her judgment then, though he’d never met her in person.
Watching her now, Evan began piecing things together — the unity between her and Jason, the easy certainty in how people unconsciously cleared space around them. It wasn’t status; it was heritage. Something in the way their gazes swept the crowd gave the impression they were both surveying and protecting.
Mara slowed as she passed them, her smile flattening for just a second — a hesitation, like a flicker of uncertainty when she couldn’t quite place what kind of power this couple held. Then she moved on, recovering the illusion of control.
Evan adjusted his tie again, pulse steady but alert now. It clicked with quiet inevitability — they’re Claire’s parents.
Not in the way headlines revealed lineage, but in the subtler currents: discipline, quiet resilience, an invisible standard that ran through everything he’d glimpsed of Claire so far. No wonder she’d been shielded for so long. Mara’s recent involvement explained why that had changed, how the press now circled where privacy once stood.
He felt the shift, the realization settling in not with shock but reverence. Across the terrace, Liliana turned slightly toward her husband, their shared glance saying everything about partnership — part logic, part loyalty, part long‑learned choreography. They didn’t need the spotlight to hold command; the spotlight existed because of people like them.
Jamin’s voice broke softly through his thoughts. “You look like you’re seeing the script for the first time.”
Evan gave a quiet breath of agreement. “Feels like it.”
Behind the jazz and polite applause, he could hear the undertone — the true rhythm of the evening — and for the first time, he began to read the room for what it really was: a performance behind the performance, where family names were power lines and silence was strategy.
The music softened to a low hum as a new presence stepped toward the floor’s center. A camera operator adjusted his lens, murmuring a name under his breath — Director Adrian Stein.
Evan turned automatically, recognizing the man’s silhouette before the applause confirmed it. Stein had that kind of reputation that reached whispers before introductions — the elusive producer‑director whose U.S. projects carried both critical bite and quiet funding mystery. Few in the room truly knew where he came from; they only knew results followed him.
“Our visionary partner from the States!” Mara’s voice lilted through the terrace, champagne in hand as she moved into full command. Her tone sparkled with practiced reverence. “A man whose creative daring bridges hemispheres, whose legacy continues through generation — the incomparable Adrian Stein!”
Cameras flashed, reporters leaned closer, and the mood changed — brighter, faster, performative. Stein offered a polite nod, that deliberate restraint of someone used to being both directed and deferred to. He didn’t bask in the attention; he arranged it, subtly repositioning the room without raising his voice.
“And look who he’s brought along tonight,” Mara continued, her hand gesturing like she’d drawn a royal card, “two of our youngest talents, already making their mark on the screen — truly creative bloodlines at work!”
From the crowd’s edge, Dominic and Uriel emerged, the twins as radiant as ever — crisp suits, twin smiles just mismatched enough to charm and disarm. They exchanged bashful waves at the audience before Stein beckoned them closer with one firm yet affectionate gesture.
“My sons,” Stein said simply, the first words he offered since taking the floor. His voice carried the calm gravity of experience. “They’ve made me proud — not just for what they perform, but how they work.”
Mara’s delight was instant. “A family of rising stars! That’s what this industry thrives on — talent, legacy, connection!” Her energy climbed, effortlessly spinning narrative from circumstance. Flashbulbs sparked like miniature storms. “The Stein family truly exemplifies the creative spirit EMC celebrates tonight — lineage meeting innovation!”
Evan watched Mara bask in the reflection of borrowed legacy, unaware — or perhaps unwilling to notice — the undercurrent. Liliana Celestine Lee, from her quiet corner, smiled faintly; Jason’s expression remained unreadable.
Stein placed a light hand on each son’s shoulder, his eyes scanning the crowd. For a heartbeat, they lingered on the Celestines’ table before resettling, neutral again, but the silent recognition wasn’t lost on Evan. Something unspoken passed beneath the polished surface — a kind of coded history.
Jamin leaned closer, whispering, “That’s the big alliance, huh?”
“Bigger than we think,” Evan said.
Mara continued her flourish, the consummate showwoman. “With collaborations like these, the Infinity Line universe will shine brighter than ever!” The press surged forward, eager for quotes, lenses focusing on the director and his sons, the perfect image of generational triumph.
But for those who knew to listen beneath the applause, the rhythm of control shifted again — not toward Mara or her executives, but toward Stein, who smiled faintly as if indulging a performance he’d long rehearsed others to deliver for him.
The applause hadn’t yet faded from Director Stein’s spotlight when Mara’s voice slid effortlessly into the next act — champagne in one hand, attention curled neatly around her other like a leash.
“And while we celebrate legacy,” she purred, “let’s not forget the spark of the new — the talent that keeps the cameras hungry.”
Guests instinctively rotated toward the glass doors, and right on cue, the terrace lights brightened a few tones.
Two figures stepped out from behind the curtain of illumination — Imogen Celestine shimmering in sleek silver, and Lucas Reeve beside her, immaculate and calm. They were arm in arm, smiles tuned just shy of perfection. The sight alone felt orchestrated; even the air seemed to lean toward them.
“Ah, the faces everyone’s been whispering about,” Mara announced, tone honeyed, riding that perfect balance between professional pride and calculated provocation. “Our on‑screen partnership that’s got the networks talking and the internet already in love — Imogen Celestine and Lucas Reeve!”
The terrace erupted. Light strobes burst like tiny suns, journalists surged forward, and the night’s rhythm accelerated into pure spectacle.
Lucas maneuvered the attention gracefully, answering a rapid‑fire question or two with diplomatic smiles. Imogen clung to composure, bowing slightly as her eyes adjusted to the onslaught of light. Behind the smiles, tension flickered — a breath between control and overwhelm.
“Aren’t they extraordinary?” Mara continued, turning toward the eager cameras. “You’ll be seeing a lot more of this duo on‑screen. True artistry, true connection — and maybe a little serendipity, hm?” The teasing note was deliberate, engineered for tomorrow morning’s trending headlines.
A wave of laughter rolled politely through the watching crowd. Flashes painted light across the rooftop, gilding every reflection in glass and champagne. Stein remained near the arch of light, watching the display like a director reviewing a take he already knew the outcome of.
Mara thrived in the noise. “But we’re not finished,” she declared, voice rising again above the music’s swell. “Every story needs its centre, its tension, its heart. And tonight, dear friends, you’ll meet the two leads who will bring it all to life.”
A hush rippled across the terrace — the shift of collective breath before anticipation. Mara smiled, eyes glittering with triumph. “Our leading lady and the man audiences love to fear.”
Behind the terrace doors, a faint movement drew attention — silhouettes waiting in the threshold glow. Even from a distance, the aura was unmistakable: poised elegance and striking presence.
“Please,” Mara called, lifting her glass high, every word performed like a crescendo, “welcome to the floor — Claire Celestine and Strike Chaplin!”
The applause broke like thunder. Cameras pivoted as the doors opened wider, the spotlight chasing forward to meet them. The night, already full of glamour, shifted once more — toward something electric, unpredictable, and real.
The applause swelled again — polite first, then electric — that kind of reverberation that didn’t come from respect, but recognition. The name alone was enough to charge the air.
“Our leading lady and the man audiences love to fear — Claire Celestine and Strike Chaplin!”
Evan adjusted his collar, already half‑expecting the lights to flare when they stepped through the terrace doors. He wasn’t wrong. Claire appeared first, poised in that naturally unhurried way of hers — the kind of elegance that made stillness look deliberate. Then beside her came the storm she’d have to weather for the rest of the night.
Strike Chaplin.
Evan had seen photos — everyone had — but he hadn’t expected the full‑body effect. The man was tall, sharp‑lined, too symmetrical to be taken seriously, the sort of face you’d assume was Photoshopped until it blinked at you in real time. He carried himself like a film poster come to life, chin angled half a degree higher than confidence usually dared.
“Chaplin,” Evan muttered under his breath. “Of course his name’s Chaplin.” Jamin handed him a champagne flute in silent sympathy.
The crowd reacted exactly as scripted: a ripple of cheers, flashes exploding like strobe fire across the glass railing. Mara’s eyes glittered with satisfaction — this was her money shot.
Strike took Claire’s hand smoothly, always aware of where the cameras were, shifting his weight just enough to give the perfect frame. Even his grin looked rehearsed to scandal sheets. From this distance, he looked like charm incarnate; up close, Evan suspected, he’d smell like sponsorship paperwork.
“They say he’s impossible on set,” Jamin whispered. “Three directors quit last year.”
“And yet,” Evan responded quietly, “here he is again, like contractually‑obligated glitter.”
Strike had that aura — the bad boy who keeps getting redeemed by ratings. The industry adored him for it. Former chart‑topping singer in Japan, dual‑lingual actor, international model with a luxury brand deal bigger than some production budgets. Every scandal had somehow polished his image instead of dulling it.
“He’s the kind of guy who sets trends by accident,” Evan thought, watching the way Strike’s presence bent the room ever so slightly his way. “Or on purpose — still deciding.”
As the crowd closed in with questions and camera flashes, Strike placed a hand lightly at the small of Claire’s back — protective at first glance, proprietary if you watched long enough.
Claire didn’t flinch. She smiled to the crowd, leaned subtly out of the contact, readjusted the line of her body so that he appeared companionable, not dominant. The adjustment was delicate, fluent — a dance so graceful no one noticed she’d reclaimed the space.
“Smart,” Evan murmured. “Let him headline the posture, you headline the power.”
Jamin shot him a sidelong grin. “You sound like you’re writing her press release.”
“More like her memoir.”
Claire met Mara’s gaze across the rooftop lights, and in that single exchange, Evan saw the quiet war resume — composure weaponized, charm against control. And somewhere between it all, Strike Chaplin basked in the kind of fame that everyone wanted yet no one entirely trusted.
For now, the cameras adored them both — beauty, danger, grace in one frame. But beneath the glitter, Evan already felt the familiar rhythm of chaos tightening, the sense that the night had just found its next headline.
The noise barely settled after their entrance when Mara seized her next breath of control. She glided back into motion — headset glinting discreetly, glass lifted in effortless command, every inch the orchestrator of spectacle. “Now, let’s give our stars a moment to enjoy the glow,” she said into the mic, voice wrapped in velvet and calculation. The rooftop nearly hummed with her choreography: cameras pivoting, flashes angling, anticipation rippling.
Claire felt it — the tightening lens, the hunger for something headline‑worthy. Beside her, Strike Chaplin knew the rhythm too; it was his element. He leaned in close enough for the gesture to look gallant. “Smile,” he murmured, “they love it when it looks like we’re already fighting off‑screen.”
Claire’s laughter was quiet, timed for the microphones, not for him. Her body turned just so — graceful enough to read as spontaneous, deliberate enough to redirect. The flash followed her movement, and suddenly the light no longer framed just her and Strike; it widened toward the opposite corner of the rooftop.
“Speaking of brilliance,” Claire said evenly, hand gesturing toward the sound booth near the terrace edge, “I think the real magic tonight comes from our Apex Kings — the team that built the world behind this series.”
Mara’s controlled smile faltered for half a second, grip tightening on the mic. She wasn’t supposed to lose the pacing.
But it was too late. Guests had turned their heads. The spotlight operator followed Claire’s lead, instinctively shifting the beam to where Jae Min stood, half in shadow, startled mid‑conversation with Daniel Han.
“Our Dragon’s voice himself,” Claire continued smoothly. “Jae Min — the sound and soul behind the character that ties the world together. You’ll hear his voice long before you see the fire.”
Applause burst from somewhere sincere — artists recognizing artists.
Mara recovered quickly, riding the wave she hadn’t planned. “Yes! The Dragon’s voice! And of course, with co‑producer and lead in soundtrack design, the talented Evan Kael — bringing the sound of Apex to life!”
Cameras snapped toward Evan, whose champagne nearly sloshed in disbelief. He gave an awkward half‑salute, earning laughter from nearby guests. Mara followed through smoothly, framing it all as part of her master plan, but the tremor of surprise lingered behind her polished tone.
Strike Chaplin’s smile, however, stiffened. It was almost imperceptible — the subtle narrowing behind the charm, a tightening at the jaw that photographers would mistake for intensity. He clapped along, even turned toward Jae Min with performative camaraderie, but his eyes gave away the calculation. My spotlight, that look said without words, stolen mid‑cue.
Claire stayed calm beside him, a faint bloom of warmth in her chest. She hadn’t planned to humiliate him — only to restore the balance. In a night where everyone was performing, truth had become choreography. Tonight, she’d learned to lead the dance.
As the crowd’s focus tilted toward the Apex team, Strike downed a sip of champagne and leaned closer again, that unmistakable tone of amused irritation lacing his charm. “Clever,” he said softly. “You dance better in conversation than most do on stage.”
Claire smiled, unbothered. “It’s called timing,” she replied. “You should try it sometime.”
Behind the glimmering skyline and soft laughter, Mara was already recalculating, headset buzzing faintly with whispered adjustments. But even she understood it now — on Apex ground, control was borrowed, not owned.
And now,” Mara declared, her voice amplified just above the din, “our guests of honor will take a few questions before the toast!”
Predictable applause. Glasses lifted. The stage lights pivoted again — this time angled too high, too hot. Claire blinked against the brightness, forcing another smile. Her face had learned that muscle years ago: gracious, warm, unreadable.
Cameras clicked in rhythmic bursts; reporters called questions that blurred into sound. Mara was impeccable — every tilt of her chin, every closing phrase an act of control. Claire supposed that required training too.
Then Strike Chaplin spoke.
“It’s a privilege,” he said, voice low and rich, the kind that could headline a trailer with one line. “Stories like this don’t come often — and when they do, they need conviction.” He paused just long enough for effect. “Luckily, conviction isn’t something I struggle with.”
The crowd laughed appreciatively. Of course they did. Strike’s every word bent toward a camera, every gesture calibrated down to a fraction.
Claire’s smile held, but her thoughts circled elsewhere — through the months of shooting, the tantrums disguised as “creative insight,” the delays caused by rehearsed spontaneity. He wasn’t cruel, not exactly — just absorbed, a man who measured life by his reflection in other people’s eyes. There was brilliance in him too; when he committed, he shone. That was the problem. He needed to outshine.
She respected what he could do on camera. His emotion, when real, was raw, magnetic. Off camera, though… he collected attention the way others collected memories. It wasn’t enough to be in the frame — he had to be the reason it existed.
Still, she couldn’t entirely dislike him. There was charm tucked into his chaos, a disarming honesty that surfaced between takes, especially around Lucas Reeve. Those two were reckless but genuine together — late‑night script rewrites, shared complaints about lighting angles, laughter that rang through sterile studio halls. Lucas had a gift for bringing out the decent parts of people, even Strike. Maybe that was why she never completely wrote him off.
A photographer called her name — she turned instinctively, another pose, another spark of light. The rooftop felt smaller with every flash. Everyone smiling, drinking, scheming — and underneath, the art they claimed to love fading into decoration.
She glanced toward the far railing, where her parents stood quietly near Director Stein and the twins. They were so close yet felt worlds away. It would look unprofessional to retreat to them, and professionalism tonight was everything. So she stayed — trapped under the weight of spectacle.
Her eyes found Evan. He’d drifted to the outer ring of the terrace now, talking to Jae Min near the sound booth — calm, almost invisible compared to the golden chaos at center stage. He didn’t try to command attention; he just was. Steady. Listening. The sight steadied her pulse for the first time that night.
When the final flash went off, Claire exhaled quietly, a whisper lost under applause. She smiled for Mara one last time — perfect, poised, polite — and promised herself the first chance she got, she’d step outside the line of sight.
The balcony called to her like oxygen waiting behind glass. Maybe, after the toasts and speeches, she could finally slip away — trade the hot glare of the spotlight for the cool hush of night air, and remember for a few minutes what it felt like just to be herself.
The rooftop still shimmered behind the glass doors, laughter pulsing faintly through steel and glass. Claire was gone somewhere beyond the terrace — vanished into night air and freedom — when a low voice sounded behind Evan.
“Kael, isn’t it?”
He turned. The man addressing him wasn’t security, but he carried the same quiet authority. Tailored charcoal suit, composed expression — that moment’s pause before power introduced itself.
“Jason Lee,” the man said, extending a hand.
Evan blinked once before recovering. Lee. As in… He took the handshake, feeling the steady weight of composure that no executive training could fake.
“It’s good to finally meet you properly,” Jason said. “We’ve followed your work with the Apex soundscapes. My wife’s been recommending you to our post‑production team for months.”
Evan caught the faintest smile from behind him — Liliana Celestine Lee, luminous though unadorned, standing just far enough back that the conversation still felt private.
“A pleasure,” she said softly. “You and Jimin’s group — Infinity Line, yes? — have set a new sonic tone for Apex. I hear your live sessions have become… events.”
“We try not to overdo the volume,” Evan managed with a grin.
Behind him, their manager, a woman with clipped professionalism whose focus rarely wavered from her artists, stepped forward. “Sorry — Eun Seo,” she introduced briskly. “I oversee public schedules for Apex’s bands and co‑productions. It’s an honor.” She nodded toward the Lees, diplomatic yet protective. Evan caught the subtlety — she rarely let her artists walk into a conversation without context.
Jason gestured toward the side corridor. “Come inside, both of you. The photographers won’t find their way down here, and Mara’s too busy stage‑managing her next headline.”
The invitation wasn’t really a request. They followed him down a narrow passage lined with soft lighting. The hum of the rooftop faded — replaced by a low pulse of air conditioning and muffled jazz leaking through vents.
The green room lived up to its label — soft emerald tones, minimalist furniture, framed stills from Celestine Studio’s classics hanging unobtrusively on one wall.
“This is impressive,” Evan said, letting the quiet settle around him. “Hard to believe there’s calm this close to that chaos.”
Liliana’s faint smile lingered. “That’s the point. Creativity doesn’t grow in noise. We’ve just learned to make quiet spaces where we can still be seen.”
Evan studied her a moment. There was the dancer’s precision in her every movement, mirrored in Claire. Even the cadence of her speech carried the same restraint — grace without submission.
Jason crossed to the drinks table, pouring water into tumblers rather than champagne. “We were curious about the Apex approach,” he said. “It’s not just music, is it? Your work’s starting to run parallel with cinematic sound.”
“It’s moving that way,” Evan admitted, accepting the glass. “Apex Prism wants its projects to breathe — music linking through narrative spaces, not just chart cycles.”
Jason nodded approvingly. “Good. That’s how art sustains itself when distribution politics start choking the channels.”
Liliana’s gaze softened. “You sound like someone who understands that balance — why a project needs structure as much as soul.”
Evan hesitated. “I try. Claire—” he stopped himself, but Jason’s light smirk told him the omission wasn’t unnoticed.
“—Speaks highly of your instincts,” Jason finished.
Eun Seo’s expression cracked into a whisper of amusement, tension easing. “She doesn’t hand out praise lightly,” she said.
The conversation drifted then, comfortably, across topics — Apex’s studio collaborations, Infinity Line’s next tour, the uptick in U.S. co‑production interest. The Lees asked questions shaped more by curiosity than hierarchy; Evan answered, still half disbelieving that he was standing opposite people who quietly ran one of the most influential creative networks in the world.
But maybe the most surprising thing was how normal it felt — professional, human, even warm. For once, no cameras, no measured PR lines, just the hum of mutual respect.
Somewhere above them, the rooftop orchestra began playing a new jazz reprise.
Jason glanced toward the ceiling. “Mara’s preparing her next act,” he said dryly. “We should give her audience something to chase.”
Eun Seo checked her watch, ever the manager. “Speaking of chases, I should find Jae-Min before he manages to disappear. He hates being cornered by interviewers.”
“Go on,” Liliana said with genuine fondness. “We’ll keep Evan safe from the sharks for a few minutes more.”
Evan smiled at that, a little too reflexively, then realized he wasn’t sure whether she meant literal executives or metaphorical ones. Maybe both.
And for the first time all night, laughter came naturally.
Out in the cool of the balcony she just played it all out in her head again her introspection side and her head pressed to chest to calm herself because of the pressure every thing counted on.
Cameras snapped instantly. Claire dropped her shoulders one breath, bracing as Mara glided toward them — sequined navy, flawless smile, all diplomacy dressed as charm.
“You must forgive me, darling,” she cooed, “I swear you steal the spotlight simply by standing still.”
“I didn’t realize there was one,” Claire replied, measuredly polite. Their handshake was elegant, impersonal, cold.
“There always is,” Mara said, smiling with edges. “And it never waits forever.”
She thought to herself that Mara, just a break from her power play and high exposure expectations before her puppetry takes hold again, I’m trying my best to be myself in her circumstances.
Clair had cautiously watched the room before her entrance and remembered as Evan glanced sideways, catching the faintest lift of her chin — toward the far corner, where Liliana Celestine Lee and Jason Lee stood eye‑to‑eye, calm amid the glass and silver. They blended into the background yet carried weight that bent it around them.
Claire’s parents. Quiet power dressed as grace. He’d heard of them, but seeing them side by side, matching in understated composure, made the word legacy suddenly tangible.
Liliana’s still poise, Jason’s steady half‑smile — they didn’t need to speak; they were equilibrium personified. Evan understood, in a single moment, where Claire’s calm came from.
The night advanced one announcement after another. Mara’s rhythm hit its stride again. “To celebrate collaboration — creativity beyond borders — please welcome Director Adrian Stein!”
Applause swelled as a tall figure moved forward, posture effortless, eyes quietly piercing: the legendary Adrian Stein, flanked by two younger men. The twins, Dominic and Uriel Stein, looked like living echoes of him — both charismatic, both perfectly at ease under flashes.
“A family of visionaries,” Mara chimed. “Director Stein and his sons — the new wave of cinematic brilliance!”
Stein nodded briefly. “We build stories to last,” he said, voice calm amid the roar. The crowd responded with admiration; Mara simply glowed beside him, oblivious to how the Celestines were exchanging small, amused glances nearby. She didn’t realize this whole empire already ran deeper than her polished performance.
Then came the next cue — Mara’s voice rising in crescendo. “But every story needs its faces. Its heart. Tonight,” she declared, “we unveil the ones who will carry the screen this season. Our leading lady and the man audiences love to fear — Claire Celestine and Strike Chaplin!”
The terrace broke into thunderous applause. Evan’s pulse quickened in spite of himself — curiosity, admiration, maybe something sharper.
Claire appeared first, radiant yet unhurried. Then the screen idol: Strike Chaplin — devastatingly handsome, sculpted angles, the kind of symmetry that seemed unfairly intentional. Even his stride was publicity‑ready.
“Chaplin,” Evan muttered, taking a sip of champagne. “What’s next, Cinematic Royalty Inc.?”
“Careful,” Jamin whispered beside him. “He starts trends by existing.”
Strike greeted the flashes like a conductor guiding applause. The man glowed — an actor with the face of a model, the resume of a controversy, and the arrogance of both. Tall, Japanese‑Korean lineage, fluent charm — part former pop idol, part catwalk phenomenon, still very much headline gold.
“They say he’s impossible on set,”Jae-Min added.
“Makes sense,” Evan said. “The camera doesn’t fire unless the muse is rearranged.”
At the center, Strike leaned subtly toward Claire, his hand dropping to her waist, smile perfect for cameras. Every lens loved it. Every instinct in her told her otherwise. She turned lightly, movement poised but decisive, shifting the pose just enough that the hand fell away. The moment looked seamless to observers, but Evan caught it — the quiet edit from dominance to partnership.
Then Claire, exhaling softly, lifted her hand toward the terrace’s sound booth. “If we’re celebrating talent,” she said smoothly, “we can’t ignore the Apex Kings — the ones who actually make us sound like we belong here.”
The spotlight operator hesitated, then tracked her gesture toward Jae -Min, half‑hidden near the booth.
“Our Dragon’s Voice,” Claire continued with natural timing. “His sound makes our world real.”
The crowd pivoted — reporters, producers, everyone. Applause. Real appreciation, not PR applause.
Mara froze for half a second, headset humming against her temple, then recovered. “And his co‑producer, of course, the incomparable Evan Kael!”
Evan nearly spilled his glass as laughter surrounded him. Mara smiled wider, pretending it had been in her plan all along.
Strike maintained his grin, but his jaw locked ever so slightly. The crowd’s lens had turned, and he didn’t like recalibration. Cameras fell on Jae-Min and Evan now — artists over image.
Claire glanced sideways, victory barely perceptible in her eyes. She hadn’t humiliated him; she’d just balanced the scales.
The toasts began again, signaling the final press wave. Mara steered attention back to the centre, satisfied enough to regain rhythm. Strike agreed to another photo. Claire stayed, but her thoughts had already drifted far from the applause.
She smiled when required, spoke when cued, and wondered if anyone else could feel how empty the laughter had become. The rooftop shimmered beautifully, but it didn’t breathe.
Strike’s voice cut through the noise. “You dance better in conversation than most do on stage.”
“It’s called timing,” she replied evenly.
Then the flash went off again, and she remembered exactly why she hated these nights.
For all his charisma, Strike’s magnetism came with a cost — every set delayed by his moods, every co‑star orbiting his spotlight until they either burned out or adapted. Lucas never seemed to mind; maybe that’s why they were friends. They were alike, in the way men with too much charm always recognized each other. Lucas was good‑natured, though — like sunlight refracted through glass rather than through ego.
Claire knew to keep her professionalism intact, keep the interviews flowing, the photos sharp, the smiles sellable. But inside, she just wanted air — and Evan’s quiet steadiness, the voice that didn’t need an audience.
The last flash popped before the music surged again. Finally.
Beneath the rising hum of renewed chatter, she murmured to herself, “Almost through this.” She moved toward the balcony doors, just past the cluster of executives — the open night beckoning.
But as she turned, she caught a glimpse of what the photographers were already loving — Imogen Celestine and Lucas Reeve, glittering under spotlights beside Strike Chaplin, drinks in hand and laughter rehearsed perfectly for publication.
The press didn’t tire; they just shifted targets. “The power trio,” someone whispered, snapping another photo.
Jae-Min, still half in shadow, began packing his bag quietly — another show over, another escape in motion.
Claire smiled faintly at that. He wasn’t wrong. Some of them sought the light. Others made peace with the dark.
As the terrace roared for one final group shot, she finally stepped into the cool air beyond the glass. The noise dimmed behind her, replaced by the soft hum of the city below — and somewhere inside, near the quiet booth, Evan looked up, as though he already knew where she’d gone.
He must have surmised that she retreated to access the situation and her eyes in search to greet her parents that had retired to the green room away from the spotlight.
The meeting with Liliana and Jason ended smoothly, the formality of business giving way to quiet understanding. When Evan stands, he offers them a courteous bow — not overly deep, just enough to convey genuine respect. His tone remains measured, professional, but warm; every word is careful, thoughtful. It’s the kind of composure that earns trust without asking for it.
As they leave, Eun Seo touches Evan’s sleeve. “I’ll head up first,” she says softly. “Jae-Min’s checking the sound levels for the rooftop sequence.” He nods, a knowing half‑smile tugging at his mouth, and thanks her before she slips out into the hallway.
The room falls still again. The muffled bass from above filters through the ceiling, a reminder that the world outside is still dazzling and loud.
The door slides open, Claire steps in.
For a moment, the city stays caught in her hair — a glint of light, rain‑slick reflection from the skyline. She’s shed the smile the cameras demanded, but the intensity of the evening still clings to her posture. Her gaze lands on him, and something softens.
Evan straightens automatically, smoothing his jacket; it’s an old habit more than self‑consciousness. “Claire‑ssi,” he greets quietly. His voice carries the calm courtesy he always has — never distant, but never assuming closeness. Just respectful, grounded.
Her eyes flick to the door behind him, then back. “My parents were talking with you,” she says, searching his expression. “They seemed… comfortable.”
He nods once, modestly. “They’ve been gracious. I was asked to assist on Apex’s creative side for a few sequences — especially Maylion’s segments. Jae-Min and I handled some of the voice layering and spatial sound design. Your mother had notes that were—” he hesitates slightly, then smiles, “—very precise. It helped.”
Claire studies him for a moment. It’s not common, people slipping so easily into her family’s inner circle. Yet there’s no calculation in his tone, no self‑congratulation. Just calm sincerity. The kind that disarms.
Her guard lowers a fraction. “They don’t usually open their projects that quickly,” she admits.
“I just tried to listen,” he replies. “They know what they want it to feel like — not just how it should look.” That phrasing makes her pause; he’s understood them more deeply than most at Elysian ever will.
Above them, cheers ripple faintly through the ceiling as the first countdown for the fireworks begins.
Evan glances upward, then back to her. “They’ll start soon,” he says. His tone lightens, carrying that unhurried politeness again. “You should see them from the river side. I’ll wait for you there — near the railing. It’s quiet on that edge.”
There’s no pressuring weight to his words, only sincerity. He gives a respectful nod, a subtle step backward — the kind of calm patience that’s become signature to him.
Claire meets his eyes for a heartbeat longer than she means to. “The river side,” she repeats softly.
He inclines his head once more, then moves past her with quiet precision, opening the door to slip into the dim hallway beyond. The sounds of the rooftop celebration swell faintly before fading again.
Now it’s just her. The room carries traces of the conversation — the warmth in her father’s tone earlier, her mother’s rare approval, the quiet steadiness Evan brought into both. She exhales slowly.
In her mind, Maylion unfurls his wings — a dragon stitched from sound, family, and trust.
And she knows, already, where she’ll be when the fireworks begin.
The Apex Theatre rooftop shimmered under the city twilight — fairy lights wound through polished steel beams, soft jazz curling through the air, tables glinting with champagne and restraint. The invitation had promised celebration, but every detail screamed control.
Claire paused at the terrace rail, the whole skyline stretching before her like a stage backdrop. She’d arrived in neutral tones — elegant but unflashy, the kind of presence that drew eyes because it didn’t try to. Around her, executives mingled with press, their laughter too even, their smiles rehearsed.
“You look like you’re plotting an escape route,” a voice murmured behind her.
She turned to find Evan, freshly pressed in a dark suit, the wind catching strands of his hair. “Maybe just timing my exit,” she replied.
“We could synchronize watches,” he said, his tone low enough to draw a hint of warmth to her cheeks.
Before either could say more, a clear, commanding voice rang through the terrace. “Claire Celestine! Our leading lady!”
Mara glided toward them — sequined navy dress, flawless smile, the kind of glamour that could disarm suspicion in a heartbeat. Cameras angled, lenses shifting. “You must forgive me,” she purred. “You’re always stealing the spotlight without meaning to.”
“I didn’t know there was one,” Claire said easily, offering the handshake expected. Their fingers met — brief, cool contact.
“Of course there is,” Mara said, her grin unwavering. “And perhaps you should enjoy it while it’s yours.” The words fell like silk but caught like wire.
Evan stepped forward just enough that his shoulder aligned beside Claire’s. “Mara,” he greeted smoothly. “Beautiful evening for exposure.”
“Exposure makes stars,” Mara replied without missing rhythm. “And tonight, everyone shines.”
Around them, lenses flashed as the media ushered guests toward photo banners. Mara gestured for Claire and Evan to move together. “Just one shot for the archives — the executives love a picture of cooperation.”
Claire’s jaw tightened. Evan felt it and whispered close enough for only her to hear, “Hold for three seconds. Then exhale.”
They posed. One, two, three — the flash burst, and she smiled through it. When it cleared, she noticed Mara already turning away, collecting other faces for her next frame of influence.
“She’s good,” Evan said quietly. “You’d almost think the city revolves around her.”
“She thinks it does,” Claire replied.
“You’re not wrong.” He glanced toward the opposite side of the rooftop, where Daniel Han and Jae Min had just arrived, exchanging polite bows. “We’ve got friends here tonight, at least.”
Claire followed his gaze, relief flickering before her attention caught another sight — Imogen and Lucas arriving arm‑in‑arm under camera flash. Lucas smiled for the photographers, immaculate in his designer suit, while Imogen’s nervous grin betrayed too much sincerity for showbusiness. The gossip headline had come to life right under Mara’s careful guidance.
“Perfect timing,” Mara crooned as she intercepted the pair. “The industry’s favorite couple — come, come, the press is starving for you!”
Claire’s stomach turned at the precision of it all. Every movement here felt choreographed, every word a cue.
Evan touched her wrist lightly. “Let her play. For now.”
“You think we should?”
“Long enough to see which move she plays next.”
Claire nodded, eyes fixed on the brilliant skyline, camera shutter clicks flashing like signals of an oncoming storm.
The party went on — laughter spilling, contracts hinted at, toasts ringing hollow. To everyone else, it was a night of glamour, unity, and cinematic triumph.
But for the few who knew better — Claire, Evan, and Daniel lingering near the terrace edge — it was the beginning of the first open clash, fought not with shouting but with smiles sharp enough to draw blood.
Whilst fire works shot loud as bombshells smoking up the cool clear air.