The morning light had that washed-out gold that made the glass towers of Apex Prism Corp shimmer — too bright, too perfect.
Claire Celestine adjusted the folder in her arms, trying not to let her nerves show as her younger brother, Eli, fidgeted beside her. He was scrolling through lines of code on his tablet, humming the film’s core melody under his breath — the one he’d composed before the studio even had funding.
Their small firm, Stien Studios, had poured everything into this single project: an original, heartfelt adventure film. But now, with distribution trouble looming, Apex Prism had stepped in to “save” them — which meant oversight, control, and lawyers. The kind of environment where sincerity often got drowned in strategy.
They were supposed to go to Level 14, Creative Integration. But the elevator doors slid open before Claire realized the floor indicator glowed 15. The wrong floor. Polished marble. Quieter. Important-looking.
And standing at the end of the hall — him.
Evan Hart, world-renowned performer and Apex’s creative partner for international projects. Polite, famously cautious around strangers, the kind of man whose presence filled an entire room even when he said nothing.
Claire’s breath caught, but only for half a second. She smiled, poised and calm. “I think we’re lost,” she said simply.
Eli frowned at a directory sign, his focus absolute. “This doesn’t match the floor plan I downloaded.”
Evan glanced at them both, something curious flickering across his face — intrigue, maybe recognition at their small studio’s name printed across Claire’s folder. Before he could respond, Eli’s tablet slipped from his hands, skidding across the polished floor. Claire knelt instantly, steady and gentle, checking it like it was made of glass.
“It’s okay, Eli,” she said softly, her voice anchoring him. No embarrassment, no fluster — just quiet care.
When she looked up, Evan was already helping lift the tablet, his tone careful. “You’re Stien Studios?”
“Yes,” she replied, handling introductions with composed grace. “We were meant to meet the creative team on fourteen, but…”
“You found fifteen.” His faint smile warmed the edge of his reserve. “Not the worst wrong turn.”
For a moment, everything — her nerves, the stakes, the city hum beyond the glass walls — stilled. Just a quiet exchange between two people who saw each other’s genuine sides first.
Evan crouched to help, fingers brushing the edge of the tablet before passing it carefully back to Eli. “You’re from Stien Studios,” he said again, his tone more thoughtful this time. “I’ve actually been following some of your early work online.”
Clare blinked — or rather, Liliana— her name only catching up when he looked directly at her for confirmation.
“You know our work?” Her voice carried polite disbelief.
“Your brother’s web tune series,” Evan said, nodding toward Eli, who was already unlocking the laptop again with quick, precise movements. “I remember the sketchwork and the soundtracks. They had… heart. It didn’t feel like commercial art. It felt personal.”
Eli froze mid-tap, eyes wide. The faint glow of the screen painted warmth across his face as recognition dawned. “You—” he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. “You’re Evan Hart. I’ve watched every one of your live performance breakdowns on stage direction—” His voice tripped over itself, and he gave a sheepish laugh. “Sorry. I’m—um—I’m talking too much.”
Evan smiled, quietly genuine. “Not at all. I’d rather talk about music than business meetings any day.”
Eli hesitated, then began softly humming again — the same tune from his tablet, a melody bright but steady, the kind that carried imagination in its rhythm.
Evan listened. For a few moments, the buzz of polished corporate floors faded into something simpler. “That tune,” he said, leaning slightly closer, “it’s beautiful. It belongs in more people’s ears.”
Claire’s lips curved into a modest smile. “It’s one of his older compositions. From the first web tune story he ever published.”
Evan let the melody linger before speaking again. “Then I’m even more grateful I pushed Apex Prism to take on your distribution deal.” His tone softened. “I wanted to make sure the kind of creativity your studio carries doesn’t get buried under paperwork.”
Claire felt her pulse still for a beat. He was the reason they’d been given this chance? The thought tightened her throat with unexpected gratitude — she masked it with a steady, courteous nod. “Then I suppose I should thank you. On behalf of Stien Studios… and my brother.”
Eli mumbled, “Thank you,” but couldn’t quite meet Evan’s eyes.
Evan chuckled, lowering himself slightly in a playful bow. “No, thank you.” He straightened again. “Although, confession — I don’t actually belong on this floor either. I was supposed to be in a director’s meeting on thirteen.”
Claire laughed, warmth breaking her composure for the first time. “Seems like the building’s as layered as the industry itself.”
“Or maybe,” Evan said, smiling easily now, “we all just need better maps.”
“My brother’s very good with maps,” Claire said teasingly. “He just… doesn’t always see the boundaries between floors.”
Eli looked up, eyes puzzled but innocent. “Boundaries just make it slower to get where you’re going.”
Evan gave a quick, delighted laugh — the kind that came from genuine amusement rather than politeness. “I like that philosophy,” he said. “Now, why don’t I help you both find the right elevator? The private one here doesn’t connect properly to the creative division.”
“Lead the way,” Claire said, adjusting her folder again. And as the three of them stepped into the glass corridor, sunlight spilling between them, something unspoken threaded the air — respect, curiosity, and a quiet beginning neither of them realized was already taking shape.
The elevator doors whispered shut behind them, their mirrored surfaces catching fragments of her expression that she hadn’t yet fully processed.
Claire leaned back lightly against the wall, steadying herself more from realization than movement. The encounter had been barely ten minutes, yet her heartbeat hadn’t calmed since. She had expected corporate stiffness from Apex Prism — polite nods, maybe a rehearsed smile for the small independent company they’d absorbed. Not that. Not the simplicity of his voice, the soft humor behind his guarded composure, or the quiet way he’d made Eli feel seen.
Most people noticed her brother’s uniqueness instantly — the way his gaze sometimes drifted or how he focused too deeply on one rhythm. And most, even when kind, treated him like glass. But Evan hadn’t. He had spoken to Eli, not around him. There was no pause of uncertainty, only a natural rhythm of conversation as if he understood instinctively that brilliance sometimes came wrapped in awkwardness.
She glanced at Eli now, completely immersed again in his laptop, the soft hum of his melody filling the small space. Her heart twisted gently — partly out of pride, partly disbelief that a man like Evan Hart, one of the industry’s top-tier names and major shareholders of Apex Prism Corporation, had praised her brother’s tune. And meant it.
She exhaled quietly. Her mind flicked through every reason she should have been wary — the takeover, the way APG’s corporate division had phased out their mother’s management position with gentle smiles but ruthless precision, the signatures and non-disclosure papers that had felt heavier than they should. Her mother, Liliana — the real one, not the name Claire had impulsively used as a shield — had always said not all corporate giants were predators, but Claire had stopped believing that months ago.
Until now.
Something about his manner — that patient stillness and modest distance — had scattered her suspicion without her consent. She could still feel the calm of his voice echoing between the polished elevator walls: “Not the worst wrong turn.”
Maybe it wasn’t.
She’d walked into the building ready to defend everything her family had built — their creative independence, Eli’s ownership of his art, her small company’s integrity. But walking out, she realized she was carrying something else alongside that resolve: admiration. Genuine, cautious admiration for a man who didn’t need to prove his status because he already carried it with grace.
As the elevator glided soundlessly toward the fourteenth floor, she straightened her jacket, half-smiling at her mirrored reflection. “You okay?” she asked softly.
“Mmh,” Eli murmured without looking up, lost in his listening.
She caught her own reflection again — the brief, wistful curve of her lips. For someone so sure she was just coming here to negotiate paperwork, she hadn’t expected her first ten minutes inside Apex Prism to feel like possibility.
The elevator doors whispered open in front of them, their mirrored surfaces catching fragments of her expression that she hadn’t yet fully processed or had she? As the doors held open and she made her way out, she smiled as she thought to her self, He mistook me for our mother than flirted with me, he had put her at ease the first meeting and had genuinely been sincere. He made me forget all the burdens straight away, No not a wrong turn but the right person at the right time to come across.
She exhaled quietly. Her mind flicked through every reason she should have been wary — the takeover, the way APG’s corporate division had phased out their mother’s management position with gentle smiles but ruthless precision, the signatures and non-disclosure papers that had felt heavier than they should. Her mother, Liliana — the real one, not the name Claire had impulsively used as a shield — had always said not all corporate giants were predators, but Claire had stopped believing that months ago.
Until now.
Something about his manner — that patient stillness and modest distance — had scattered her suspicion without her consent. She could still feel the calm of his voice echoing between the polished elevator walls:
Evan stepped out of the glass corridor and into the quieter executive wing, the echo of the elevator chime still lingering behind him. Meetings and schedules flickered in his mind, but his thoughts had already wandered elsewhere — to the girl with the calm eyes and the quiet command in her presence.
Liliana Celestine. That’s who he’d expected to meet someday — the head of the family-run studio he’d long admired from a distance. Her name was all over the early creative rights filings, and when Apex took over the distribution discussions, he’d assumed she oversaw everything herself.
But the young woman in the elevator hadn’t been Liliana. She had her same poised confidence — maybe even the same smile line around the eyes — but everything else about her was younger, more self-contained, and more careful. She’d spoken with courtesy, but with a quiet edge that only people who’d had to protect something precious carried in their tone.
And the way she’d looked at her brother — steady, anchored — told him more than any corporate briefing could. In a building full of marketing power and cinematic polish, authenticity had become rare enough to look almost foreign. Yet she had it.
He paused by a long window overlooking the courtyard below, watching the sunlight skim the plaza’s marble patterns. Eli Celestine. That name he knew instantly. The composer, the web tune creator whose hand-drawn world had captured imagination without corporate backing. Evan had followed that project during its small but passionate online rise, impressed by its soul — unfiltered and almost painfully earnest. He’d told the board in private meetings that Apex should invest not just in content with profit margins, but in creators who still translated wonder into art.
Now, standing here, realizing one of those creators was a young man whose sincerity lived in every note of his humming — and that his guardian, partner, perhaps sister, had met that world head-on with such composure — Evan felt something shift slightly inside.
He smiled, almost to himself. She hadn’t treated him differently. No faint awe, no nervous commentary, no flash of celebrity recognition beyond a polite flicker in her eyes. It had been… grounding.
And, if he was being honest, refreshing.
He leaned his shoulder against the glass, still half-listening to the hum of private elevators moving below. Who was she? Not Liliana. But clearly Celestine. He sensed that in the way she said “we” instead of “I,” even in small sentences. The kind of person who didn’t separate herself from her family’s work — who understood collective dreams and personal duty were the same thing.
A new message buzzed on his phone from the coordination assistant reminding him of the directors’ session on the thirteenth floor. He ignored it for a beat, instead tapping a quick note into his reminders:
Stien Studios – confirm creative team meeting. Ask for full personnel list.
He slipped the phone into his jacket pocket and began walking toward the meeting room, the faint echo of Eli’s melody still lingering in his head. Warm. Simple. Honest.
And for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, so was the memory of the girl beside him — the one whose name he didn’t yet know, but already suspected might have just rewritten his expectations of everyone he’d meet that day.
The Fourteenth Floor
The fourteenth floor of Apex Prism Corp didn’t smell like a film studio. It smelled like polished expectations — coffee, new carpet, and faint acrylic from freshly mounted posters. Every wall seemed to hum with quiet conversations, the kind that decided careers in single sentences.
Claire tightened her grip on the folder again, resisting the old habit of smoothing out every corner. You belong here, she reminded herself. Maybe not because APG said so, but because her brother’s vision deserved to be seen.
Beside her, Eli walked with that swift, unbothered stride of his, laptop pressed close to his chest like a familiar friend. The hum of his tune had quieted now, replaced by his laser focus.
The meeting room’s double glass doors slid open automatically, revealing a long conference table partially encircled by screens, holographic projection boards, and the low murmur of creative directors already talking. There were maybe nine people around the table — distribution heads, brand strategists, and a few creative consultants. A figure at the far end sat slightly back from the cluster, not speaking. Claire noticed him only for a second before directing her focus toward the front.
“Claire and Eli Celestine, representing Stien Studios,” a woman introduced briskly — legal liaison, judging by the tone. “They hold shared copyright under Celestine Holdings, and IP rights to the Starlight Dominion series.”
The name of their film — adapted directly from Eli’s hit webtoon that had built an online following through sincerity, art, and a searing simplicity — brightened across one of the projection screens.
Claire bowed subtly. “Thank you for having us.”
“We’re honored to collaborate,” Eli added, quiet but precise.
A flicker of approval passed across one of the creative directors’ faces. “The webtoon already has a strong emotional tone. Our plan is to maintain the original IP integrity — just scale it with Apex Prism’s reach.”
Claire nodded, aware of the subtext: distribution only, not creative control. The legal team had triple-insured that clause.
Another executive cleared his throat. “We’re also proposing a cross-promotional element through Apex Prism’s music network. One of our long-standing groups — the seven-member band Infinity Line— is considering a special feature. A cameo appearance, minimal dialogue, but woven into the lore of the movie. It’s subtle, organic. The aim is to elevate interest and secure a passionate crossover audience.”
Eli tilted his head, curiosity flickering. “Integrating one of them as a side character?”
“Exactly. A small supporting role,” the strategist replied. “We’d handle the coordination. You’d maintain design and continuity clearance.”
Claire exhaled slowly. It was… actually reasonable. Not an industry takeover, but a bridge operation Firelight. The name meant global range — the kind that could put Starlight Dominion front and center across every streaming home page on release.
Still, she glanced toward the far end of the table. The quiet executive there hadn’t spoken yet, but something about his stillness tugged at the edge of recognition. He was observing — listening the way artists listen to rhythm.
She adjusted her notes. Focus, Claire.
The senior creative, a silver-haired woman named Mara, smiled gently. “We’d also love to retain Eli’s soundtrack as the foundation score. There’s something raw in it — human. That’s the heart of your appeal.”
“I’d like that,” Eli said simply, looking up for once. It was the calmest she’d seen him all morning.
Across the room, Evan felt his expression shift just slightly — a faint spark of pride that he caught before anyone else did. He’d stayed silent, true to form, only murmuring occasionally to Mara as notes scrolled on the projection glass before them. But watching her brother respond, watching her carefully step into every discussion with equal parts poise and protectiveness, confirmed what he’d suspected since the elevator: the Celestines weren’t dreamers waiting for validation. They were builders of worlds.
“Mr. Hart, anything to add?” Mara prompted softly toward his end of the table.
Evan looked up then, the smallest of smiles curving at his lips. Claire’s pulse stumbled before she realized that was where she’d seen him before
“Mr. Hart, anything to add?” Mara prompted softly toward his end of the table.
Evan looked up then, a small, measured smile curving at his lips. Claire’s pulse stumbled before she realized where she’d seen him before — the quiet executive she’d met upstairs, the one who had helped them when they’d taken the wrong turn. But she also noticed for the first time that the man seated beside him wasn’t just another executive either.
He bore the same calm composure, with an unassuming ease that filled the silence around him. His sharp yet kind eyes lifted briefly to meet hers, and a faint, polite smile formed as if in acknowledgment. That was Jae Min, one of Infinity Lines founding members and another key shareholder in Apex Prism’s creative division — a name almost as recognized as Evan’s.
He seemed content to simply observe, fingers loosely folded, the demeanor of someone there to listen, not lead. The familiarity between them — between Evan and Jae Min — was evident in the quiet way they mirrored each other’s focus, two talents who didn’t need words to communicate respect.
And in that instant, Claire understood: these weren’t detached executives sent to oversee distribution. These were artists turned equity holders — men who knew the price of authenticity, and who had come not to own her story, but to preserve it.
“Only this,” Evan said then, his tone steady. “If this partnership is built on authenticity, as I believe it should be, then we keep the Celestine story at its core. We help distribute, not redefine.”
Claire’s throat tightened.
Mara, ever precise, turned her attention toward the far end of the table. “And with that in mind,” she began, “we’d like to propose a creative extension. Speaking on behalf of members of Infinity Line—our long-standing artistic partners and global ambassadors—Jae Min has expressed interest in contributing a voiceover to one of the film’s unseen central figures.”
The screen shifted, light blooming into a rendered image of a luminescent being — neither man nor beast but both, veined with golden scales and quiet divinity. “This is Maelion, the Celestial Dragon of the Ninth Gate,” Mara continued. “A character defined more by voice than presence. Jae Min would lend his tone to that role and contribute to the closing OST. Both can be completed in post‑production
Mara, ever the poised coordinator, gave a small approving nod before glancing toward Jae Min and then back at the Celestines. “And with that in mind,” she added smoothly, “the creative division has something to propose — not a rewrite, but a complementary integration. Speaking on behalf of the Firelight Realm team, Jae Min has expressed interest in contributing a voiceover to one of the mystical characters in Starlight Dominion.”
She tapped her stylus, and the projection shifted — the golden outline of an ancient sorcerer shimmering faintly across the screen, cloaked in starlit runes and dragonfire. “We’re referring to the deity figure Maelion, the Celestial Dragon of the Ninth Gate. His presence in the film is essential but largely unseen — his voice guides the protagonists throughout the final act. This can be done entirely post-production, without reshooting any scenes.”
Claire’s pulse quickened. A voiceover? That wasn’t what she’d feared. In fact, that could be perfect.
A complete on-screen cameo might have demanded heavy re-edits, but a voiceover — especially one for Maelion, who existed more as a sentient presence than a visible being — would enrich the narrative instead of distorting it. Eli’s scripts had left the dragon’s inner voice undefined, mostly placeholder sound design. Finding the right tone for it had been one of their last unresolved challenges.
Jae Min inclined his head politely, his voice low but warm. “I’ve followed the story since its online serialization. The dragon’s dialogue carries instinct and memory. That duality—‘seen but unseen’—resonated with me. I’d be honored to lend a voice that serves the story, not overshadows it.”
Claire felt her earlier tension dissolve, replaced by a slow, measured relief. The adjustment wasn’t interference — it was artistry. And somehow, between the sincerity in Evan’s words and Jae Min’s humility, the collaboration no longer felt like a corporate arrangement, but a creative bridge.
She turned slightly, catching Eli’s eye. He looked up from his laptop, a flicker of concentration softening into a grin as she gave him a quick wink, the silent signal they’d used through years of brainstorming and shared edits: This feels right.
And for the first time since walking into Apex Prism that morning, Claire’s intuition didn’t feel like defense. It felt like trust discovering its footing.
Evan remained silent through the rest of the conversation. The applause that followed Claire’s words — polite, professional, and yet deeply approving — faded to a distant hum as he studied her from across the room.
He’d expected something good from Celestine Studios, but not this. Not that blend of conviction and quiet grace. It was the kind of moment that reminded him why he’d ever stepped into this side of the industry in the first place. She wasn’t negotiating; she was anchoring. Reasserting the value of heart in an industry that forgot how to measure sincerity years ago.
His eyes drifted briefly toward Jae Min. Their paths had always been aligned — two voices in a system that often swallowed artistry for scale. Evan had supported him taking the voiceover role partly because they were both genuine admirers of the source material. He’d read Starlight Dominion late nights between script reviews — its characters simple but earnest, radiating the kind of honesty that didn’t need polish.
But now, watching the siblings stand their ground while articulating their vision, he felt an unfamiliar tug of conscience. I hope we’re not intruding, he caught himself thinking. The collaboration had been meant as a gesture — a bridge through creative synergy — but he knew too well how easily good intentions could feel like intrusion from someone else’s ladder.
He’d seen too many partnerships crumble when power came disguised as help. And yet, seeing her speak, hearing her voice tremble slightly but never falter, reassured him. Claire Celestine whom he’d mistaken for Liliana Celestine— even if he didn’t yet know her name — wasn’t someone you could overtake. She stood like someone who understood the fragile grace buried inside creation itself: the part that no contract could quantify.
Mara’s voice drew him back. She was speaking crisply about timelines and approvals now, her usual energy smooth and efficient. He felt a quiet appreciation stir for her too — she was the real driving force behind this merger’s integrity. It was Mara who had championed Starlight Dominion internally, who convinced the board to keep the psychological core intact rather than commercializing its imagery.
Trust the art, she’d told him weeks ago. These two are exactly what we need — not corporate faces, but proof that passion still funds itself.
And she’d been right.
Evan leaned back in his chair as the team shifted slides and minutes resumed. For years, he’d been that careful balance between musician and mogul, always unsure which side had claim to him. But now, in this room, watching the small independent creators speak their truth without ego, he felt something he hadn’t in a long time — ease. The sense that the art was leading again, not the agenda.
His gaze slipped back to Claire one more time. She was listening intently to someone across the table, nodding slightly, her pen poised and still. He wondered whether she had any idea how much presence she commanded without even trying. Maybe all real artists carried that — the unspoken gravity that quieted a room.
Beside him, Jae Min shifted, whispering something about tone direction for Maelion’s final lines. Evan smiled faintly, murmuring back just enough to acknowledge him before his thoughts wandered again.
She doesn’t even realize she already belongs here, he thought, watching her gesture lightly to Eli as they studied a revised storyboard. And for the first time that day, “partnership” didn’t sound like a compromise. It sounded like the beginning of something balanced — fragile maybe, but built on the right kind of truth.
The meeting drew to its final notes, agreements stacked neatly into folders, soft handshakes circling the table like punctuation marks. The mood had lifted; tension had turned into quiet optimism. Mara’s voice carried warmth as she outlined next steps — schedules, post-production timelines, release targets.
Evan signed off the session with a brief nod, exchanging a few low words with Jae Min before standing. Around him, executives began collecting tablets, murmuring approvals. But across the table, his attention caught on movement — Claire leaning slightly toward Eli, encouraging him to hold his folders while she adjusted her own. Small, unremarkable gestures to anyone else, but to Evan they carried the same rhythm she had spoken with earlier — calm, composed, certain.
“You held it beautifully,” Mara whispered to her in passing as the room began to empty. “That appeal just cemented the collaboration.”
Claire smiled, half in relief. “I’m just glad it felt true.”
“It did,” Mara said simply. “That’s why it worked.”
Evan stepped back to allow the group to pass first. Jae Min followed quietly, offering Claire and Eli a light bow. “I’ll be in touch about Maelion’s voice,” he said, tone measured but friendly. “I’m looking forward to bringing him to life.”
Eli’s face brightened. “You will sound perfect for it,” he said sincerely.
“Thank you,” Jae Min replied, smiling. “Coming from the man who wrote him, that means a lot.”
Claire chuckled softly beneath her breath, her gaze flicking to Evan out of pure instinct. He’d remained a pace behind his colleague, quietly observant as ever. Their eyes met — briefly, reflexively — and the faintest curl of recognition formed between them. Not the spark of strangers, but the soft nod between equals who had seen each other’s sincerity under pressure.
“Miss Celestine,” he said in that calm, grounded tone that seemed to slow a room. “Your words earlier—thank you for reminding us why we wanted to back this project in the first place.”
She felt heat rise in her chest — not flustered warmth, but gratitude. “It means a lot that you listened as artists, not just executives,” she replied.
He gave a faint smile. “That’s the only way anything worth making ever gets made.”
Mara’s voice called from the doorway, motioning toward another debrief, and Evan stepped back, his expression polite again. But as the glass doors closed between them, Claire found herself exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Eli nudged her lightly. “You’re smiling,” he said, looking up from his laptop.
She considered arguing — then didn’t. “Maybe,” she murmured. “Maybe I’m just relieved.”
But as they followed the corridor back toward the elevators, she couldn’t help the thought that crept in quietly: she’d walked in that morning expecting to defend her family’s dream, and somehow she was walking out believing it could grow — not by surrendering it, but by letting the right people see it.
As the doors closed behind the last of the executives, Claire allowed herself a slow breath, one hand brushing against the smooth strap of her portfolio. Relief, pride, disbelief — all of it mixed and swirled in a quiet hum beneath her skin. The collaboration wasn’t just alive; for the first time, it felt secure.
She should have been exhausted, but her mind was light, restless — alive with the fragments of what had just unfolded. If she were honest with herself, she would have liked another moment — maybe a few words more with Evan, if only to ask about his perspective on the soundtrack. Or perhaps even Jae Min, who’d spoken so earnestly about Maelion. There had been a gentleness to both men that didn’t belong to the boardroom.
But before she could even linger in the afterglow, Mara had swept in with her usual commanding grace, taking over the follow-up conversations like a moving current. Charismatic, precise, impossible to ignore — she was already giving final instructions, guiding the project folders under her control, and discussing adjustments with assistants who seemed to materialize around her like well-trained shadows.
Claire admired her. She’d been the one to lift Starlight Dominion off the ground when every other studio had turned away. When funding dried up, when whispers of “unsellable” circled like vultures, it was Mara who had seen potential instead of cost. Without her intervention, there might never have been a distribution pitch to begin with.
And yet.
Claire’s intuition pricked at the edges — soft, subtle, but persistent. She reminded herself not to doubt too quickly; she owed Mara everything. Still, there was something about the woman’s constant, luminous charm that unsettled her — the way her warmth seemed adaptive, perfectly sculpted to match whoever she was speaking to. She wore empathy like a tailored suit, fitted to convenience.
No, Claire told herself quietly. She’s just driven. Ambitious. That’s what success looks like at this level.
But another part of her — the one that had carried her family’s creative world through every failed meeting and late-night rewrite — stayed watchful. Old habits of caution didn’t die easy.
Eli tugged at her sleeve then, breaking her train of thought. “We did okay, right?” he asked softly.
Claire smiled, genuine and immediate. “We did better than okay.”
“That’s good. I liked the tall one’s speech,” Eli murmured, eyes still fixed on his tablet. “The one with the calm voice.”
Her heart gave a small twist at the understatement. “Evan Hart,” she said, half to herself. Instinctively, she glanced over her shoulder through the glass wall — just in time to catch him and Jae Min speaking quietly with a few staff at the far end of the hall. Evan turned slightly, mid-conversation, and for a fraction of a second, their eyes met again. His expression was thoughtful. Present. Kind.
She looked away first. But the warmth lingered longer than she meant it to.
As she and Eli walked toward the elevator, she caught fragments of Mara’s voice floating down the corridor, crisp and assuring. Claire didn’t turn this time. She already knew Mara’s direction would shape the next phase of the production — her management, her schedule, her reach. The film had new guardians now.
Still, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered caution — not sharp enough to alarm her, just steady enough to slow her stride. Gratitude and intuition rarely shared space easily.
She pressed the elevator button, glancing once more down the hall where Evan stood near the glass, head tilted slightly as though marking something unseen. Maybe nothing. Maybe her.
As the doors closed, Claire took a deep breath and smiled faintly at her reflection in the steel. The feeling in her chest wasn’t apprehension — not fear, either. It was something in between.
The moment you think you’ve finally reached safe ground, that’s when the tides begin to shift.