A few months had passed since Henry's audition in New York. The filming of The Pacific was almost finished, and the final scenes carried that strange mix of exhaustion and exhilaration that comes when a long project nears its end. Then came an unexpected invitation—not from a director, not from a producer, but from a name that still made Henry pause: his grandfather, Lord Arthur Boris Amberstein. The summons was curt and precise, asking him to come to the family's summer villa in Australia. No explanations, no preamble.
Henry arrived at the villa mid-afternoon. The grounds were immaculate, almost aggressively curated—lawns cut into perfect rectangles, hedges pruned into unnatural symmetry, fountains that whispered rather than roared. Everything smelled faintly of citrus and ocean air. He stepped onto the terrace, taking a slow breath.
Then he saw him.
Arthur Amberstein stood at the far end of the terrace, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders straight as a ruler. The posture wasn't for show—it was a warning, an announcement. Henry felt it in his chest before he even moved forward. 'Why am I nervous? I haven't even sat down yet. I can't tell if this is intimidation or… respect. Or both.'
Arthur gestured for him to sit at the tea table set elegantly on the terrace, silver service glinting in the sunlight. Henry obeyed, keeping his movements deliberate, controlled. The servant placed a teapot and two delicate cups between them, bowing before retreating silently. The clink of the door closing sounded louder than it had any right to.
Arthur lifted his cup and sipped, slowly, deliberately. Henry watched the movement as if it contained a hidden code, a way to read the room. 'Every second he waits is a second I could trip up. Relax, Henry. Just… breathe.'
Finally, Arthur set his cup down, looking at Henry with the faintest tilt of his head. "Henry," he said carefully, measured, "you told me when you were a baby you wanted to become a horologist. A watchmaker. And yet…" His lips pressed into a thin line. "…you ran away. You became an actor."
Henry's throat tightened, but he forced the words out evenly. "Did I… disappoint you?"
Arthur's gaze lingered, calm, sharp. "My concern is not disappointment. It is… understanding. You chose a path that is public, precarious. And I need to know that you understand the weight of that choice."
Henry nodded, fingers gripping the edge of the table. 'Precarious. Yeah, that's one way to put it.'
Arthur gestured slightly to the cup of tea. "You have chosen an industry where reputations are fragile, where your every move can be dissected. Yet I do not demand you renounce it. But I ask this: maintain your dignity. Preserve the decorum expected of our family. Hollywood will not forgive mistakes as easily as I might."
'I can do this,' Henry thought.
"I am not here to lecture you," Arthur continued. "I am here to ensure you have the means to protect yourself."
Henry raised an eyebrow. "Means?"
Arthur's lips curved slightly, almost imperceptibly, as he reached into his jacket and produced a thick folder. Without preamble, he set it down on the table between them. The sound of the folder landing on the polished surface felt like a gavel.
"What's this?" Henry asked cautiously.
"Look inside."
Henry opened it. Bank documents. Account numbers. Details he didn't immediately recognize. He read through slowly, the weight of the numbers settling in his chest.
"A bank account? Registered under my name?" His voice came out quieter than intended.
Arthur nodded. "Coutts & Co. Twenty million dollars. Yours. Consider it a trust fund, the portion you would have received at eighteen—though the castle and other assets were to be separate."
Henry leaned back, a faint laugh escaping his lips. "Grandpa… I don't need this. I really don't. I didn't ask for this."
"You will keep it," Arthur said evenly, the words carrying the weight of finality. "It is protection. Not charity. I do not hand over money lightly, and you will not argue. This is for you. To ensure that nothing—especially your father—can impede your life choices."
Henry's mind flashed to his father. 'So that's the loophole he used, I never expected the money to come to me anyway.'
Arthur's eyes softened ever so slightly. "You are free to pursue your craft. But you are not free from consequence. Your actions reflect on our family. Remember that."
"I understand," Henry said. 'Even if it feels suffocating, I get it. I just… wish it didn't always feel like walking on a tightrope.'
Arthur leaned back, clasping his hands lightly. "Your father may attempt interference. But I have ensured that you are insulated—legally, financially, socially. You have a network in place. You are safe to pursue your life without obstruction, provided you conduct yourself responsibly."
Henry swallowed. 'A network… that's probably as close as he gets to saying I've got your back.'
Minutes stretched, the kind of silence that is heavier than words. Henry studied his grandfather's hands, the long fingers that held the teacup without strain, the faint tremor that appeared when he let his hands rest. The faint silver in his hair caught the light. Everything about him screamed control, precision, the kind of presence that bends time itself. 'This is what power looks like. Not flashy, not loud. Just… absolute.'
Arthur finally stood, signaling the end of the audience. "Remember this, Henry. Your work, your reputation, your choices—they are all yours, but they are observed. And some opportunities, once missed, are irreversible. Do not squander them."
Henry stood too, still processing. "Thank you… for trusting me. And for… the protection."
Arthur inclined his head. "You earned it. And you will continue to earn it, every day. Do not forget that."
Outside, the gardens glimmered in the late afternoon sun. Henry stepped into the open air, letting the breeze wash over him. For the first time in months, he felt a strange lightness. The villa, the trust fund, the warnings—they were all part of the same equation. 'Okay… life's messy. But at least now… I've got a fighting chance.'
He looked back at the villa. Arthur was already inside, poised, calm, as if nothing had happened. Henry allowed himself a small, wry smile. 'Maybe I can do this… maybe I can survive both worlds.'