Two hours after the banquet ended, the artificial glitter of the ballroom already felt like a distant echo. Outside, the city was colder and more honest. In a quiet café washed in amber light - soft music too low to name - Daphne sat with a hot cup cupped between her hands as if she needed the warmth to keep her thoughts from scattering.
She had always known Alex was talented. Ever since he was eighteen - still wearing that dangerous, boyish air of someone pretending not to notice the effect he had - Daphne had sensed his mind moving at a different speed. But knowing something in theory was never the same as watching it happen in front of you.
And tonight, she watched it.
Alex pulled out a pad and a pen and started writing without warming up, without pausing, without that hesitant searching most writers called "thinking." Words poured out of him fast and clean, like he'd already watched the entire story in his head and was simply transcribing it onto paper. One script, then another, then another - pages multiplying with the natural ease of breathing.
Daphne stared, half stunned, with the uncomfortable realization that even now - years later - she still hadn't fully understood what kind of abnormal creature she'd fallen for. It wasn't just talent. It was a kind of creative cruelty: the ability to conjure entire worlds as casually as a smile.
If Sasha were here, she'd probably shrug and call it "fine," because she'd seen it once before. Daphne hadn't. Daphne was watching her past sit down at the table again - alive, gleaming, insufferable.
When Alex finally slid four scripts toward her, Daphne inhaled like she was about to take an exam. The titles were strange and bold, full of personality: Cells at Work, An Angel Came to My Side, Miss Kobayashi's Dragon Maid… and the last one had an odd name printed in a language she didn't immediately recognize, the kind of lettering that looked designed to tempt curiosity.
"What is this?" she asked, picking up the fourth one.
She opened it. Flipped two pages.
And for one second, the world ended.
Her face went red all at once - like a kettle about to scream. Not a delicate flush. A full-on blaze, racing from her throat to the tips of her ears, betraying her before she could even slam the pages shut.
Alex froze.
The silence between them was brief, but it stretched long enough to feel like a verdict.
"Ah - " he coughed quickly, wearing the fake dignity of a man trying to look in control. "Sorry. Sorry. I… grabbed the wrong one. These three are the ones I meant to show you."
He practically snatched the script from her hands as if it were a grenade about to blow up the entire night's remaining sense, then shoved the other three in front of her with the urgency of someone trying to smother a fire with a cup of water.
Daphne shot him a look that was equal parts outrage, disbelief, and something older - something she had no business still carrying.
"You - You shameless little - "
Alex only shrugged, not even bothering to deny it. And somehow the insult landed like a warm memory. It had been a long time since anyone had called him that. A long time since anyone had permission to.
Daphne lowered her gaze and started reading the correct scripts, fighting to recover her composure, fighting to act as if her heart hadn't stumbled. But her mind refused to cooperate, because shame dragged the past in behind it, vivid and indecent.
She remembered Alex learning… things. Methods. Tricks. A creativity that bordered on criminal the moment he decided to "play." Walks that looked innocent and ended with her freezing mid-step, biting her lip so she wouldn't give herself away. The low, satisfied laugh he'd make whenever he realized he'd dismantled her resistance without force - just patience and malice and intelligence.
Daphne tightened her grip on the scripts, trying to drown the memories. And slowly, the red in her face began to fade.
Not because the embarrassment passed.
But because something else took its place.
Shock.
The writing was too good. Not "good for something done quickly." Good, period. Sharp pacing, clean scenes, living characters, dialogue layered with subtext. These stories had structure and soul - and worse, they had a distinct voice. It felt like Alex had pulled three complete series out of thin air, fully formed, with the kind of confidence most people spent their lives pretending to have.
Daphne turned a page. Then another. And another.
When she finally looked up, Alex was watching her with that infuriating calm, the sort that said he'd known her reaction before she'd even felt it.
Seeing the faint smile at the corner of his mouth, she understood. He'd been waiting for this exact moment - the moment she wouldn't be able to say no.
"I think…" Alex began casually, too casually to be innocent. "In this one, Chihiro… and here, the Macrophage… and in this other - " He hesitated for a beat, as if remembering something and deciding to swallow it. "Anyway. Aside from one specific option, the roles are all perfect for you."
Daphne narrowed her eyes, suspicious, as if she couldn't decide whether she was being praised, teased, or both.
"These characters are… kind of mature women, aren't they?"
Alex didn't blink.
"Because to me, you've always been the kind of actress with maxed-out 'wife energy.'"
Daphne went still, like he'd pressed a hidden switch. She'd received every compliment under the sun - beauty, talent, presence - but that wasn't what this was. It wasn't pretty. It was intimate. A diagnosis. And he delivered it with the ease of someone who knew her from the inside out.
Then Alex kept going, shamelessly, as if he were presenting a personal theory.
Sasha, in his view, carried a fresher aura - like someone newly married, a hint of innocence still stubborn beneath the elegance. The kind of "wife" vibe that made audiences believe in love that was just beginning. Daphne wasn't that category. Daphne was something heavier. The sort of maturity that felt like years had already passed: the kind that had lived through routine, endured long silences, built a home and a history. Denser. Fuller.
Daphne listened, and her brain short-circuited for a moment.
Against her will, she thought Alex had turned desire into language. And with time, he hadn't become more normal. He'd become more dangerous. More articulate. More aware of the impact he had when he chose his words.
And the most humiliating part was simple:
She liked it.
Daphne cleared her throat, dropping her gaze before the smile threatening to form could betray her.
"Can I take these home and study them?"
"Of course." Alex leaned in with his elbows on the table, subtly shrinking the space between them without touching her. "Want me to drive you back?"
The question slid under her skin and went straight to its intention.
Drive her back. Drive her… home.
Do you want to drive me home, or do you just want - ?
The rational voice inside her screamed like an alarm: refuse. Refuse now. Before it becomes a habit. Before it becomes you again.
But the voice that came out was the same traitor it had always been.
"Mhm."
And Alex smiled like he'd just confirmed an old bet.
The ride to her building was too short and too long at the same time. Inside the car, the silence had weight. Not a comfortable silence - one that carried promises and threatened to turn any word into a spark. Daphne held the scripts on her lap like an excuse. Alex drove calmly, and somehow that composure only made it worse, because it was the composure of a man who already knew the ending.
When they arrived, the night was still wide awake. Her building, lit by cold lamps, looked indifferent to the chaos churning inside her. Alex parked, stepped out first, and opened her door.
Daphne tried to plant her heels on the pavement and realized - too late - that her body had decided to produce evidence.
She took one step and nearly lost her balance.
Alex caught her immediately.
"Careful."
She wanted to curse. To pretend it was the heels. To pretend it was exhaustion. But he'd already seen everything. And without asking, without turning it into a show, he simply lifted her onto his back as if it were the most natural thing in the world - as if she still belonged to him enough for that.
That was when they saw the car waiting out front: a loud yellow Mercedes, far too flashy for someone trying to be discreet. Beside the gate stood a man holding a bouquet of roses, posture rehearsed, expression set like he'd arrived with a script already memorized.
The moment the man saw Alex, his face locked up. It wasn't just surprise. It was recognition - the kind that turns confidence into fear.
Alex tipped his head, politely cruel.
"Looking for someone, buddy?"
The man opened his mouth. No sound came out.
Daphne, already raw and irritated, pride inflamed by everything she'd endured tonight, snapped.
"Evan. Didn't I tell you to stop coming here?"
The name hit like a slap. Evan swallowed hard, trying to keep the bouquet raised as if flowers could function as a shield.
Daphne stepped toward him, and her body protested. She stumbled, her face tightening for a split second.
Alex steadied her before she could fall.
"Easy, Daphne."
Then, as if the world were simple, he adjusted her on his back and walked straight toward the gate with an offensively calm stride.
Daphne ground her teeth - humiliated and, somehow, sickeningly pleased.
Alex glanced at Evan, tone light, almost friendly.
"Sorry, man. If you need to talk to her, try again in a few days."
Without changing expression, he tossed something into the trash beside the gate. It landed with a soft thud. Then he shut the building door with a sharp bang that felt like the universe ending the conversation for them.
Two seconds later, in the lobby, Alex set Daphne down carefully, but she was far too hot inside to cool off. He stood too close - like he always did when he wanted to pull the ground out from under her.
Daphne lifted her chin, trying to claw back some advantage.
"So," she said, smile more threat than humor. "That was my suitor."
"Oh." Alex tilted his head. "Want me to pretend I got jealous?"
Daphne let out a short, venomous laugh.
"Don't tell me you're feeling cuckolded, Director."
Alex spread his hands, innocence so exaggerated it was practically obscene.
"Not really. I checked." His voice dropped, low, like he was sharing a filthy secret. "Everything's still in place. Still shaped for me."
"Go to hell." Daphne shoved his shoulder, too weak to be a real dismissal.
Alex took half a step back, as if he were about to obey.
"Alright. Then I'll go."
Her panic arrived before her pride could stop it.
"No!" The word slipped out, naked and unguarded.
She braced her palms against the wall, breathing too fast, hating her own weakness - and hating its source even more. It was impossible not to blame that wrong script, that cursed Orange House whatever he'd let slip. If she hadn't read two pages of that, maybe she wouldn't be so… undone. Maybe she wouldn't have lost her shape so badly.
Alex paused, as if savoring the victory, then moved closer again with that calm that killed.
"Then… quickly."
Daphne shut her eyes as a sweet, furious hatred rose in her throat.
"Now. Hurry."
Outside, Evan lingered for a moment longer, roses clutched like dead weight. His mind spun, trying to understand when the night had become a disaster.
And then, with his soul crushed and his dignity shredded, he found himself thinking a ridiculous line from some song he'd heard somewhere - because life, apparently, insisted on mockery.
I should be under the car… not inside it.
Before leaving, driven by curiosity that would only deepen the pain, he glanced into the trash beside the gate. He saw what Alex had thrown away - a torn little wrapper, the kind of object that didn't require explanation.
Evan swallowed. Measured with his eyes, as if he didn't want to, and did anyway. The conclusion arrived like a sentence.
He walked away hugging the roses to his chest while a tear of pure inferiority slid down his face, silent, as if the universe had decided the night needed one last punch.
Two days later, across the ocean, Alex woke up in a hotel in the United States with the wrong time in his bones and his mind already trapped between scripts and production logistics. While sipping coffee, he opened his phone out of habit - just to see what was dominating the trending board.
At number one: a pop star's scandal. "Yes, we have a child." The phrase detonating into headlines, comments, reactions, theories, hate, worship - everything all at once. The internet being the internet, ravenous for chaos. Beneath it, the second season of Bleach still holding strong, fans ignited by the protagonist's first win in weeks - a small victory against an opponent who clearly wasn't anywhere near the top of the food chain. A few slots lower, Alex's own name: news that he'd flown out to shoot his first feature film.
It hadn't taken the number one spot this week, and honestly, that was fine. The current arc had entered a steadier stretch, and with Sosuke Aizen absent from the latest episode, the heat naturally dipped. Nothing sits at the top every single day like it's the World Cup.
Besides, the "we have a child" scandal was big enough to swallow the entire conversation. In another era, it would've crashed the platform outright. But apparently, after getting beaten bloody by recent traffic spikes, they'd finally upgraded their servers. This time, at least, it didn't go down.
What Alex didn't expect - and what made him stare at his screen with the exact expression of a bewildered old man on the subway - was what started showing up under his official account.
People demanding he "go sleep with the woman from the scandal just to humiliate the guy." People saying they'd hated the pop star for years and wanted Alex to "teach him a lesson." People treating Alex like he was a character, calling him "Dio," talking about "stealing" a woman as if she were a trophy in some ego war.
Alex blinked slowly, trying to process what he was reading.
What kind of creatures are my fans?
And the truth was, before this scandal, he hadn't even known who either of those celebrities were. No clue where they'd come from, why they inspired such screaming devotion, why other people's lives became a public sport overnight. He only knew this: they were talking like he had an obligation to turn it all into a plot - and they still thought they were being funny.
Alex exhaled, closed the app, and stared at nothing for a beat.
As if they were offering him a "prize."
As if that bread - wasn't obviously moldy.
And as if Sosuke Aizen was the kind of man who'd settle for crumbs just to feed strangers' cruelty.
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