Chapter 1
**Highwatch Tower** The energetic buzz of Silver Falcon Entertainment filled the air, alive with chatter and excitement. It didn't normally feel this frantic; after all, the annual meeting was still two months away. “What’s the deal? I thought everyone’d be out until the meeting!” a voice exclaimed. “Didn’t you hear? Lucas Hart got booted, and they’ve brought in some big wig from outside. It’s a whole drama,” another answered, wide-eyed. “Holy crap! Was that Mr. Ming I just saw? He hardly ever makes appearances. I need to snag his autograph before he disappears again,” said a freshly minted intern, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Relax, kid. You're still in the intern phase. Don't go stirring up trouble just because you saw a celebrity… I caught Mr. Ming earlier, and he didn’t look too happy. Best to steer clear, trust me.” “Ugh, my heart...” Emerging from the restroom, Eleanor Bright gave a brief nod to the duo in the hall and slipped out of the building, her mind elsewhere. “Wow, that intern was hot! Who is he?” one whispered, momentarily forgetting their previous conversation. “That's Eleanor Bright. He’s been around, but with his recent absence from the spotlight, I bet he’s about to make a comeback. People will definitely be interested—especially since the new boss apparently has plans to revitalize old names like him.” --- “Want one?” William King leaned casually against the wall by the back entrance, smoke swirling in the crisp morning air. “Thanks, but my head’s been pounding for days,” Eleanor replied as she struck a match, holding it but not lighting a smoke. “Did you go chat with the princess?” William’s eyes narrowed playfully, a slight smirk gracing his lips, soaked in the warmth of autumn sunlight. “Too many people in line. I just couldn’t face it,” Eleanor shrugged, offering a playful smile. “Not even gonna smoke that? Think my cigarettes are trash?” he teased, lighting one for himself and inhaling deeply. “If anything, I can’t afford to complain about resources; I just need to fix my head first.” She clutched the matchstick, clearly in no mood to indulge. “Seriously, though, why ask me for a smoke?” “I can’t say no to you, King. You know that.” He chuckled lightly, glancing sideways at her. “You’ve changed a lot lately.” “Changed how?” she asked, defensive yet curious. “Last time I saw you, you were a wreck. You rushed straight into the restroom when you got here. If money's the issue, just say the word. I'm here to help—remember, we’re old fish in this game.” “Thanks, King. It’s just, this headache—I can’t shake it. It’s been over a month, and sleep’s been elusive,” she sighed, casting a glance at the matchstick again, warmed by the sun. “Look, when you can, go get checked. And for sure, if you need cash, I’m your guy. We’ll power through this, like the true veterans we are,” he reassured her, a hint of sincerity breaking through his easy-going facade. “Thanks. Appreciate it. I guess it’s time for me to go in now.” “Sure. And by the way, you can call me Cloud Brother now. The new boss had a master change my name; I'm officially Warren King.” He flashed a lazy grin, eyes lingering on the warming dawn, a flicker of hope sparkling within. “Cloud Brother? That hits home strangely...” she mumbled, feeling it was all too familiar. --- On the second floor of the Ella department, Eleanor spotted her manager, Brooke Brooks, swarmed by a dozen eager faces. The energy was electric, with nearly all Ella employees present. “Finally, our superstar has graced us with his presence!” Brooke’s voice boomed as she approached, his excitement barely contained. “Let’s get real; our new big boss has laid down a golden opportunity. They're re-evaluating all of us Ella, and now until the end of next year, we’ll be boosting our fading stars back into the light.” It was a tired mantra; every year overflowed with plans for revitalizing washed-up names, both on reality shows and dramas. But under the silver pinwheels of the new regime, they’d likely continue promoting fresh, young talent—everything else felt like a spin on an old wheel. Brooke was reveling in his moment, pretending each word was groundbreaking. “Use this chance to audition!” he encouraged, clapping his hands with authority. “Wait, did I miss my shot? See ya!” a voice piped up. “Guess not, huh? Alright, everyone, let’s go meet the big boss!” Brooke replied, adjusting Chester White’s collar as if it would make all the difference. Eleanor trailed behind as they made their way to the Grand Entrance Hall. Just as they arrived, the elevator slid open, revealing a striking contrast: five fading Ella accompanied by the “Princess” Gwendolyn Gray and her fawning entourage. As the past-their-prime Ella hurriedly offered greetings, the chasm between an Ella and another Ella felt like an unbridgeable gulf. Gwendolyn smiled, cool and collected, her politeness shining through. “See Little Rain over there?” Brooke mused, as if casting judgment. “This industry requires networking and charm, not just talent. Little Rain’s courteousness will take her far.” Eleanor rolled her eyes, almost embarrassed by his cluelessness. When they at last reached the Lord's Privileged Chamber on the top floor, it was equally as sterile as it was empty. Brooke pulled Chester aside, settling himself into a posture of reverence while the others remained silent. After a few moments of awkwardness, Eleanor fiddled with her phone, about to entertain herself when the door cracked open. Walter Shield, the new big boss, stood in stark contrast to the lively Lucas Hart. Walter was serious, even stern, his youthful energy dulled after years of training overseas. Nephew of the Chairman and seasoned with authority, he commanded the space. Condolences flowed from his lips for the struggling Ella, peppered with practiced phrases about family and contribution. Eleanor felt the air grow heavy with formalities. Eventually, he picked up a document from the table. “Today's discussions are less about ranking and more about fostering a competitive spirit within the company,” he stated clearly. “We are an entertainment entity, and it’s your skills that will define your worth. Everyone should be able to measure progress through resources, commissions, and opportunity.” He began listing names, “Chester White, Class C… Liu Hongtao, Class D… Tang Ji, Class F…” Eleanor held her breath as he paused dramatically before stating her name. “Eleanor,” he said, his gaze locking onto hers. “Let’s see what class you can join.”
Chapter 2
In the cutthroat world of entertainment, stepping on your peers to climb higher was the norm. Fame was a gamble, and many found their luck ran out. But for Eleanor, finally breaking free felt like liberation. Maybe life outside this cycle would be better. After all, today was a victory day. Brooke Brooks beamed with satisfaction, reveling in the thrill of outmaneuvering her nemesis, Eleanor Bright. The memory of Eleanor’s taunt—a sick sort of prophecy that one day she'd leave the industry before Brooke—brought a smirk to her lips. She hadn’t uttered a curse word today—did that make her classy or just plain boring? Eleanor stood there, eerily composed as if her departure was just another Monday morning. Brooke wasn't about to let Eleanor’s demeanor steal her thunder. “What if I check in with Viewlake? See if they’d be interested in grabbing your contract?” That got Eleanor’s attention; she paused, turning to face Brooke, a challenging fire igniting in her eyes. “Sharing a bed with Chester White? Your sister-in-law didn’t mind, but what about my nephew’s feelings?” “What?” Brooke felt her face heat up—the confrontation hit a nerve, and she was stumped for words. Their small gathering, which had moments ago been charged with excitement, buzzed with curiosity and amusement, each friend there taking a side in this volatile skirmish. Eleanor didn’t have time for more of Brooke's games. With an indignant swing of her purse, she turned and strode away, leaving Brooke to stew in her own unresolved chaos. Truth was, Eleanor felt a swirl of confusion. Years spent clawing through the industry had rendered her weary. All those endless days spent hustling like a tired dog made her lose sight of why she fought so hard. Maybe it was time—time to escape, time to breathe. The ride home from Highwatch Tower seemed endless. As the cab pulled up in front of their modest apartment, the midday sun promised a warm but lazy afternoon. “What’s that smell? What’s for lunch?” Eleanor called out as she stepped through the door. Slipping on her slippers, she collapsed onto the couch. “Chef's special, straight from my Grand Banquet Fare! Care to try?” A carefree male voice rang out, and there he was—Quentin Pierce, emerging from the kitchen, casually clad in what looked like a bed sheet. His cheeky smile suggested he was in on a joke that only he understood. They had cohabitated for a couple of years now, both veterans in this chaotic industry. Quentin, once a promising talent, had not exactly exploded onto the scene, and now, dealing with the high costs of living in the entertainment world had turned him into something of a “mini diva,” indulging in every beauty product he could acquire. She watched him approach, clearly proud of whatever culinary disaster he’d whipped up. “What do you call that? Coke and oatmeal?” Eleanor asked, raising an eyebrow. “Hey, at least I'm the healthy one here.” Quentin held out his dish like it was a gourmet meal, puffing his chest up as if to flaunt his culinary prowess. “Seriously? You could at least have some ramen. What happened to you? Losing your touch?” “Don’t you dare tease my oatmeal!” Quentin grasped a non-existent affront, playfully punching the air. “It’s all about body goals! By the way, you could use some of my commitment to oat-based diets.” “Since when did being fit have to taste like cardboard? You’ve got this natural beauty thing down; I’m the one needing help!” Eleanor shot back, half-joking, but both knew they were just dodging the elephant in the room. The truth was, they weren’t broke; instead, it was just easier to order takeout or slap together instant noodles than to put actual effort into cooking. “Instant noodles have a lot going for them: braised beef, crispy shrimp cakes—” Eleanor started. “And I have cola-infused oatmeal, milk oatmeal, cappuccino oatmeal, juice-infused oatmeal…” Quentin countered, his defiant grin growing wider. “Oh, and I ordered golden chicken for us. Want some or not?” After some playful back-and-forth, Eleanor relinquished the argument and set her phone down to find a comfortable position on the couch, remote in hand. “Of course I'm in. I wouldn’t want to insult your fabulous cooking!” Quentin teased, voice dripping with sarcasm as he began digging into his “grand dish.” A few minutes later, Quentin, eyes glued to the screen, chirped, “Isn’t that your ex, Julian? The show aired today, didn’t it? I heard she was at Highwatch earlier looking for you.” Eleanor let out a tiny huff. Seeing Julian again felt like stretching a scar from their past. Their marriage hadn’t ended in flames, but neither was it a joyous reunion waiting to happen—far from it. Now, they both floated in the same industry yet were worlds apart, making their paths cross rarely. “Change the channel. Looking back isn’t my idea of fun,” she muttered, glancing at the screen before tossing the remote to Quentin like it was a bitter memory. “That show is a hit this year! You were auditioning for that role; I want to see how bad I must have been.” Quentin rolled his eyes, unimpressed. “Maybe your performance is best left to the past,” she replied, throwing her head back in amusement. Seconds turned into minutes, and by the time their lunch arrived, they had exchanged a thousand stories without actually saying much, both caught in the whirlwind of their own lives. “Oh wow, did you get two? You’re feeling generous today!” Quentin gushed, practically bouncing on his feet when he saw the takeout bags. Eleanor threw off her shirt and reached into the fridge for two cans of beer, tossing one to Quentin. “Steady there, my friend. This isn’t a celebration; this is just business.” She raised her can in a mock toast. Quentin’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Wait, what’s going on? You got dumped again by Julian or something?” He raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with playful suspicion. “Calm down. I’m just kicking back, loosening up—like you!” Eleanor offered with a shrug, taking a sip of her beer while scanning the room. “I mean, it looks like you got a lot to celebrate! For all we know, that contract can get you a step closer to letting go.” Eleanor chuckled, finding humor amidst the tension bubbling between them. “A step closer, indeed. I take off next month for good; I’m cashing out.” Quentin’s eyes widened, shock breaking through his playful exterior. “Wait, what? You’re leaving?” “Yep. Silver Falcon and I are parting ways. Today was just a formality.” She waved the contract in the air nonchalantly, as though discussing lunch plans. “Does your family have a hidden wealth I don’t know about?” Quentin asked, every ounce of his previous humor evaporating. “Why quit now?” “Honestly? I’m tired, Quent. I lived it all— the highs, the lows, the endless waiting that turned into years. To be honest, I’m looking for something genuine, something normal,” she explained. Quentin stood rooted for a moment, then nodded slowly, understanding more than she realized. “Guess you’ve finally figured out which way is up after being lost for so long.” With that, she laughed in response, but faintly, “Who knew leaving would be the hardest part?” Suddenly, the doorbell rang, and while Eleanor dashed to open it, she felt a twinge of uncertainty. Brooke was standing there, purposefully grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Well, well, well... This looks festive! Did I interrupt your little celebration? I'm just dropping off the contract you forgot in your rush earlier.” Eleanor’s smile faded. She accepted the paperwork without looking, flipping through the pages until she found the official Seal of Silver Falcon stamped right on the last page. What on earth was Brooke playing at? For a second, Eleanor’s anxiety simmered, before she reassured herself—she hadn’t fabricated a thing.
Chapter 3
“Climb.” Eleanor Bright slammed the door shut, holding onto the contract and refusing to toss it aside. She needed to show Quentin Pierce that she wasn’t lying. “Seriously?” Quentin’s eyes widened in disbelief, an expression that vacillated between astonishment and a tinge of jealousy. “What's with that face?” “Nothing... I’m just—happy for you, Eleanor. Really.” Quentin forced a smile, awkward and out of place yet genuine, happy for Eleanor in spite of himself. Eleanor pulled a golden chicken from the fridge, the sort of takeout they'd both enjoyed too many times before. “You wouldn't dare touch my chicken.” “Come on... why wouldn’t you sign this incredible contract?” Quentin waved his hand dismissively, brushing off the chicken as if it were the least of their concerns. “My dad already set me up with a job.” That threw Eleanor off guard. What on Earth made Silver Falcon Entertainment think they could hand her such a good deal? She shook the thought from her mind—Brooke Brooks was probably just setting her up for another fall. And truthfully, after days of insomnia, Eleanor felt utterly drained. Hearing the boss’s pronouncement about her future was just one more weight on her tired shoulders. “What job?” Quentin looked skeptical, as if he couldn’t imagine anything good for someone like Eleanor, who had been entrenched in the entertainment world for years. “Collecting rent.” Eleanor drizzled oil into a pan, forgetting to put on her gloves this time. “...Wow, still living off your parents, huh? Aren't you a little old for that?” Quentin didn’t buy it. “This is still a skill! You know? Rent collection, that’s a real hustle.” Just as Eleanor opened her mouth to dive deeper into the subject, there was persistent knocking at the door. Brooke Brooks, who had prepared herself for this meeting with a degree of emotional stability, called out, “Come on, don’t slam the door on me like that!” Brooke, who was two years Eleanor's junior and still sporting that trademark grin, waited patiently for Eleanor to finally let her in. “Okay, so two tries and a no-go. No hard feelings.” Eleanor was all too familiar with Brooke’s mentality where work was less about goals and more about sheer attempts—it was mind-boggling that a manager like her could survive in the industry. “Climb.” Eleanor shut the door again, standing her ground, waiting for Brooke to keep pounding away. “Do you think you’ve landed another offer with a different company?” Brooke’s voice came through the door, laced with suspicion. “I’m not signing with anyone. I already gave you my reasons for passing. Now move on. Climb.” Being shot down three times in a row couldn’t have felt good for Brooke. Her face fell as she retreated, emotions tangled within her. But oddly enough, Brooke found a sliver of relief in Eleanor’s refusal; if she did sign with another company, that’d be a bigger mess than either cared for, especially with how their relationship had soured. As Brooke made her way down the property, Eleanor felt the burdens of the high-end apartment surround her, a certainty that she would ultimately have to report back her failures at work to the higher-ups. Meanwhile, a sleek black car pulled into the lot. “Who the hell writes this crap? Did they even graduate elementary school? Tell them to rewrite it.” The woman in the backseat, stunning and domineering, leafed through the pages and exuded authority with every word. “I told you to find a screenwriter and you still haven’t signed anyone?” “Not yet... sis.” The woman in the front seat twisted around, keeping her eyes locked in the back. “Useless—” She cut herself off, noticing the urgency in the junior manager’s face. Instead, she tossed the script aside. “Just remind them. I want a character that embodies independence and empowerment. Why all this nonsense about children? They haven’t even had kids! Just tell them to rewrite it; if I don’t get something I’m satisfied with by day after tomorrow, I'm pulling the plug on this whole project.” “Understood... sis.” “Not just understood—make sure it’s done.” “Got it. I promise.” The car rolled to a stop, easing the tension inside. The woman hopped out, snatching a gift box from the front seat. “Wait downstairs for me.” ... “Honestly, starting your own studio wouldn’t be all that bad. There are tons of opportunities right now. I have a main role in a flick next month...” Quentin continued pushing for Eleanor to reconsider her decision to stay out of the game. “If I’ve got the lead, then why not just focus on filming? I’m finally free of all this drama.” Eleanor dug into her food with pleasure, wishing Quentin would just let her enjoy it without trying to pry her back into the limelight. “Are you really serious about leaving?” “I am.” Eleanor nodded firmly. “What if I say—” Before Quentin could finish, the door knocked again. Eleanor opened it, feeling exasperated. “Ugh, you’re relentless.” A figure stood there, dark waves cascading down a delicately pale face, infuriatingly beautiful. “Even if I’m bothersome, you could at least invite me in.” “Fine, come in.” Eleanor shrugged in resignation. Inside, her apartment was devoid of style, cluttered and worn—a figurine sat on the shoe rack, the balcony was bare, and the living area was a patchwork of neglect. “Oh great, and look, my new show is on TV.” “Your space could really use a makeover.” Julian Hayes surveyed the room, her tone teasing yet sharp. “Are you the landlord now?” Quentin, still munching chicken wings, cast a bemused glance. “Are you two—” Julian turned to Quentin as if finally noticing she wasn't alone. “Eating chicken? Join us.” “Put on your own clothes and exit quickly; I need to speak with Eleanor.” Julian smirked, clearly enjoying how Quentin squirmed at her request. “We co-rent this place. Why should I leave? It’s you who should move, sweetheart.” Quentin couldn’t fathom Julian’s logic. She had offered a simple gesture, and yet Julian was acting like a diva. “Co-rent...? Silver Falcon Entertainment informed me you’re no longer in a relationship. What is going on?” Julian's demeanor shifted dramatically, an intensity surfacing. Eleanor opened her mouth to respond, but— “Living together should explain things, don’t you think? Thought this was a soap opera?” Quentin interjected, claiming her ground. “Wow, didn’t expect you to be the type to hang out with a woman like her,” Julian sneered, her tone sharp. “Like what? What’s your issue with her?” Quentin shot back, the irritation boiling up inside. “Have you been at this long?” Julian refused to acknowledge Quentin, her focus solely on Eleanor. ... Eleanor watched, captivated, as the two women fired darts at each other, tongues sharper than knives. Quentin finally pulled out her trump card. “This is my apartment, Climb.” Julian shrugged off Quentin’s existence, casually handing Eleanor the gift box in her hands. “Happy birthday. Let’s go out. I need to talk to you.” “...” Quentin felt utterly blindsided; it had never occurred to her that today was Eleanor’s birthday. “Let’s talk in my room.” Eleanor waved Julian ahead into her space, shoving a chicken leg toward Quentin for encouragement. “Well done, you.” As they stepped into Eleanor’s room, Julian stood tall without a hint of embarrassment. Once the door closed behind them, she finally spoke. “The place isn’t a complete disaster.” “What do you want?” They hadn’t exchanged a word in years, but the distance between them was still palpable. Julian remained silent, leaving Eleanor to grow restless. She turned, hands on her hips, ready to kick her out. “...Are we strangers to each other now?” Julian's voice cracked slightly, unveiling a hint of vulnerability. “Is your team aiming for the dumb blonde vibe? Half of what you said didn’t even make sense. What’s with that?” Eleanor cut in sharply. Despite her lack of awards, Julian was recognized for her talent. Eleanor had vowed after their divorce never to fall for Julian’s games again. Julian turned her back, hiding behind a wall of defenses. “Can’t we just talk like adults?” “Talk about what?” “You dodged all my questions; you and that woman attacked me… you’re still angry with me…” “Julian, do you ever stop performing? You’re about to make yourself sick with all that act.” Silence consumed the space. “If I stop performing, can you focus and have a proper discussion with me?” Finally, Julian sank into a chair, the emotional armor peeling away. “Sure, but we have nothing to discuss. You’re avoiding my questions, and I’m not keen on playing games. Let’s cut to the chase. Can we?” “Are we still friends?” “Can we be honest with ourselves for once?”
Chapter 4
“I remember you once said you’re more forgiving to strangers than to those close to you. So, how about doing a favor for a stranger?” Brooke Brooks stared intently at her interlaced fingers, her voice steady as she continued to press for an answer. “I also said I’d work on that flaw,” Eleanor Bright replied, feeling more rational by the second, wise to the little traps Brooke was quietly setting for her. A flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of Brooke's mouth. “It seems like you still can’t let go of the past. You still hold a grudge against me. I’ve lost count; how many times have you scolded me since we started running into each other? You probably still love me a little.” “Let’s keep this civilized. Your narcissism is just as unbearable as ever.” Eleanor Bright didn’t mince words. “Yes, I’m just as vain as I was back then, and just as stubborn.” Brooke chuckled lightly, an unmistakable teasing lilt in her voice. “Ah, such hopelessness.” “You know, there’s not a single outcome I won’t claw back.” “Let’s face it—your expected outcome is goodbye. It’s all over.” Eleanor emphasized, her gaze steady, locking onto Brooke’s eyes. Brooke looked away, avoiding the intensity of Eleanor’s stare. “You like a calm life now, don’t you?” “Yeah, I can’t even begin to express how happy I am without you.” Brooke fell silent again, reaching for her phone, scrolling for something unknown. Suddenly, she tossed the phone at Eleanor. “For just one month, if you agree… you know how far I can take this.” On the screen was Brooke’s Twitter profile, showcasing her latest post—just three words. “Six years gone.” In an instant, comments and retweets exploded into the thousands. Eleanor paused, genuinely surprised. Brooke was at it again, pulling the Twitter stunt that had sent everyone into a frenzy. “Tap the upper right—delete.” Stars slipping on Twitter was a common enough sight. She tossed the phone back at Brooke. With cool indifference, Brooke caught it and went back to typing, her fingers a blur. “Smack.” Eleanor pressed down on Brooke’s hand, stopping her. “Is this your only move?” “You’re forcing my hand. I let you go six years ago; now, it’s your turn to concede.” There was a wild look in Brooke’s eyes. “Shameless isn’t the word! I could easily ignore your madness.” “In the end, I’ll leave behind a note—a suicide, and your life will be anything but peaceful afterward.” “You’re truly selfish enough to threaten with suicide?” Eleanor snapped, exasperated. “I meant a botched attempt!” “...” Years had passed, but Brooke seemed bolder than ever. “Weren’t you going to explain yourself? I’ll give you a month, then we’ll be even.” “...” “This is a recording I made the moment you walked in—I’ll give you the file too, so you’ll finally be free.” … When Brooke stormed out, she resembled a queen returning to her palace, not sparing Quentin Pierce a glance. In Eleanor’s room, Quentin found Eleanor sprawled on the bed. Sensing his presence, she curled deeper into her blanket. She looked like a petulant child left after playtime, discarded and forsaken. He poked the blanket, but she remained motionless. Thinking to tempt her with a golden chicken from the fridge, he returned, only to find she was fast asleep. Eleanor was lost in a peaceful slumber, a faint smile gracing her lips. Quentin poked a little harder this time, yet there was no response. She wasn’t pretending to be asleep. Hours later, Eleanor awoke to a darkened room. She had been exhausted, the toll of restless nights piling up over the past month, finally leading her to true rest. Facing Brooke had drained her; otherwise, she wouldn’t have ended up so apathetic. But this nap had given her clarity—she could almost feel the stars and seas themselves. Quentin was sprawled out in the living room, watching Brooke’s latest show. The character she played was showcasing some swordplay, flawlessly executing a double backflip in mid-air. When she emerged, he gestured toward the kitchen. “I made some oatmeal. Left you some.” Milk and oats were more appetizing than soda-soaked cereal. “Eleanor, I’m disappointed. I figured you’d be crying your eyes out as Brooke stormed away. I even tried to weaken her resolve for you.” Quentin’s frustration was palpable. “I have a headache,” Eleanor murmured, rubbing her temples. “Taking a hit isn’t an issue, but you? This can’t just blow over. Brooke thrives on Twitter chaos, making it seem like no one could ever go without her. I even drafted a response for you to post.” Quentin was still seething over the fight that hadn’t gone his way. Brooke’s slip, mourning their marriage, had gone viral. Over the six years, they’d never commented on that chapter of their lives, and plenty of new fans were clueless that Brooke had once been married. A wave of onlookers flooded Eleanor’s long-quiet Twitter, jumping in with ‘ex-hubby’ and ‘ex-bro’ comments. “Listen to that: ‘Why can’t we just let bygones be bygones?’” “Hold on.” Eleanor pressed her fingers to her temples. “It’s not as serious as you think.” “You were crying under the covers!” Quentin scolded, totally unrelenting. “You were the one crying. Anyway, do you believe in parallel universes?” “Where you have a completely different life…” The cool touch of a hand broke through Eleanor's thoughtful haze, pulling her back to reality. Quentin grasped her wrist, concern etched on his face. “Don’t spiral, Eleanor. It’s been six years. It’s time to move on…” “Forget it.” She pulled her wrist free. “Don’t try to take advantage of me.” “Seeing you act all casual makes me feel better. I thought you were seriously reconsidering life… It freaked me out,” he admitted, eyeing the chicken. “That’s mine; put it back.” Quentin’s urgency was evident. “I’m starving.” Sleeping was a serious workout—do people even believe that? “Didn’t Brooke send a birthday cake? Go eat some cake.” Eleanor rejected the chicken and fetched the gift she had received. Opening the box revealed a familiar multi-tiered cake with less-than-fancy icing. “She made it herself,” Eleanor said, devoid of emotion. “Trash it.” Quentin suggested. “Of course, we’re eating it. It could last two meals.” Cake was the immediate fix for energy, and filling. “If you could make anything, we wouldn’t be dealing with this nonsense.” Since Eleanor decided to indulge, Quentin grumbled but stayed in character. “Don’t ruin my lines.” Clearly, he thought meals should always be the man’s duty. Crazy. … Before long, half the cake was gone. “Did you forget to take a moment to wish on the candles?” Quentin suddenly remembered. “Then I didn’t celebrate this birthday. If I didn’t age a day, I’m still eighteen.” Eleanor chuckled softly, realizing her birthdays had gone unnoticed for ages. “Call me ‘big sister.’” Eleanor ignored his playful banter. “Earlier, I dreamt I died…” “Eleanor.” “In some other life, I’ve been wrestling with that fleeting dream for over a month. Today, when that version of me died, I suddenly understood so much.” Eleanor’s gaze fixed on the untouched half of the cake, her mind racing with a sense of liberation, akin to transcending all earthly ties. “Like…” Feeling that Eleanor had regained her footing, Quentin went silent, then smiled gently. “For example…” “What example?” Eleanor wondered aloud, puzzled. “Didn’t you say you’ve figured a lot of things out? Give me an example. Maybe it’s time to draw a line with Brooke.” Quentin nudged her in the right direction. “The line’s been drawn ages ago. Open your eyes, Quentin. I’m destined for the stars, and I won’t let someone like Brooke weigh me down.” Eleanor shot him a look filled with determination. “Did you sneak a peek at my screenplay or something? That sounds like something a power-hungry CEO would say…” “Busted! But what you said is dangerous…” Eleanor smirked back, her laughter playful. “What’s the matter? You planning on toying with my feelings?” Quentin was unamused, avoiding any silly notions. “Ha-ha.” Eleanor gave him a sardonic smile. “Then I’d rather be your toy for a night…” In one swift motion, Quentin flipped her onto the couch, his gaze intense, signaling wild thoughts stirring beneath the surface. “...you’re blushing.” Eleanor snagged onto that detail. “Tsk.” Quentin let her go, popping a cushion at her instead. She caught it deftly. “The night is still young, and the real fun is about to kick off.” Eleanor headed to the balcony, where dusk settled, streetlights flickering to life in a gentle breeze. She thought to herself, “This is truly the best of times.” “Not leaving?” Quentin didn’t turn to look at her as he spoke, his eyes glued to the TV. “Yeah.” “Make sure to sign the contracts at work tomorrow.” Quentin bent down, retrieving the contract Eleanor had tossed into the trash earlier. “I’d be a fool to sign it when it’s about to expire next month.” “Fine.” Quentin tossed the contract back in the trash, extending one long leg to rap the bin over to the entrance. The trash didn’t topple. It stood firm.
Chapter 5
The next day, Quentin Pierce woke up unusually early, a rare occurrence for him. In the Great Hall, Julian Hayes stood with an air of icy elegance, sporting a long coat, oversized sunglasses, and crimson lips that screamed sophistication. She looked like a delicate green onion among all the hustle and bustle. Quentin couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he scratched his messy hair, yawning widely. He pulled at the unruly collar of his pajamas, still half-asleep. Just then, Eleanor Bright stepped out of the room, looking crisp and polished. “You’re up early. I picked up some breakfast; there’s a note for you in the kitchen. You should eat it while it’s hot. I’m off to Highwatch,” she said. “Oh, great,” he mumbled, wandering into the kitchen and shoving a whole soup dumpling into his mouth. A man raised in this peculiar household was all set to run off with another woman. He couldn't help but dribble oil down his chin. “Ugh, I was supposed to be on a diet.” Julian Hayes’s sleek car was parked outside, and a poised woman stood by the vehicle, waiting. Upon seeing Julian and Eleanor, she hurried over. “Sis, we got the new script!” “Mm-hm,” Julian replied, nodding without elaboration. The woman opened the door for Julian first, then dashed to the other side to help Eleanor in before sliding into the front seat. The driver started the car. “Sis, here’s the script.” The woman in the front turned, hands outstretched with the script. “Thanks.” Julian flipped through it quickly, only glancing up when she felt eyes on her. “This is my agent, Diana Turner. You can call her Diana. This is Eleanor.” “Hi, Diana,” Eleanor greeted. “Uh... Hi, Eleanor,” Diana replied, her tone friendly but slightly stiff. Diana, unlike the fresh graduates entering the workforce, exuded a sense of maturity that made her appear older than Julian. They both invested a lot in their looks, making it hard to pinpoint ages. “Congrats on gaining a relative,” Julian remarked casually, not bothering to look up as she continued flipping through the script. Talk about rude. Julian had a knack for treating people as if they were beneath her, while simultaneously ridiculing their attempts at politeness. Eleanor leaned back in the back seat, closing her eyes and tuning out the chatter. The driver had long mastered the art of ignoring distractions. “Framework’s solid, but keep polishing the details,” Julian said, tossing the script to Diana, who hadn’t bothered to return her gaze. “Let’s have that screenwriter I told you about take some maternity leave and find someone new. I want Vera Rivers.” “Got it, sis.” Vera Rivers might not be at the top of the domestic screenwriting game, but she had a good reputation. Eleanor remembered auditioning for one of her projects just last year. Upon arriving at Highwatch, the place felt almost eerily empty. While waiting for the elevator, they crossed paths with Gwendolyn Gray, who was accompanied by five assistants. “Julian! I’m Gwendolyn Gray. I’ve watched every single one of your shows, and I’m such a fan!” The bubbly young woman beamed with a contagious enthusiasm, bowing deeply as if in front of royalty. “Hi, Gwendolyn,” Julian smiled, shaking her hand. “I heard you were here yesterday, but I missed you! I’m so glad I got to see you today. Julian, we’re practically family…” The moment felt awkward, only Gwendolyn chattering on, oblivious to the silence around her. It was clear Gwendolyn fit perfectly into Highwatch's fabricated ‘innocent fan’ image. Watching Eleanor Bright grow into fame, one could see how Gwendolyn had morphed into this caricature. “...Could you please sign my book?” As the elevator doors closed, Gwendolyn's enthusiastic bow was still visible, done in unison with her unfazed assistants behind her. “Gwendolyn is quite the character, isn’t she?” That moment lightened Julian’s mood, her smile brightening as fame’s weight seemed to lift. A meeting with Walter Shield awaited them; he'd just taken over and already seemed overwhelmed, yet somehow found the energy to discuss a new variety show contract. Eleanor thought he was impressive. Julian exchanged pleasantries with Walter while Eleanor and Diana discussed the contract with Wendy King from the production team. A top-tier actress like Julian Hayes alongside her ex-husband on a reality show? It was bound to attract the entire entertainment industry’s attention. It would be a startling dynamic: two divorced stars navigating their public personas together. And not just anyone—Julian was one of the most sought-after actresses in the last five years, dangerously close to a major award. Yesterday Julian had barely scratched social media with a spur-of-the-moment post and it still held the number one spot on trending. The kicker? The show was focused on divorced couples coping with their emotional fallout—“The Broken Vow.” Eleanor had almost lost it when Julian blurted it out. Had she completely lost her mind? Julian clearly loved to play with fire, and for someone of her caliber, missteps could mean a steep drop from grace. Yet, if she navigated it well, her stardom could skyrocket even further. Eleanor sensed the risk heavily outweighed the potential gains. Julian was betting a hundred to get back a hundred and ten, with the loss possibly tumbling to fifty—or less. Was it even worth it? So the contract negotiations promised to be challenging. Julian demanded complete control, insisting on no unexpected surprises. Diana, suddenly fierce, took charge, making their intentions crystal clear. To the outside world, it seemed like Julian was merely leading her ex-husband back into the limelight. For Eleanor, it was never about riding on Julian’s coattails. With an agreement in the air, Eleanor understood that a distance was forming between them. Let the chips fall where they may. Eleanor decided to lay low while Wendy King nearly crumbled under Diana’s relentless demands. Her own manager, Brooke Brooks, didn’t even show his face, and Walter Shield never called him in. After quick discussions, Walter pulled Julian aside, and as he returned her to the group, he singled Eleanor out for a chat. “Here’s a contract for a leading male role. It includes S-tier benefits. Next year you’ll have three dramas and a film lined up, all featuring you as the lead. I’ll also let go of Brooke Brooks.” “I’m not looking to sign with anyone else. Walter, maybe we should wait and see.” “Fair enough.” Eleanor found herself puzzled. Walter had suddenly become overly ambitious, prompting her to wonder if he’d sensed something fierce within her. Even landing a reality show spot alongside Julian—maybe even rekindling their past romance—didn’t warrant this kind of treatment. Back home, Julian sat sipping tea while gazing out at the river view. Wendy had abandoned all resistance and was diligently jotting down every demand of Diana’s. Despite ample groundwork, Julian always seemed dissatisfied. Today, they were finally streamlining the show's concept. “Change my title to something more casual—free spirit, unconcerned with fame, just softly making music and acting when the mood strikes,” Julian said. “Otherwise, we risk portraying the ex-husband as a washed-up, struggling actor desperately trying to book gigs while pretending to be pals with his ex—the vibe doesn’t add up!” “What do you think, Julian?”
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