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Chapter 2: Shadows at the Edge of Spotlight
The audition room was colder than Elira had expected — not in temperature, but in atmosphere. Five judges sat behind an intimidating long table, each flipping through papers, notepads, and coffee cups like her future wasn't hanging on their next sentence.
But only one man mattered.
He wasn't judging. He wasn't reading notes. He wasn't even holding a pen.
He just sat there, watching her.
Kairo Valtteri Seo.
Elira had read about him, of course. Every aspiring actor in Italy — maybe in the world — knew his name. His films weren't just cinema, they were power. People said his eyes didn't just look at you — they looked through you. That he made and broke stars like he was simply rearranging constellations for fun.
But nothing in the tabloids had prepared her for how real he looked in person.
Tall. Composed. Impossibly still.
His brown eyes locked with hers the moment she stepped onto the stage. A silent test of endurance. A dare.
"Begin whenever you're ready," one of the casting directors said with a wave.
Elira exhaled slowly. This was it.
She sank into her role — a monologue from a war widow who had lost everything and yet refused to fall apart. Her voice trembled at first, but as she went on, emotion took hold. Her spine straightened. Her heart poured out. She let herself feel the heartbreak, the rage, the loneliness of her character.
When it ended, silence swallowed the room.
The casting director cleared his throat. "Thank you. That was—"
"Stay," Kairo said, speaking for the first time.
Elira froze.
The others turned to him, eyebrows raised. No one interrupted a casting schedule like that. But Kairo didn't ask. He commanded.
"Elira Wynne," he said slowly, as if tasting the syllables. "Have you ever acted on a real set?"
She shook her head.
"Have you ever had a camera lens five inches from your soul?"
"No."
"Good," he said, then stood. "Let's see if you crack."
He walked around the table, stopping just a few feet from her. His presence was overwhelming — like the space around him had a different gravity.
"I want you to do it again. Closer. Look at me this time."
Elira's breath caught. She wasn't ready for this. She wasn't ready for him.
But she nodded.
This time, her performance was rawer. She didn't act — she became. And she stared into the eyes of the man she didn't know whether to fear or fall for.
When it ended, he didn't clap. He just said:
"You're cast."
---
That night, Celeste Raines leaned back in the clawfoot tub of Kairo's penthouse bathroom, her glass of wine balanced on the rim. She wasn't alone — her phone buzzed from the vanity, a string of messages from a certain Enzo Mazzaro lighting up the screen.
> "You looked hot in that new interview, Celes. He buy you that dress?"
> "Does he suspect yet?"
She smirked, sipping her wine.
"Men like Kairo don't suspect," she whispered. "They control. They own. They dominate. But they don't suspect. Not until it's too late."
---
Kairo stood in his private office, watching Elira's audition footage on the big screen again.
His brows furrowed.
She had something.
Not charm. Not polish.
Fire. And fragility.
He didn't need another actress. He didn't need another problem. And yet, he'd just given her the lead role.
What was it about her?
Why couldn't he look away?
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