"Why do you have to chase me? Do you think that by chasing me, by romancing me, you can win my love?" His voice trembled slightly, revealing a vulnerability underneath the words. As he spoke, his eyes lifted toward the woman before him, giving her a look full of hope and quiet desperation. He wanted her to give up on him. She met his gaze confidently, her smile warm and sure, as though certain she could reach him.
"I know I can win your love, Steven," she said softly, with gentle determination. "You're so beautiful... how could I let you chase me instead? I'll win you… by hook or by crook."
He looked away, his lips softly quivering into a weak smirk, his eyes clouded, hiding away a thousand thoughts.. The woman's breath caught. He was achingly beautiful, more delicate than handsome, like a rare flower trembling in a gentle breeze. She had never imagined falling so deeply for someone so ethereal. But she was utterly captivated.
His red lips, the faint sheen in his eyes- everything about him called to her. She didn't want to play games. She didn't want a chase or a hunt where he came after her and then she went after him.. She simply wanted him, wholly and without reservation. Some might call it obsession. She called it love.
Slowly, instinctively, she raised her hand. She longed to touch his face, as if her fingers might mar something too fragile to endure her touch. Yet she couldn't stop herself. The urge was irresistible.
Her hand hovered, trembling ever closer.
Just as her fingertips brushed toward his skin, he turned away. The motion was quiet, but resolute. He would not fall for her.
"CUT!"
The director's voice rang out, breaking the fragile moment.
In that instant, the vulnerable actor collapsed back out of his role. His eyes lost their moist brightness and hardened into something more subdued, cynical and icy indifference. The trembling stopped. The smirk vanished—now replaced by a fragile composure, like porcelain balancing on the edge of shattering.
Elliott rose carefully from his kneel. Though his beauty remained as is, his expression was cold and unwelcoming. With a slow nod to the crew to express his gratitude for their hard work, he strode toward his vanity. Each step was quiet, measured, as if he were carrying a heavy weight.
Onlookers whispered about his breathtaking looks, marveling at how flawless he appeared even when stepping out of character. But his assistant was already trembling as he walked behind him. Because right now, this man was angry.
The door to the vanity slammed shut behind them. For a moment, the room was silent—until Elliott grabbed the stack of scripts from the table and flung them across the floor. The papers scattered like a small storm, some hitting the wall, others sliding beneath the couch. A water bottle followed, crashing against the side of the dresser and rolling away in a mocking little spin.
His chest rose and fell sharply, but his face was expressionless. Controlled. Only his eyes betrayed the heat simmering inside him.
He turned slowly toward his trembling assistant, his gaze icy. "How many times do I have to tell her that I don't want to do such roles?"
The assistant swallowed, words stuck in his throat.
"I am tired," Elliott continued, voice rising now, "of playing a weak flower. Again and again. Can't Clara see" he snapped his fingers impatiently, " that I have enough stalkers coming after me because of this image?" His lips curled as he spoke the name. "Every role, it's the same story. Me, being chased. Me, cornered by women-left, right, and center- like it's the only thing I can do."
He laughed once, humorless. "I am sick of it. Sick and tired of being everyone's fragile flower who needs to be chased!"
The assistant nodded as he looked at the man. It was true. Due to the man's rare beauty, he had somehow been cast in the role of the "National Younger brother" since his debut. Every play or drama where he played the vulnerable character went off the charts. So much so that now, four years later, those were the only roles that he was being offered, which for a versatile actor like Elliott, who had won countless accolades as a child actor for his versatility was like a slap in the face.
The assistant lowered his eyes, biting back the words he wanted to say. Because deep down, he knew Elliott was right.
Elliott wasn't always given scripts like this. There was a time when writers and directors lined up to craft roles that would challenge him—roles worthy of his skill. After all, he wasn't just a pretty face on a screen. He had once represented the country as a martial arts champion, winning medals and titles before most actors his age even had their first audition. Back then, he was known for his strength, his determination, the fire in his performances. Action films, complex dramas, even thrillers—scripts of every genre had crossed their table.
But all that changed two years ago.
The agency had shifted its focus overnight, diverting funds, publicity, and prime projects toward the CEO's son, a fresh-faced rookie determined to become the next big star. And Elliott? He became the cash cow. The one guaranteed to sell out theaters simply by looking vulnerable on camera.
It was a shame, the assistant thought bitterly. Elliott had the skill, the accolades, the sheer presence to carry powerful roles, but the agency didn't care. As long as he brought in money, as long as the audience kept swooning over his fragile beauty, they would keep handing him the same scripts.
But it was useless to think about this... Because even if Elliott was fed up, he was still tied to the agency for the next five years, which meant that his prime years would be gone. Already he was not being offered other scripts... Five years down the line.. the assistant shuddered to think what would happen.