Int. Gleb's Parents' Mansion. Dining Room. Late Evening.
Having left the film festival, Gleb arrived for his father's birthday. Unhurriedly, he walked into the enormous hall where the celebration was taking place. The house was filled with a heavy, fake merriment. Relatives, gathered around a large festive table, started vying to congratulate Gleb on his latest film festival victory—an award that was perceived by all the wealthy and influential relatives in this house as a sweet, yet ridiculous, children's drawing.
Evgeny Vladimirovich—Gleb's father—sat at the head of the table. He was turning 60 today and was the epitome of power, the owner of several of the country's largest businesses. He was handsome, well-maintained, and restrained. In his movements, even the most insignificant, there was a sense of authority that he was accustomed to imposing on everyone around him. Like a conductor, he raised his hand, demanding silence.
— Finally! You deigned to grace us with your presence. Well? What was your… "Ceremony" this time? — the father asked, not concealing his irritation.
— It was a film festival.
— And another useless trinket that's more important than your father's jubilee. Shouldn't an only son be next to his father, instead of posing like a clown in front of a gathering of who-knows-who? Your family is here, not there!
— Don't dramatize. I wished you a happy birthday this morning and came as soon as I could. And finally remember that my work is not a "gathering."
— Your work?! — Evgeny Vladimirovich sharply slammed his fist on the table. — These are child's games, Gleb! You are a grown man! The family needs a successor in the business. And you? You run around with makeup on your face, grimacing for the cameras. Is this circus truly more important to you than everything I've given you?!
— This is my life, Father. This is my choice.
— Your choice is to be kissing various dolled-up women on screen?! You should be doing something worthwhile. The family needs you. We have a massive business—that's millions, that's power! And you…
— And I don't want the business.
Gleb's mother, Valentina Mikhailovna, understood that the passions between her son and husband had reached their limit. It was necessary to defuse the atmosphere. No one but her would dare to interrupt her husband's conversation, so she gently tried to mediate the conflict.
— Zhenya, why do you start up immediately! Let Gleb rest, he's traveled. You can't be like this, on a holiday… Better pour yourselves some champagne, dear guests! Glebushka, why are you standing? Come sit. I ordered your favorite pistachio cake.
Not wanting to listen to any more lectures, Gleb gave his mother an apologetic look, and his father a silent look of reproach.
— Thank you, Mom. I'm not hungry. The atmosphere here is stifling. I think I'll get some air.
Without waiting for anyone's permission, Gleb swiftly headed for the exit of the hall. The relatives followed him with puzzled glances. Evgeny Vladimirovich, with a stone face, clenched his fist on the edge of the table.
Ext. Gleb's Parents' Mansion. Balcony. Late Evening.
Gleb stepped out onto the balcony and took a deep breath. After several deep inhalations, he hoped to feel lightness, but the desired relief did not come. It felt as if the moment he crossed the threshold of this house, the burden of a duty he did not wish to carry immediately fell onto his shoulders. Gleb leaned on the railing. The balcony offered a beautiful view of the lovely garden and the illuminated pool. Watching the wind carelessly play with the treetops, Gleb briefly detached himself from his thoughts and emotions. A moment of peaceful bliss was disrupted by a flash of lightning. Storm clouds rapidly covered the sky. Gleb felt uneasy. Since the death of his elder brother, a thunderstorm had always been a harbinger of trouble for him. He quickly turned to go back inside, but his path was blocked by his father, Evgeny Vladimirovich. In his hand was a glass with an amber liquid. He held it out to his son.
— Let's drink to peace, son. I didn't mean to offend you — the father took a sip from his own glass.
Gleb took the glass with doubt and drank too. The father began his monologue, which Gleb had heard a thousand times, like a broken record. He spoke of "serious business," of how Gleb was over thirty and it was time to take the business into his own hands. He again mentioned Alena—beautiful, intelligent, an heiress, a "good match," as if Gleb were a chess piece in his game.
— Dad, you can't decide for someone else what is best for them. I like what I do.
— You're selfish. You don't think about the family at all! — he took a step closer to Gleb, his gaze penetrating. Gleb stepped back, creating distance.
— Family is when they accept and love you for who you are, not for your achievements or for what you can or cannot do. You want me to become a cog in your plan.
The father was getting angry. His face turned crimson, and his voice grew louder, bordering on a shout.
— I wouldn't be asking you to become a cog if… if your brother were alive!
The first deafening clap of thunder sounded, shaking the air. Gleb began to breathe heavily and sporadically. His hands trembled, and he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, trying to loosen the suffocating collar. With every new flash of lightning and crash of thunder, it became harder and harder for him to breathe, as if his lungs were being squeezed by an invisible force. This was not just a fear of the storm—it was an emotional shock that brought him back to his darkest memories.
— I… I'm so sorry that he died, and not me — Gleb uttered in a weak, almost whispered voice, full of pain and despair.
Gleb did not wish to continue the conversation. He turned and left, abandoning his father, who stood alone amid the mounting thunderstorm, clutching the glass of whiskey in his hand.
Int. Limousine. Ext. Mansion.
As soon as Gleb disappeared, Evgeny Vladimirovich took out his phone and dialed the limousine driver's number.
— Gleb is coming down now. He'll pass out soon. Is everything ready?
— Ready, Evgeny Vladimirovich. Waiting — the limousine driver replied.
The driver hung up. Gleb got into the car. He was pale, breathing heavily and trembling slightly, convulsively gasping for air.
— Close all the windows immediately. And quickly, quickly home.
From the balcony, Evgeny Vladimirovich watched Gleb's limousine drive away, accompanied by a heavy storm with lightning and thunder. Gleb sped down the night highway in the limousine, trying to escape the thunderstorm, his father, and the shadow of his dead brother. He was driving home, completely unaware that henceforth his own, complicated dance would unfold to a completely new melody, and his sole partner would be the very screenwriter, Liza, whom he had rejected today.