Five Years Later.
The International Arrival gate at the Capital City Airport was usually chaotic, but today, it was a war zone.
Hundreds of fans were pressed against the barricades, holding neon signs and screaming until their throats were raw. Cameras flashed in a blinding stroboscopic rhythm, turning the terminal into a sea of white lightning.
"Who are they waiting for?" a confused tourist asked a security guard. "Is it a politician?"
The guard scoffed, adjusting his belt. "A politician? No. Politicians don't get this kind of reception. They're waiting for the Little Prince."
As if on cue, the automatic glass doors slid open.
The screaming reached a deafening pitch.
"SACHA! LOOK HERE!"
"OVER HERE, LITTLE PRINCE!"
"AGENT EVE! MARRY ME!"
Two figures walked out of the VIP exit, flanked by four stone-faced bodyguards.
The first was a woman who looked like she had walked straight out of a high-fashion magazine. She wore a sharp white pantsuit that hugged her figure perfectly, towering stiletto heels, and oversized black sunglasses that covered half her face. Her jet-black hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall of silk.
She didn't wave. She didn't smile. She walked with a cold, terrifying elegance that made the paparazzi instinctively step back.
This was Eve, the legendary Iron Manager who had taken the European entertainment industry by storm. No one knew her real name. No one knew her background. They only knew that if Agent Eve represented you, you were destined for stardom.
But the crowd wasn't screaming for her.
They were screaming for the small figure holding her hand.
Walking beside her was a five-year-old boy. He wore a miniature beige trench coat over a white turtleneck, tiny designer jeans, and little leather boots. A newsboy cap was pulled low over his forehead.
He looked like an angel. He had porcelain skin, chubby cheeks that begged to be pinched, and big, expressive eyes.
But unlike other child stars who waved and blew kisses, this boy looked… confused.
He adjusted his backpack straps, wrinkled his nose at the screaming mob, and tugged on his mother's hand.
"Mommy," Sacha asked, clapping both hands over his ears. "Why are they yelling? Is somebody hurt?"
Anaïs—now known to the world as Eve—squeezed his hand gently. A small smile tugged at the corner of her red lips.
"No, baby. They're happy to see you. Wave to them."
Sacha peeked through his fingers at the crowd like they were wild animals at a zoo. He didn't understand why strangers wanted to scream at him, but he wanted to be a good boy. He lifted a small hand and gave a floppy, half-hearted wave.
ROAR! The crowd went wild. Girls were crying. Grown men were snapping photos.
"Okay," Sacha said immediately, dropping his hand. "I waved. Can we go? My feet are tired."
Anaïs chuckled, shielding him from a particularly aggressive camera flash. "Yes, Your Highness. The car is outside."
As they moved through the terminal, Anaïs felt a familiar tightness in her chest. She scanned the crowd, her eyes hidden behind her dark glasses. She wasn't looking for fans. She was looking for him.
It had been five years since she died on the St. Jude Bridge.
Five years of hiding in France. Five years of rebuilding herself from a broken housewife into a powerhouse manager. She had sworn never to return to this city—the city where Bastian St. Yves ruled like a king.
But the industry was cruel. To truly secure Sacha's future, they needed to conquer the Asian market. And the biggest casting call of the decade was happening right here.
It's fine, she told herself, gripping the handle of her suitcase. I'm not Anaïs St. Yves anymore. I'm Eve. Bastian won't recognize me. And even if he does, he thinks I'm a ghost.
They reached the curb where a sleek black limousine was waiting. The driver opened the door, and Sacha climbed in, scrambling onto the leather seat.
Anaïs slid in after him. The door shut, sealing out the noise of the paparazzi.
Silence finally enveloped them.
Sacha immediately kicked off his expensive boots and flopped back against the seat with a dramatic little groan. He rubbed his ears like they were still ringing.
"That was too loud," he complained. "My ears are tired. Next time tell them… tell them to be quiet."
Anaïs removed her sunglasses, revealing eyes that were no longer tragic, but sharp and calculating. She looked at her son—her entire world.
He looked so much like Bastian it sometimes made her heart ache. He had the same dark hair, the same stubborn jawline. But his eyes… his eyes were hers.
"You did well, Sacha," she said, brushing a curl off his forehead. "But remember the rules. We are here for work. We do the commercial, we buy the LEGOs, and we leave. No wandering off."
Sacha nodded, swinging his legs. "I know. No talking to strangers. No leaving your hand. And if I get lost, I go to a lady with a badge."
"I mean it, Sacha. This city is… complicated."
Sacha paused, then squinted at her like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
"Is it complicated like… Scum Dad?" he asked softly.
Anaïs froze. "What?"
"The mean man," Sacha said, shrugging one shoulder. "The one in the pictures. The one you don't like."
Anaïs sighed. She had told him his father was a powerful man who didn't want them. She hadn't told him his name, but Sacha was terrifyingly observant. He picked up on things other kids missed.
"We aren't here for him," Anaïs said firmly. "He is in the past. We are here to make money."
Sacha reached into his backpack and pulled out his tablet like it was contraband. He turned it on for half a second, then frowned.
"Everything here is boring," he announced, then shoved it away. "Can we buy LEGOs now?"
Anaïs choked on her water. "At the hotel, sweetheart."
Sacha huffed. "Fine."
Anaïs rubbed her temples. Other five-year-olds watched cartoons. Her son acted like cartoons were beneath him.
"Put the tablet away," she said. "We're arriving at the hotel."
The limousine pulled up to the entrance of the Grand Imperial Hotel—the most expensive hotel in the city. Anaïs had booked the Presidential Suite. In her past life, she would have felt guilty spending this much money. Now? She felt she deserved every penny.
The doorman opened the door. "Welcome to the Grand Imperial, Ms. Eve."
They walked into the lobby. It was dripping with gold and marble. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling, sparkling like frozen tears.
Sacha looked up, squinting hard. "It's too shiny," he whispered. "It's poking my eyes."
"It's crystal, baby," Anaïs said, walking to the reception desk, her heels clicking rhythmically on the marble floor.
"Checking in for Eve and Sacha," she told the receptionist.
While Anaïs handled the key cards, Sacha wandered a few feet away. He had spotted a display of gourmet chocolates near the elevators.
He stood on his tiptoes, trying to see if they had the ones with the gold wrappers.
Suddenly, a loud voice boomed across the lobby.
"Move it, kid! You're in the way!"
Sacha turned around.
A large, sweaty man in a cheap suit was pushing a cart of equipment, looking stressed. He was followed by a woman who looked like a B-list actress, checking her makeup in a compact mirror.
"I said move!" the man grunted, almost clipping Sacha with the cart.
Sacha jerked back this time—quick, startled—then planted his feet with the stubbornness of a child who hated being scared.
"Hey!" Sacha blurted. "Don't—don't hit me!"
The man stopped. He turned red. "What did you say, you little brat?"
The B-list actress laughed, snapping her mirror shut. "Hey, watch your mouth. Do you know who we are? We're with St. Yves Studios. We're filming a documentary here."
At the mention of St. Yves Studios, Sacha's eyes widened slightly.
"St. Yves?" Sacha repeated. "Is that the… Scum Dad place?"
"That's right," the man sneered. "So get lost before I call security and have them toss you out to your mommy."
Anaïs, who had just finished checking in, turned around just in time to see the confrontation. Her motherly instincts flared. She started to walk over, ready to tear the man apart.
But Sacha didn't cry. He did what little kids did when they were scared and trying not to show it—he copied his mother.
He lifted his chin, small and shaky, and said in his best "grown-up voice,"
"My mommy says you don't get to yell at me."
The man scoffed. "Oh yeah?"
Sacha wrinkled his nose, then added—because he couldn't help himself—
"And you smell funny."
The man gasped. "You—!"
"I'm going to—!" The man raised his hand.
"Excuse me," a cold voice cut through the air.
Anaïs stepped between them. She wasn't running. She was stalking. She stood in front of Sacha, towering over the man in her heels.
"Is there a problem?" she asked, her voice low and dangerous.
The man looked at Anaïs. He saw the expensive suit. He saw the terrifying sunglasses. He saw the "don't mess with me" aura.
"Uh, no," the man stammered, backing away. "Just... kids being in the way. Come on, Linda."
He hurried away toward the elevators, dragging his cart.
Anaïs knelt down immediately. "Sacha? Are you okay? Did he touch you?"
Sacha blinked fast, then swallowed. The brave act slipped for half a second.
"He almost did," he admitted in a small voice. Then he straightened. "But he didn't. So I'm fine."
He looked at the elevator where the rude man had disappeared.
"They said they work for the St. Yves place," Sacha whispered.
Anaïs stiffened. "Ignore them, Sacha. It's a big city."
"Is Scum Dad the boss there?" Sacha asked. "Is he… like, the king of the rude people?"
"Sacha..."
"I saw the big picture outside," Sacha said, pointing toward the street. "It said 'Casting Call. Bastian St. Yves.' That's him, right?"
Anaïs felt a headache coming on. She stood up, taking his hand. "We are not talking about him. We are going upstairs to order room service. Do you want fries?"
Sacha looked up at her, stubborn as a little mule. "I want the job."
"What?"
"The movie job," Sacha said, bouncing once on his toes like the thought excited him. "If I do it, we get money. Then you can buy the house. And I can—" he paused, searching for the word, "—tell him 'stop being mean.'"
"No," Anaïs said firmly. "Absolutely not. You are forbidden from going near that studio. Do you hear me, Sacha? Forbidden."
Sacha pouted, crossing his arms. "Okay. Fine."
But as the elevator rose to the penthouse, Sacha stared at the numbers lighting up on the panel.
He knew where the studio was.
He knew the rude man went there.
And he knew "forbidden" was a word grown-ups used when they were scared.
Sacha swung his feet, thinking hard in the way only a child could.
I'm gonna look, he decided. Just a little. Then I'll come back.
And if Scum Dad is there… I'll tell him to stop yelling.
Meanwhile, across the city.
In the top-floor office of the St. Yves Tower, the blinds were drawn, blocking out the sun.
Bastian St. Yves sat in the dark.
His office was sterile and cold. There were no photos on his desk. No personal items. Just stacks of scripts and financial reports.
He looked five years older than he was. There were silver strands in his dark hair now, and deep lines etched around his mouth. He hadn't smiled since the day on the bridge.
"Sir?"
His assistant, a young man named Ken, knocked tentatively on the door.
"Enter," Bastian croaked. His voice was rough from disuse.
Ken walked in, holding a tablet. "The casting director sent over the videos for the child role. Do you want to watch them?"
"Are they any good?" Bastian asked, not turning his chair around. He was staring at the wall, where a single painting hung—a painting of a rainy bridge.
"They are… okay," Ken hesitated. "Most of them are crying a lot. Very loud."
"Garbage," Bastian muttered. "Throw them out. I don't want a kid who screams. I want a kid who understands."
"Sir, they're five years old. They mostly understand naps and candy."
Bastian swiveled his chair around. His eyes were hollow.
"My wife died five years ago," he said coldly. "She is the only loss that matters. If I am going to make a movie about grief, I will not have some pampered brat faking it. If we don't find the right kid by tomorrow, cancel the movie."
Ken gulped. "Cancel it? But the investors—"
"I don't care about the investors!" Bastian slammed his hand on the desk. "I care about the truth! Get out!"
Ken scrambled out of the room, terrified.
Bastian sighed, leaning back in his chair. He opened the top drawer of his desk.
Inside, resting on a velvet cushion, was a diamond ring.
And next to it, a water-damaged anniversary card.
I loved you, Bastian. But you never really looked at me.
He ran his thumb over the handwriting.
"I'm looking now, Anaïs," he whispered to the empty room. "I've been looking for five years. But I can't find you anywhere."
He closed the drawer, the darkness swallowing him whole again.