The sun was barely peeking through the heavy velvet curtains of the Presidential Suite.
In the massive king-sized bed, Anaïs was fast asleep. Her breathing was soft and rhythmic, her dark hair fanned out over the pillow like a halo. She looked exhausted. The flight, the paparazzi, and the stress of returning to this city had drained her completely.
At the foot of the bed, a small figure sat cross-legged on the carpet.
Sacha was already fully dressed.
He was wearing his Business Battle Gear: a navy blue blazer with gold buttons, crisp beige shorts, knee-high socks, and polished loafers. He had even spent ten minutes trying to gel his hair back, though one stubborn curl kept falling onto his forehead.
He looked at his sleeping mother and let out a tiny sigh.
"Mommy works too hard," he whispered to his teddy bear, Mr. Roboto. "She needs a vacation. A vacation costs money. Therefore, I need to get this job."
He checked his backpack.
Juice box? Check.
Wet wipes? Check.
Emergency lollipop? Check.
Wallet with cash stolen from Mommy's purse? Check. (He would pay her back with interest).
Sacha stood up. He tiptoed across the room, moving with the stealth of a ninja in tiny shoes. He reached the heavy door, grabbed the handle with both hands, and pulled.
Click.
He slipped into the hallway and closed the door silently.
"Operation: Save Mommy's Bank Account starts now," he declared.
He marched down the hallway to the elevator. He was too short to reach the lobby button, so he pulled a pen out of his pocket and poked it.
Ding.
The doors opened to the lobby. It was quiet this early in the morning. The concierge, a young man with a friendly face, looked down from his high desk.
"Well, hello there, little sir," the concierge smiled. "Where are your parents?"
Sacha adjusted his blazer, looking very serious. "My mother is in the spa. She is getting a... cucumber treatment. She sent me to buy breakfast."
"Breakfast?" The concierge raised an eyebrow. "We have room service, young man."
Sacha let out a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes. "Room service eggs are rubbery. My palate is very refined. I need to go to a bakery."
He pulled a crisp $100 bill from his pocket and slapped it on the counter. It was a move he had seen Anaïs do a hundred times.
"Please call me a taxi. A clean one. If it smells like cigarettes, I will leave a bad review."
The concierge blinked, looking at the money, then at the serious five-year-old. He chuckled. "Alright, little boss. One clean taxi coming up."
Thirty minutes later, the taxi pulled up in front of a looming glass building.
St. Yves Studios.
It was huge. It looked like a giant sword piercing the sky.
Sacha pressed his nose against the window. "It looks scary," he mumbled. "Like a villain's castle."
"Here you go, kid," the driver said, looking concerned. "Are you sure your mom is meeting you here?"
"Yes," Sacha lied smoothly, hopping out. "She's parking her invisible jet. Keep the change."
He walked toward the entrance. The security guards were busy checking badges of the hundreds of people streaming in. Sacha waited for a large group of extras to walk through the gates and simply blended in with their legs. Being small had its advantages.
He followed the signs that said: OPEN CASTING CALL: THE SILENT GRAVE – 4th Floor.
When the elevator doors opened on the 4th floor, Sacha was hit by a wall of noise.
The waiting room was a nightmare.
There were at least fifty children. Some were crying. Some were reciting lines in robotic voices. Mothers were frantically combing hair and wiping faces, shouting instructions like drill sergeants.
"Don't smudge your eyeliner, Timmy!"
"Smile brighter, Jessica! You look depressed!"
Sacha stood in the doorway, horrified. He wrinkled his nose.
"It smells like hairspray and desperation," he muttered, pulling out a wet wipe to cover his nose.
He walked past a mother who was force-feeding her son a banana. He walked past a girl practicing a fake cry. He walked straight to the front desk, where a harried-looking assistant was buried under a pile of headshots.
"Name?" the assistant asked without looking up.
"Sacha," he replied.
The assistant finally looked down. She blinked. "Where is your number? Where is your parent?"
"My number is one," Sacha said confidently. "And my parent is currently unavailable. She is allergic to bad acting, so she couldn't come in here."
The assistant stared at him. Before she could argue, the heavy double doors behind her flew open.
A young man—Ken, Bastian's assistant—poked his head out. He looked terrified.
"Mr. St. Yves is getting impatient!" Ken squeaked. "He says the last kid was an insult to cinema. Who is next?"
The room went silent. The mothers looked at each other nervously. No one wanted to send their kid into the lion's den when the lion was angry.
Sacha didn't wait.
He saw the open door. He saw the opportunity.
He ducked under the receptionist's desk, dodged Ken's legs, and walked straight into the audition room.
"Hey! Kid! You can't just go in there!" Ken shouted.
The heavy doors slammed shut behind Sacha.
The room was dark, lit only by a single spotlight in the center.
Behind a long table sat a man in the shadows.
Sacha walked into the spotlight. He didn't fidget. He didn't look scared. He stood with his hands in his pockets, squinting into the dark.
"Is the power out?" Sacha asked loudly. "Or are we saving money on electricity?"
There was a pause. A heavy, suffocating silence.
Then, the man in the shadows leaned forward.
Bastian St. Yves.
He looked exactly like the photos, but scarier. His eyes were dark circles of exhaustion. His jaw was covered in stubble. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in a week.
Bastian stared at the boy in the spotlight. For a second, his breath hitched. The black hair. The defiant stance. The blue eyes just like Anaïs.
It was like looking into a mirror from twenty-five years ago.
"Who let you in?" Bastian's voice was a low growl.
"I let myself in," Sacha replied. "The lady outside was too slow."
Bastian narrowed his eyes. "Where is your mother?"
"Sleeping," Sacha said. "She needs her beauty rest. Not that she needs it, she's already beautiful. But you look like you need a nap, Mister."
Ken, who had slipped back into the room, gasped. "Kid! Show some respect!"
Bastian raised a hand to silence Ken. He didn't look angry. He looked… intrigued.
"You think I need a nap?" Bastian asked.
"Yes," Sacha nodded solemnly. "You have panda eyes. Dark circles. My mommy uses cucumber slices for that. You should try it. Or maybe just stop frowning. Your face is going to get stuck like that."
Bastian felt a twitch in his lips. He hadn't smiled in years, and he wasn't smiling now, but the ice in his chest cracked just a little.
"You have a sharp tongue for someone so small," Bastian said, leaning back. "Do you know why you are here?"
"To act," Sacha said. "And to get paid."
"Money?" Bastian scoffed. "You're five. What do you need money for? Toys?"
Sacha looked offended. "No. I need to buy a villa in the south of France. My mommy wants one with a garden. And I also want a chocolate fountain. A big one."
Bastian stared at him. This kid was ridiculous. He was arrogant, rude, and brutally honest.
He was perfect.
"This is a tragedy movie," Bastian said, his voice turning serious. "The role requires pain. Can you cry?"
Sacha pulled a lollipop out of his pocket and began to unwrap it. "Cry? No."
"No?" Bastian raised an eyebrow. "You're an actor who can't cry?"
"I can cry," Sacha corrected, popping the candy into his mouth. "But I don't cry for strangers. It's undignified."
"Undignified?" Bastian repeated. "You're a child."
"I am a man in training," Sacha mumbled around the lollipop. "My mommy says men shouldn't cry unless it's really sad. Like if they drop their ice cream. Or if they lose their wife."
The room froze.
Bastian felt like he had been punched in the gut.
Or if they lose their wife.
He stared at the boy. Sacha was looking at him with wide, innocent blue eyes, completely unaware that his words had just stabbed Bastian in his deepest wound.
Bastian took a shaky breath. He should kick this kid out. He was too much. Too painful to look at.
But he couldn't look away.
"You…" Bastian cleared his throat. "You really want this job?"
"Yes," Sacha said. "My mommy needs the money. She works too hard. I want to be the breadwinner."
Bastian looked at the boy's clothes. The expensive blazer, the designer shoes. His mother clearly wasn't poor. But the boy's determination was real. He wasn't doing this for fame. He was doing it for her.
Bastian felt a strange pang of jealousy. Who was this mother who raised a son to love her so much?
"Okay," Bastian said softly. "You're hired."
Ken dropped his clipboard. "Sir?! But he didn't even audition! He just insulted you and ate candy!"
"Exactly," Bastian stood up. He walked out of the shadows and approached the spotlight. He towered over Sacha.
Sacha looked up, craning his neck. He didn't back down.
"You have guts, kid," Bastian said. "What is your name?"
"Sacha."
"Sacha what?"
Sacha took the lollipop out of his mouth. He flashed a grin that was equal parts charming and dangerous.
"My mommy says surnames are none of your business," Sacha said.
Bastian actually chuckled. It was a rusty, dry sound, but it was there. "Your mommy sounds like a difficult woman."
Sacha's smile widened. "She is. She hates men in suits. She says they are all liars."
Bastian's smile faded. The words hit close to home.
"Well," Bastian said, crouching down so he was eye-level with the boy. "Tell your mother that her son just got the lead role in the biggest movie of the year. Filming starts in two days."
Sacha's eyes lit up. "Does that mean I get the check now?"
"You get the contract," Bastian said, standing up. "Bring your mother to sign it tomorrow."
Sacha hesitated. His face fell slightly. "Bring… my mother?"
"Yes. You're a minor. She has to sign."
Sacha bit his lip. This was a problem. Mommy had strictly forbidden him from coming here. If she found out he got the job… she would be mad. But if she saw the check… maybe she would forgive him?
"Fine," Sacha said. "But be careful when you meet her."
"Why?" Bastian asked.
Sacha put his hands in his pockets and gave Bastian a warning look.
"Because if she sees your panda eyes, she might try to put cucumbers on your face. It's very embarrassing."
With that, Sacha turned around and marched out of the room, leaving the most powerful director in the city staring after him in stunned silence.
Bastian touched his own face.
Panda eyes?
"Ken," Bastian barked.
"Yes, Sir?"
"Get me a mirror."
Scene: The Hotel Suite.
Anaïs woke up with a start. The sun was fully up.
She rolled over. "Sacha? Time for breakfast."
Silence.
She sat up. The bed was empty.
She looked at the chair where she had laid out his clothes. Gone.
Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in her chest.
"Sacha?"
She jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. Empty.
She ran to the living room. Empty.
Then, she saw the note on the coffee table. It was written in crayon on a hotel napkin.
Gone to make money. Don't worry, I took wet wipes. Love, Sacha.
Anaïs stared at the note. Her blood ran cold.
"Make money?" she whispered.
She remembered their conversation in the car.
The casting call. St. Yves Studios.
"No," she breathed. "He didn't."
She grabbed her phone and dialed the concierge.
"This is the Presidential Suite!" she yelled. "Did you see a five-year-old boy leave?"
"Oh, yes, Ms. Eve," the concierge chirped happily. "The young boss. I called him a taxi about an hour ago. He said he was going to buy croissants."
"Where?!" Anaïs screamed. "Where did the taxi take him?!"
"Uh, let me check the log… Ah, here it is. St. Yves Tower."
Anaïs dropped the phone.
The world spun.
Sacha was at St. Yves Tower.
Sacha was with Bastian.
She didn't have time to change. She threw a trench coat over her silk pajamas.
But before she opened the door, her hand froze on the knob.
If I walk in there, he will see me.
If he sees me, he takes Sacha.
Panic clawed at her throat, but survival instinct kicked in harder. She ran back to the dresser.
She grabbed a black face mask and her signature oversized sunglasses. She jammed a baseball cap low over her forehead, covering her hair.
She looked in the mirror. She didn't look like Anaïs St. Yves anymore. She looked like a suspicious celebrity—or a kidnapper.
It has to be enough, she told herself.
She ran out the door.