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 sleep. Mommy says we need money… so I'm going to work."
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 double).
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.
"Okay," he whispered. "Save Mommy time."
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 mommy is… doing the green face thing. In the spa. She said I can go get breakfast."
"Breakfast?" The concierge raised an eyebrow. "We have room service, young man."
Sacha made a face. "The eggs are squishy. Squishy is bad." He nodded like this was obvious. "I want bakery eggs."
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.
"Can you call a taxi, please?" he asked, then added quickly, as if remembering a rule: "A clean one. No stinky smoke."
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's scary," he mumbled. "Like the bad guy house."
"Here you go, kid," the driver said, looking concerned. "Are you sure your mom is meeting you here?"
"Yes," Sacha said too fast. Then he corrected himself, very earnestly: "She's… coming. She just takes a long time." He hopped out. "You can keep it."
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… yucky," he muttered, pulling out a wet wipe to cover his nose. "Like hair spray and feet."
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?"
Sacha pointed at himself. "I'm here." Then he added, because he knew this part mattered: "My mommy is in the car. She said this place is loud."
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.
"It's too dark," Sacha said, blinking hard. "My eyes don't like it."
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.
Sacha shrugged. "Me." Then, after a beat: "I went around."
Bastian narrowed his eyes. "Where is your mother?"
"Sleeping," Sacha said simply. "She's tired. You look tired also."
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.
Sacha nodded very seriously. "Yes." He pointed at Bastian's face like a tiny doctor. "You have the dark eyes. Mommy calls it 'panda.' She puts cold things on it."
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 talk a lot for someone so small," Bastian said, leaning back. "Do you know why you are here?"
"To act," Sacha said. "For the money."
"Money?" Bastian scoffed. "You're five. What do you need money for? Toys?"
Sacha frowned like Bastian was being silly. "For Mommy." Then, because he was still five: "And maybe a big 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. "I can cry."
Bastian's brow lifted. "Then cry."
Sacha looked up, confused. "Right now?"
"Yes."
Sacha frowned harder. "No." He popped the candy into his mouth. "I don't cry when I don't mean it."
Ken, who had slipped back into the room, made a strangled sound.
Bastian leaned forward, voice low. "You're an actor who refuses to cry on command?"
Sacha nodded, lollipop stick bobbing. "Uh-huh." Then he added, defensive and very kid-like: "If I cry, my nose gets messy."
"You are a child," Bastian said flatly.
"I'm not a baby," Sacha mumbled around the lollipop. "Mommy says… boys can cry if it's real sad."
"Like what?" Bastian asked, testing him.
Sacha thought hard. His brows scrunched. "Like when you drop your ice cream." He nodded, satisfied. Then his voice went small without him noticing. "Or… when someone goes away."
The room froze.
Bastian felt like he had been punched in the gut.
Or… when someone goes away.
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 quickly. "Mommy needs it." He hugged his backpack strap. "I want her to stop being tired."
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 wasn't doing it for toys.
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—still sassy, still smart, but more childlike.
"My mommy says… I don't have to tell strangers."
Bastian actually chuckled. It was a rusty, dry sound, but it was there. "Your mommy sounds like a difficult woman."
Sacha's grin returned. "She is." Then he added, like he was sharing a very serious secret: "She doesn't like suit men. She says they smile and then they lie."
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. "Do I get the money now?"
"You get the contract," Bastian said, standing up. "Bring your mother to sign it tomorrow."
Sacha hesitated. His face fell slightly. "My mommy… has to come?"
"Yes. You're a minor. She has to sign."
Sacha bit his lip. His bravado cracked in a very five-year-old way. "She's gonna be mad."
"Why?" Bastian asked.
Sacha lifted his chin, trying to be tough again. "Because she said 'no.'" Then he wagged a tiny finger like he was copying her scolding voice. "She said, 'Sacha, don't go there.'"
Bastian's eyes softened. "And you went anyway."
Sacha nodded. "I'm still a good boy." He said it quickly, like he needed it to be true. "I brought wet wipes."
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."
---
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.