The set for The Silent Grave was a masterpiece. It was built to look like a gloomy, rain-soaked funeral home. Dark wood, velvet drapes, and fake rain pouring against the windows.
It was depressing. It was expensive. It was perfect.
Bastian sat in the Director's chair, watching the monitors like a hawk. He wore a headset, his sleeves rolled up, revealing his forearms. He looked focused and terrifying.
"Quiet on set!" the Assistant Director shouted. "Rolling sound... and speed!"
The red lights flashed. A hush fell over the hundred crew members.
In the center of the set, standing next to a fake coffin, was Sacha.
He was wearing a tiny black suit. His hair was gelled back. He looked heartbreakingly small in the large room.
Anaïs stood behind the cameras, her arms crossed, watching nervously. She had told Sacha to behave. She had promised him a chocolate fountain if he did a good job.
But she also knew her son. And right now, Sacha was staring at Bastian with the eyes of a vengeful demon.
"Scene 1, Take 1," the clapboard snapped.
"Action!" Bastian called out.
Silence.
Sacha stood there. He didn't move. He didn't say his line. He just stared at the camera lens, blinking slowly.
Five seconds passed. Ten seconds.
"Cut!" Bastian yelled.
The spell broke. The crew shifted uncomfortably.
Bastian stood up. "Sacha. You missed your cue. The line is: 'Where did Daddy go?'"
Sacha looked at Bastian. He pulled a small bag of gummy bears out of his pocket—where he had hidden them—and popped one into his mouth.
"I know the line," Sacha chewed loudly. "I just don't wanna say it."
The cameraman coughed to hide a laugh. Sienna, sitting in the corner with her phone, let out a loud snort.
Bastian walked onto the set. He loomed over the boy.
"Didn't feel like it?" Bastian repeated, his voice dangerously low. "Do you know how much this film costs per minute? Every second you stand there eating candy costs me five thousand dollars."
Sacha's eyes widened. "Five thousand?"
"Yes."
Sacha reached into the bag, took out another gummy bear, and ate it slowly. Staring Bastian right in the eye.
Chomp. Chomp.
"There," Sacha mumbled. "I ate it. You shouldn't waste it on me."
Bastian's jaw tightened. A vein throbbed in his temple.
"Where is his manager?" Bastian roared, turning to the crew. "Eve! Get on set!"
Anaïs rushed forward, keeping her head down. She knelt next to Sacha.
"Sacha, baby," she whispered urgently. "What are you doing? We talked about this. Be professional."
"I can't," Sacha whined, his voice rising to that specific pitch that only toddlers can reach—the one that shatters glass. "My shirt is scratchy! It feels like bugs! And the lights are too bright! My eyes hurt!"
"It's silk, Sacha," Anaïs hissed. "It's the most expensive fabric in the world."
"It's scratchy!" Sacha stomped his foot. "And I'm thirsty. I want juice. Not the orange one with bits. The smooth one. Apple. No—grape."
Bastian rubbed his temples. He was used to dealing with diva actresses, but usually, they didn't ask for grape juice.
"Get him the juice," Bastian ordered the prop master. "And fix the shirt."
"And a chair!" Sacha added, pointing a chubby finger at Bastian. "My legs are tired. I want a big chair like yours. The comfy one."
"You have a chair," Bastian gritted out. "It's over there."
"That's a stool," Sacha argued. "It makes my back hurt. Mommy says bad chairs make you bend funny."
Bastian looked at Anaïs. "Is he serious?"
"He... takes ergonomics very seriously," Anaïs lied, trying not to smirk. She knew exactly what Sacha was doing. He was punishing Bastian for the "Fiancée" incident.
"Fine," Bastian waved his hand. "Get him a director's chair. Get him the juice. Get him a massage therapist if he wants. Just get the shot!"
Twenty Minutes Later.
Sacha was sitting in a new chair with SACHA taped on the back. He had his grape juice. His shirt had been adjusted.
"Are we ready now, Your Highness?" Bastian asked drily.
Sacha took a long sip of juice. "Maybe. But something's wrong."
"What?"
"The script." Sacha held up the pages. "It's weird."
The screenwriter, a nervous man named Dave, looked like he wanted to cry.
"Weird?" Bastian stepped closer. "This script won an award."
"Well, the judges were wrong," Sacha declared.
He hopped off the chair and pointed to the page.
"Look at this. My character, Leo, finds out his dad is gone. And the script says I'm supposed to say: 'Where is my toy soldier? I want my toy soldier!'"
Sacha looked up at Bastian, his expression deadpan.
"He's five," Sacha said. "Not dumb."
"If my dad went away, I wouldn't think about toys."
"I'd think I did something bad."
The room went silent.
Bastian stared at the boy.
He remembered the night Anaïs left. He remembered the feeling in his own chest. It wasn't about things. It was about the crushing weight of silence.
"What would you say then?" Bastian asked softly.
Sacha dropped the script on the floor.
"I wouldn't say anything," Sacha whispered. "I'd just wait by the door."
Bastian felt a chill run down his spine. The kid was right. Silence was more powerful than a tantrum over a toy.
Bastian looked at the screenwriter. "Change it. Cut the line."
"But Sir—!"
"Cut it!" Bastian barked. He looked back at Sacha. "Okay. No lines. Just action. You wait by the door. Can you do that, or is the floor too hard for your delicate feet?"
Sacha smirked. "I can do it. But you gotta say please."
The crew gasped. No one told Bastian St. Yves to say please.
Bastian looked at the defiant little face. The blue eyes challenging him.
"Please," Bastian said through gritted teeth. "Action."
The room went quiet. The rain effect pattered against the glass.
Sacha stood in the center of the room.
He didn't move. He didn't speak.
He walked slowly to the large front door of the set. He reached up, standing on his tiptoes, and tried to turn the handle. It was locked.
He didn't cry. He didn't throw a fit.
He just sat down on the doormat. He pulled his knees to his chest and stared at the wood.
Then, he blinked.
One single, perfect tear rolled down his cheek.
It wasn't a fake Hollywood cry. It was a look of pure, devastating loneliness. It was the look of a child who realized that no one was coming for him.
Sacha wasn't acting.
He was thinking about the empty seat at his birthday parties. He was thinking about the other kids at school who had dads to carry them on their shoulders. He was thinking about the man sitting in the director's chair who didn't know his name.
Why didn't you want me? Sacha thought, letting the sadness take over.
The silence on set was heavy. The camera zoomed in on his face. The pain in his eyes was so raw that the makeup artist started sniffing. Even Sienna put her phone down, looking uncomfortable.
"Cut," Bastian whispered.
His voice was hoarse.
He sat there for a moment, staring at the monitor. He had expected a brat. He had expected a disaster.
Instead, he saw a reflection of his own grief.
Sacha wiped his face instantly, the sadness vanishing like magic. He stood up and dusted off his pants.
"Was that okay?" Sacha asked, his voice returning to its normal bratty tone. "Or do I gotta do it again so everyone sees?"
Bastian cleared his throat, standing up. "It was... adequate. Moving on."
"Adequate?" Sacha scoffed. "It was really good. You're welcome."
He marched off the set toward Anaïs. "Mommy! Juice! Now!"
Anaïs handed him the juice box, her heart pounding. She had watched the scene with tears in her eyes behind her sunglasses.
She knew exactly who he was crying for.
Bastian watched the boy run to his "manager." He saw Eve kneel down and hug him. He saw the way Sacha clung to her, burying his face in her neck.
A strange, hollow ache opened up in Bastian's chest.
"Sir?" Ken asked. "Are we setting up for the next scene?"
"Give him ten minutes," Bastian murmured, not looking away from the mother and son. "He earned it."
Thirty minutes later, production was halted again.
"What is it now?" Bastian stormed into the break room.
He found Sacha sitting on the table, dangling his legs. Anaïs was standing next to him, looking stressed.
"He refuses to come out," Anaïs said, her voice muffled by the mask.
"Why?" Bastian demanded. "Is the juice the wrong temperature? Is the air too dry?"
"No," Sacha said, crossing his arms. "I saw her."
"Who?"
"The Witch," Sacha pointed to the door. "The fake fiancée lady. She's there."
"Sienna is in the next scene, yes," Bastian said. "She plays your stepmother."
"I don't like her," Sacha stated. "She smells bad. And she lies."
"I don't wanna work with her."
Bastian pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sacha. She is an actress. You are an actor. You pretend."
"I can't pretend to like her," Sacha argued. "My tummy feels mad when I look at her."
He pointed to a poster of Sienna on the wall.
"She looks like she eats kids."
Bastian actually laughed. It was a short, surprised sound. He quickly covered it with a cough.
"Listen, kid," Bastian stepped closer. "If you do this scene with her... and if you do it well... I'll give you something."
Sacha perked up. "Like toys?"
"Better," Bastian lowered his voice, like he was sharing a secret. "I'll let you yell at her."
Sacha's eyes went wide. "Really?"
"It's in the script," Bastian lied smoothly. "The character gets to scream at the stepmother. You can be as loud as you want."
Sacha thought about it. He looked at Anaïs.
"Mommy, did you hear that? I get to yell at the Witch."
Anaïs sighed. "Bastian, don't encourage him."
Bastian froze.
He looked at Anaïs.
She had slipped.
She called him Bastian. Not "Mr. St. Yves." Not "Sir."
Bastian.
The way she said it—with that weary, exasperated tone—sounded exactly like his wife when he used to work too late.
Anaïs realized her mistake instantly. She stiffened.
"I mean... Mr. Director," she corrected quickly, turning away to fix Sacha's collar.
Bastian didn't move. He stared at the back of her head. The baseball cap, the dark hair.
"You called me Bastian," he said softly.
"Everyone calls you Bastian," Anaïs said, her voice tight. "It's on the clapboard."
"No," Bastian took a step closer. The air in the break room suddenly felt very small. "My employees call me Sir. My actors call me Director. Only my family called me Bastian."
He reached out, his hand hovering near her shoulder.
"Who are you, Eve?"
Sacha looked between them. He sensed the danger.
"Hey!" Sacha shouted, jumping off the table. "I'm ready now! Let's go yell!"
He grabbed Bastian's hand and pulled.
"Come on, Director! Hurry!"
"You said time is money!"
Bastian looked down at the boy pulling his hand. The distraction worked. The moment was broken.
He looked back at Eve one last time. She was clutching her tablet like a shield.
"Right," Bastian said, shaking his head. "Time is money."
He let Sacha drag him out of the room.
But as he walked away, the suspicion in his gut didn't fade. It grew.
She slipped, he thought. She knows me.
Anaïs watched them go, letting out a breath she had been holding for two minutes. Her legs were shaking.
"That was too close," she whispered.
She touched the mask on her face.
It wasn't just a disguise anymore. It was a ticking time bomb.