Alice Tanaka arrived at KEB Tower fifteen minutes early, just as instructed.
The lobby was all glass and steel, security discreet but omnipresent — guards in black suits who looked like they could break bones or sign multimillion-dollar deals without blinking. The elevator ride to the 62nd floor felt longer than it should have — silent, smooth, the kind of quiet that amplified every heartbeat and every doubt.
She stepped out into a corridor lined with framed posters of past KEB productions. None for Lifebook yet. Just empty space waiting to be filled.
A young assistant in a sharp blazer greeted her with a polite smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Miss Tanaka? Right this way."
Alice followed, heels clicking softly on the polished concrete. She wore a simple black dress — elegant, understated, professional. Hair in loose curls, minimal makeup. The look that said I'm serious about this role.
The assistant opened a heavy soundproof door.
"They're ready for you."
Inside: a long table, five people seated — three casting directors, one from the network, one from directing. Notebooks open. Cameras rolling. Standard.
Alice exhaled once, centered herself, and walked to the mark.
"Good afternoon," she began, voice warm and steady. "I'm Alice Tanaka. Thank you for having me."
She introduced her pieces, started the first monologue — Queen's breakdown after the showcase scene. The words felt heavier today, rawer.
She was midway through — delivering the line "You think you can just watch me like I'm yours to break?" — when the door opened again.
Softly. No knock.
A woman in a sleek black suit entered, tablet in hand. She didn't speak to Alice. Just leaned down to the head casting director and whispered something.
The man's eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
One by one, the others looked up. Notes stopped scratching.
The head caster cleared his throat.
"Thank you, everyone. We're going to take a short break."
Chairs scraped. Papers gathered.
Alice blinked. "Is… everything okay?"
No one answered directly. They simply filed out — polite nods, murmured excuses — until the door closed behind the last one.
The assistant lingered a moment, offered a small, apologetic smile, then vanished.
Alice stood alone under the harsh audition light, sides still in hand, pulse starting to race.
The door opened again.
This time, no one entered quietly.
He did.
Kevin Emilio Boyce.
Six-foot-three now, moving with the kind of controlled power that filled a room before he even spoke. Black suit cut close to a frame that had filled out in all the right ways — broad shoulders, lean strength. Pink lips set in a calm, unreadable line. Skin clear, jaw sharp.
And the eyes.
One deep black. One storm-gray.
Mismatched. Unforgettable.
They locked on her the moment he crossed the threshold.
Alice's breath caught.
Recognition slammed into her like a wave delayed ten years.
The awkward boy with acne and taped goggles was gone.
In his place stood a man who looked like he'd been carved from every dark, expensive dream she'd never admitted to having.
His deep voice — low, velvet-rough — broke the silence.
"Don't worry about them. They won't be coming back."
He closed the door with a soft click.
The room shrank to just the two of them.
Alice found her voice. "Kevin…?"
A faint curve touched his lips — not quite a smile.
"You recognize me. Good."
He walked forward slowly, hands in his pockets, until he stood on the other side of the mark. Close enough that she caught the subtle notes of his cologne — something woody, warm, dangerously inviting.
"It's been a long time, Dimples."
The childhood nickname hit her like a spark to dry tinder.
Her cheeks warmed. She hated that they did.
"I… I didn't know you were—" She gestured weakly at the room, the tower, the empire.
"Behind this?" he finished. "A lot's changed."
He pulled out one of the vacated chairs, turned it to face her, and sat — legs apart, elbows on knees, leaning forward slightly. Every movement deliberate. Magnetic.
"Do you know what you're auditioning for, Alice?"
She swallowed. "Lifebook. The limited series. The role of Queen."
He nodded once.
"And do you know what Lifebook is actually about?"
She hesitated. "It's… a dark coming-of-age story. Class. Power. Obsession."
His mismatched eyes never left hers.
"It's my story," he said simply. "Our story."
The air shifted.
Alice felt the floor tilt beneath her heels.
He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a thin leather-bound script — the original, not the sides. He placed it on the table between them.
"Every scene you've been preparing," he said, "is something that happened. To me. Because of you."
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
He leaned back slightly, studying her reaction with calm intensity.
"You have the role," he continued. "Queen is yours. No one else could play her. Not like you."
Alice's mouth parted. No sound came.
"But," he added, voice dropping deeper, "there's been a slight change in production."
He stood — slow, fluid — and rounded the table until he stood close. Not touching. Just close enough that she had to tilt her head up to hold his gaze.
"You'll start tomorrow night. 9:00 p.m. sharp. My office. Penthouse level."
His gray eye caught the light like winter steel.
"I don't wait."
Then, softer — almost intimate:
"You've grown into your beauty, Dimples. More than I imagined."
He let the words hang for one charged second.
Then turned and walked toward the door.
Hand on the handle, he paused without looking back.
"Wear something comfortable. We're going to be reading lines for a long time."
The door closed behind him.
Alice stood frozen under the audition light, script pages trembling in her fingers.
The boy she'd once destroyed had just handed her the role of a lifetime.
And the price, it seemed, was stepping back into the story she'd tried to forget.
Tomorrow. 9:00 p.m.
She wasn't sure if she was terrified…
Or if some buried part of her had been waiting for this moment all along.