MasukThe thing about power, Isadora Vale had decided a long time ago, was that it wasn’t about who held it. It was about who understood its silence.And tonight, Hollywood was very, very loud.From the balcony of the Devacraux estate, she could see the ballroom below like a living organism—glittering, shifting, predatory. Every move choreographed. Every laugh rehearsed. And at the center of it all: her brother. Lucian Vale.He looked exactly how he always did when things began to unravel—composed, surgical, all clean lines and quiet ruin beneath them. The press would call it control. Isadora knew better. It was survival. She wasn't his sister, not exactly. She was adopted. She never liked him much either. Their sibling relationship was non existent. Yet, she’d flown in from London two days ago after catching wind of the Ravelle biopic mess through one of her associates at Oriel Pictures. She wasn’t supposed to care about American film politics anymore—she’d spent years building a clean l
The terrace felt like a reprieve.Not truly quiet—Hollywood never granted that mercy—but subdued, as if the city's relentless hum had been dialed back just enough to breathe. Faint strains of music drifted from the ballroom, softened into a distant pulse, while the laughter inside mellowed into something bearable, no longer sharp enough to cut.The night air carried a deliberate chill, crisp against the skin.Lucian emerged onto it like a man stepping into a private reckoning.He didn't lean on the railing. No cigarette. No feigned contemplation. He simply stood, posture rigid, jaw locked, hands hanging loose at his sides in a way that betrayed their readiness to clench.Through the glass doors, if he tilted his head just so—past the crowd, the glittering chandeliers, the mirrored illusions—he could still spot her. Serena, seated at that table amid the polite predators. Serena, smiling with the precision of someone mapping every escape route.It should have steadied him.It didn't.He
By noon, the internet had decided who Serena Rivera was.She watched it happen in real time, the way one watches a tide come in—helpless, clinical, faintly fascinated by the violence of it.She didn’t scroll. She didn’t need to. The headlines had weight now. They pressed against her ribs even with the phone face-down on the café table, even as Lucian’s presence anchored the air across from her.He hadn’t touched his coffee.That bothered her more than it should have.“You’re not angry,” she said suddenly.Lucian blinked, just once. “That’s not true.”“No,” Serena said. “You’re… resolved. Angry people react. You’re already ten moves ahead.”He studied her like she’d said something worth filing away. “And you?”She exhaled. “I don’t know yet.”That was the truth. Anger felt too clean for what she was carrying. Hurt felt indulgent. Fear was useless. What she felt was something murkier—like being pushed into a role she’d spent her whole life avoiding, and realizing the script had already
The internet didn’t sleep.By the time Serena woke up, the headlines had already changed shape.Last night, she’d been the ingénue caught in the wrong orbit.This morning, she was a temptress with bad timing.> “Wolfe and Rivera: Midnight Drives or PR Diversions?”“Rivera’s Rise: The New Starlet Who Can’t Stay Out of Trouble.”“Seraphina Silent Amid Rumors—Lucian Vale Seen Leaving Gala Alone.”Her phone wouldn’t stop vibrating. Mentions, tags, half-hearted statements from PR teams who didn’t belong to her. Her name sat just below #LucianVale and #SeraphinaDevacraux, separated only by a thread of outrage.The public didn’t want nuance and didn't care for it. They wanted hierarchy. Seraphina: divine, untouchable, betrayed. Serena: young, ambitious, disposable.A story told before. A script she hadn’t even auditioned for. But one the world will make her a part of nonetheless.She turned her phone facedown on the counter and exhaled, her breath shaky and uneven. Her untouched coffee ste
The drive back from the restaurant was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against the windows of the car like fog.Eliora sat in the front passenger seat, scrolling through her phone with occasional bursts of laughter at whatever reel had caught her eye. Serena drove, hands tight on the wheel, eyes fixed on the winding canyon road. She insisted driving alone and Eliora choose to stick with her. "Why did we take seperate car again?" Eliora murmured, like someone who already knew the answer. "Are you two fighting or something?"Serena took a deep breath. "No."They'd have to talk for that. But in some ways, she guessed they are fighting. Lucian followed in his own car—she’d caught a glimpse of his taillights in the rearview mirror once or twice, a silent escort she hadn’t asked for.He hadn’t protesred when she said she'd like to drive alone. Just a nod when they parted in the valet line, his hand brushing Eliora’s shoulder in that protective way he’d adopted lately. To Serena, not
Eliora Rivera arrived exactly like a storm that thought it was sunshine.She burst onto the studio lot in a flutter of linen and over-accessorized enthusiasm, ignoring the assistants who tried to stop her at the entrance. By the time she reached Serena’s set, half the crew was staring, half in confusion and half—well—didn't care.“Jesus Christ,” Serena muttered as she spotted her. “What are you doing here?”Eliora beamed, unbothered. “Surprise!”“Eliora—”“I told you we are going to go out today.”“I am shooting!”“So I came in. You can finish your shooting, wrap it up soon since I'm here," This was directed at the director who chuckled nervously. "Problem solved.”The crew smiled in amusement. Eliora had that rare, impossible energy that made resistance futile. She turned to wave at Eli, who stood behind the monitor, looking halfway between fond and exasperated.“Jonatham didn't warn her?,” he asked under his breath to Serena. She gave him a look. He muttered to himself, "Right." J







