Bonus #5: Flair

Marko

"Cut”.

The director's voice rang for what would be the last time, and applause followed.

The moment was bittersweet, but the feel of Alba detaching from him as if he was plagued stung.

"Alb-"

"Don't...don't say anything, Marko. Let this end."

"I don’t want-"

"Don't want that?"

Again, she interrupted him, finishing his sentence when he did not wish her to.

"Marko, you called me a slut a few weeks ago, so let this 'slut' reform her ways, a safe distance from you.”

“I never said you were a slut.”

“No, you merely said that I spread my legs for anyone who gives me the time of day; if your argument is on semantics, try again."

Alba uttered as she moved from him, but her dress, the same ivory gown that stole his chest as she walked down the Aisle, making him wish that for a moment the scene was real and she was his bride, made her curse as she moved.

"God damn heels!"

She muttered before leaving him...again.

Should he manipulate her transport?

No, she might not fall for it this time.

Should he...hire someone to assault her and then act as her hero.

The consideration was so potent that he felt hopeful, but again, his psychologist rebuked such interventions because it doesn't give one's partner a chance to make a conscious decision.

How...disappointing.

***

The blandness of the day rang through his mind from the second his eyes struggled open.

Was there even a point to waking up?

He couldn't find one at the top of his head; even the morning sun rays were against him, burning so bitterly that he cursed himself for sleeping with the blinds open.

She wasn't picking up his calls; no, the calls were not even going through.

She said that she hadn’t blocked him, but...she had.

No one had ever drawn a line with him as firmly as she drew hers, and while he loved her firmness, it was getting irritating pretending to be more patient than he was.

His eyes flashed to the memory of her eye’s intensity, the silky gaze that shone brightly at him as she recited her lines with the depth of the actual ‘Alba’ of the script.

 A groan escaped him at the stiffening of his manhood.

The was no point in staying in bed, so he peeled his blankets off his body and walked over to his bookshelf, twisted the head of a trophy-looking ornament before the bookshelf split open to reveal steps leading to a hidden room.

His only regret was that he did not put on his indoor slippers because the grey marble floor was cold.

Passing by the thousands of pictures plastered on his wall of Alba...specifically her eyes, he took the latest piece to examine it.

It was from her dinner date with Rhett after their appearance at Mariette’s talk show.

She wasn’t sleeping with him; the P. I. he placed on her confirmed that they went their separate ways.

Not that he wanted them to meet anyway, but he couldn’t agitate her more than he had.

His fingers stroked her golden gaze from the photograph before his hand reached for his c*ck.

He wanted to see them melt again.

The sound of a code entering the dial on his front door, followed by the slamming of the door, made him groan.

But it was only when loud steps nearing his room sounded that he rushed out of the hidden room and back to his bedroom.

"Oh, you are up? Your mum wanted me to check up on you."

Bridgette uttered, with her hands still on the door.

Unlike him, her outfit and expression were fresh and showed enthusiasm for the day.

He could have glared or uttered something sassy in return, but instead, he stared at the brown eyes that seemed to hold a sense of superiority over him.

He no longer felt anything under her gaze.

"What?"

She crossed her arms over her chest, and when he said nothing, she continued talking.

"Don't you have some award ceremony to attend today for the series you starred in? Or are you not attending, though that wouldn't be the first you missed."

Right!

Right, the ceremony! She will be there, won't she?

"Are you in a slump because you got dumped?"

"Dumped?"

He repeated the words, they sounded off in his mouth, but of course, he hadn't been 'dumped', it was...something else.

"That is what they call people whose partners prefer anyone else over them, right?"

"I have not been 'dumped' she just misunderstood my relationship with you."

Bridgette stilled before leaning on the frame of his door.

"Want me to help you?"

"Your presence will make things much worse."

"No, your silence is what's worsening things. I'll join you for the event and help you out—no need to thank me. Get dressed. We can explain our relationship together."

"Explain what exactly?"

"That you have an eye fetish."

"Then she'll think I'm interested in her because of her eyes?"

"Is that a bad thing?"

"She saw a picture of you and thought I was interested in her because she looks like you."

A frown touched her lips before she smiled.

"She sounds endearing...I want to dominate her."

"No. Plus, you have Mercy."

"Hmm, but we can make arrangements."

"I said no. I'll try talking to her, but if it doesn't work...I'll just take her."

"Right; once you have them, it’s easier to make them understand."

**

Of course, of course, whatever solution Bridgette came up with would be a dud. She was as poor as him in communicating.

"Al-"

He tried to call her again, but the look she offered him was one of disgust before she slinked over the sea of people.

She made it clear she was avoiding him, and...it was beginning to get on his nerves.

…just like that, the event ended without him managing a word in.

Hah...well, he did try, didn't he?

The after-party was in the director’s house; the only way to get her to attend was to confirm his non-attendance.

An easy task—all he needed to do was tell one person with a flair for gossip: Magnolia.