Semua Bab Behind the Spotlight: Bab 31 - Bab 40

Ethan’s POVReturning to set after everything that’s happened felt like walking onto a battlefield with no armor. The moment Julian and I released the joint PR statement, our names flooded every trending tag, our faces plastered on tabloid covers, and our “relationship”—God, it felt surreal calling it that—became public domain.But here, inside the studio, everything looked the same: the soft glow of the overhead lights, the bustle of crew members carrying cables and mics, the scent of strong coffee mixed with sawdust from the set build. And yet, the energy was different. Palpable. Like everyone was waiting to see what version of Ethan Cole would walk in today.I adjusted the collar of my jacket and tried to act like my palms weren’t sweaty. “Just breathe,” I whispered under my breath.“Ethan! Hey, morning!”Sarah, our assistant director, waved from across the soundstage. Her voice was bright, but her eyes flickered with curiosity. I smiled, nodded, and made my way over to the dressin

Ethan’s POVJulian’s hand wrapped around mine—not tightly, just enough to remind me it was still there. Still real.I didn’t move.I didn’t pull away.But I didn’t lean in either.Because I didn’t know who I was in this moment. The Ethan the world thought they knew? The perfect smile. The clean-cut, scandal-free star they could market like a product?Or this version—bare, tangled in sheets, heart cracked wide open in the soft light of someone else’s bedroom?Julian’s thumb brushed over my knuckles, patient. No pressure.“You don’t have to decide right now,” he said quietly. “But I’m not going to pretend this didn’t happen. You don’t get to be that beautiful and brave and soft with me in the dark, then vanish when the sun comes up.”That stung. Because I knew I could. I’d done it before. Vanished. Erased pieces of myself to survive. Smiled through press junkets and late-night shows, gave them the charming version of Ethan with all the sharp edges sanded off.But Julian saw the edges an

Ethan’s POVI sat in front of the camera for an hour before I pressed record.I’d deleted five drafts already—each one too polished, too careful, too rehearsed. Like I was still trying to make myself palatable, digestible. Easy to forgive.But I didn’t want forgiveness.I wanted freedom.The studio lights were off. The background was nothing but a gray wall in Julian’s guest room. I wore a hoodie and no makeup. My hair was a mess. My voice, shaky.When I finally hit record, my heart nearly punched through my ribs.“Hey,” I said quietly. “It’s Ethan.”I stared at the lens. At the red blinking dot that felt like a thousand eyes.“I’ve spent most of my life being exactly who people needed me to be. The golden boy. The idol. The straight, polished product. I was told not to confuse the fans. Told to smile. Keep it neutral. Keep it clean.”I swallowed.“But I’m tired of clean.”A pause.“I’m tired of neutral. Tired of being scared. Tired of lying to everyone—including myself.”I sat up str

Julian’s POV There’s a silence that settles after the world starts whispering your name. A kind of hush that isn’t peaceful—but tense, like the space between lightning and thunder. That’s the quiet I sat in, tucked into the back of a half-forgotten café in the city. A place I liked because no one ever looked up. No one cared. My espresso had gone cold. My phone buzzed. Again. I didn’t need to look. I already knew what was waiting. More headlines. More opinions dressed as concern. “Is Julian Vale risking it all for love?” “Ethan Rhodes: Queer Icon or Career Suicide?” “The men behind Glass Mercy—are they more than collaborators?” People always think they’re owed access when your life brushes against their screens. Across from me, Briar looked exhausted. She always did when she had to deliver news that tasted like warning. “They’re talking about pulling some of the European premieres,” she said, smoothing her already perfect blazer. “The French distributor’s nervous.” I stared o

Ethan’s POVJulian had always been the steady one.Even before we were us, he walked through the world like he already knew how it would try to knock him down—and he dared it to try. It wasn’t arrogance. It was armor. Polished and impenetrable.And I’d loved him for it. Maybe too much.But lately, the cracks had started to show.Not in ways anyone else would notice. Julian still gave good interviews. Still shook hands with that poised intensity that made directors lean in and trust him. Still held his glass with two fingers, like it was all elegance and never tension.But I saw it.I saw it in the way he stared a beat too long at his phone before answering. In the way his fingers tapped silent rhythms against his thigh during meetings. In how tightly he held my hand when we were introduced as a couple—not just collaborators.He was changing.And I didn’t know how to help him without pulling him apart further.The morning after the awards dinner, he was quiet. Not distant—just still.I