Michael Bay opened his eyes—it wasn't the song he had expected, but it turned out to be far more interesting once it got people talking. Each of them sat there, mouths open, completely overwhelmed by the emotional weight of the song—it was all written on their faces.
–I like it, I just really like the song,– said Steve Jablonsky, visibly moved by how deeply the music made him feel the weight of the years. Sometimes, you can see the difference between stars in just a few lines, but this guy… he was a ticking time bomb. Where did such a voice come from? It was the way he sang—almost like a whisper on the wind, spinning up toward the sky.
–I like it too,– said Billy. –What do you say, Director? Though I think maybe it's a bit over the top. When I sang—or, well, when I wrote it—I wanted to channel the idea of being someone, of existing within a moment in time.–
–So you're a show-off,– said Scarlett, giving him a playful slap to the chest. She was starting to figure him out—his many faces. The way he smirked when he was showing off, the mischievous glint in his eyes when he was about to do something crazy.
Laughter broke out around them.
–Guilty as charged…– Billy said. –All I want is to hear what you think, Director. Just trying not to blow it, and, well, maybe a little unsure about it all.–
He glanced at the man with his face buried in his arms, still pierced by whatever it was the music had stirred in him—what people call being a wreck. But Billy had a gift for moving people. When he sang, he could make women melt—it didn't matter who they were. Older, younger, married, single, lesbian, Catholic… there was something so visceral about him, the way he carried himself like a rockstar—an untouchable force.
–You're very good,– said Michael Bay. –I'll ask around, but I was looking at your catalog earlier, and a lot of your songs impressed me.–
–Thank you, Director… now that I've earned your favor, I've got to head out. Scarlett's got this gorgeous white lingerie she's going to help me try on,– said Billy, making Scarlett blush like a ripe tomato. She tried to say something, but he had already wrapped his arm around her waist as they made their exit, leaving the crowd watching how effortlessly the young man vanished from the apartment.
…
Scarlett was nervous, trying not to resist, but in a moment of heated impulse, he kissed her deeply by the elevator, just a few feet from the door.
–God, another second without your lips and I wouldn't be able to think straight,– Billy whispered in her ear before kissing her again, hard. She smelled like cinnamon, sweet and delicate, like milk and porcelain skin.
–Stop saying things like that,– Scarlett said.
–I do what I want,– Billy replied, lifting her into his arms. As they kissed, their foreheads touched.
–Let's go party. Let's dance all night. Let's enjoy the holiday,– said Billy. He knew exactly how he needed to act. That rough, defiant side of him made her nod in agreement. They headed out to a nightclub where models danced on platforms and music pulsed through the air. People started to recognize them as they walked in, and others tried to keep up.
What happens when people want that energy, when they try to cancel the very thing that draws others to it? Billy walked into the club with two thick stacks of $10 bills—twenty grand in total. He paid for everything, tipped generously, handed out cash, and bought drinks. The security team at the door waited for him, watching as the number of women entering started to rise. Many of them encouraged the men around them.
–So this is your idea of Thanksgiving?– Scarlett asked, now at the mercy of the alcohol. They kissed and danced, both sweaty, and when she least expected it, Billy kissed her again—part of that chain of kisses that made every moment delicious, even when a camera snapped compromising photos of them. Billy's profile, his sharp nose, and that signature grin—it was a look made for the lens.
–You know, that was amazing. We should make a movie where I try to seduce you and you turn me down,– said Billy.
–Let's try it now. I want to see how good you are,– said Scarlett.
–What's my name?–
–Jacob.–
–Your name is Paula,– said Billy, stepping closer while she, too drunk to resist, gave in.
–I think, Paula, we're in a bad moment right now,– Billy said.
–We are, Scarlett replied, trying not to object to how intense the situation had become. It was four in the morning, and neither of them could bear to part ways, but they laughed anyway.
–Jacob, you're insane,– she laughed, remembering a terrible joke. Scarlett had a thing for bad jokes. She always did, especially when Billy knew how to keep the game going.
–Let's watch Casablanca, and I'll let you screw me,– said Scarlett.
–If I watch movies, I fall asleep. Tomorrow. I want credit, Paula,– Billy answered.
–Hahahahaha, you're such an idiot,– the woman replied, stumbling as they walked side by side, not saying anything special, not overthinking or messing it up. With a few jokes, they got into the black, bulletproof car together. It was a real opportunity, even if they both might've wanted something else.
They headed upstairs to watch Casablanca, while Billy let her teach him about shots, scripts, and film talk. That's how it worked—through whispers, he heard her say:
–Narrative efficiency… its ability to balance drama, romance, and political tension. It's storytelling where nothing feels wasted. It finds those moments that no one else seems to notice. Look at how they express those emotions beneath the surface—the way conflict makes every detail matter. When you act with sadness, don't make a face—just let your eyes go dim, look forward and down, and tighten your throat like you're holding back the tears.–
...