Five Years Later.
The International Arrival gate at the Capital City Airport was usually chaotic, but today, it was a war zone.
Hundreds of fans were pressed against the barricades, holding neon signs and screaming until their throats were raw. Cameras flashed in a blinding stroboscopic rhythm, turning the terminal into a sea of white lightning.
"Who are they waiting for?" a confused tourist asked a security guard. "Is it a politician?"
The guard scoffed, adjusting his belt. "A politician? No. Politicians don't get this kind of reception. They're waiting for the Little Prince."
As if on cue, the automatic glass doors slid open.
The screaming reached a deafening pitch.
"SACHA! LOOK HERE!"
"OVER HERE, LITTLE PRINCE!"
"AGENT EVE! MARRY ME!"
Two figures walked out of the VIP exit, flanked by four stone-faced bodyguards.
The first was a woman who looked like she had walked straight out of a high-fashion magazine. She wore a sharp white pantsuit that hugged her figure perfectly, towering stiletto heels, and oversized black sunglasses that covered half her face. Her jet-black hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall of silk.
She didn't wave. She didn't smile. She walked with a cold, terrifying elegance that made the paparazzi instinctively step back.
This was Eve, the legendary Iron Manager who had taken the European entertainment industry by storm. No one knew her real name. No one knew her background. They only knew that if Agent Eve represented you, you were destined for stardom.
But the crowd wasn't screaming for her.
They were screaming for the small figure holding her hand.
Walking beside her was a five-year-old boy. He wore a miniature beige trench coat over a white turtleneck, tiny designer jeans, and little leather boots. A newsboy cap was pulled low over his forehead.
He looked like an angel. He had porcelain skin, chubby cheeks that begged to be pinched, and big, expressive eyes.
But unlike other child stars who waved and blew kisses, this boy looked… bored.
He adjusted his backpack straps, looked at the screaming mob, and let out a long, audible sigh.
"Mommy," Sacha muttered, his voice surprisingly clear over the noise. "Why are they so loud? Do they not have jobs?"
Anaïs—now known to the world as Eve—squeezed his hand gently. A small smile tugged at the corner of her red lips.
"Be nice, Sacha," she whispered. "These are your fans. They pay for your LEGO sets."
Sacha paused. He looked at the crowd again, his expression shifting from annoyance to a practiced, charming smile. He lifted a small hand and gave a lazy wave.
ROAR! The crowd went wild. Girls were crying. Grown men were snapping photos.
"See?" Sacha whispered back, dropping his hand. "Transaction complete. Now can we get to the car? My legs are tired."
Anaïs chuckled, shielding him from a particularly aggressive camera flash. "Keep walking, Your Highness. The car is outside."
As they moved through the terminal, Anaïs felt a familiar tightness in her chest. She scanned the crowd, her eyes hidden behind her dark glasses. She wasn't looking for fans. She was looking for him.
It had been five years since she died on the St. Jude Bridge.
Five years of hiding in France. Five years of rebuilding herself from a broken housewife into a powerhouse manager. She had sworn never to return to this city—the city where Bastian St. Yves ruled like a king.
But the industry was cruel. To truly secure Sacha's future, they needed to conquer the Asian market. And the biggest casting call of the decade was happening right here.
It's fine, she told herself, gripping the handle of her suitcase. I'm not Anaïs St. Yves anymore. I'm Eve. Bastian won't recognize me. And even if he does, he thinks I'm a ghost.
They reached the curb where a sleek black limousine was waiting. The driver opened the door, and Sacha climbed in, scrambling onto the leather seat with the agility of a squirrel.
Anaïs slid in after him. The door shut, sealing out the noise of the paparazzi.
Silence finally enveloped them.
Sacha immediately kicked off his expensive boots and flopped back against the seat, pulling a tablet out of his backpack.
"That was exhausting," Sacha declared, tapping on the screen. "Mommy, remind me to raise my appearance fee. My cheeks hurt from fake smiling."
Anaïs removed her sunglasses, revealing eyes that were no longer tragic, but sharp and calculating. She looked at her son—her entire world.
He looked so much like Bastian it sometimes made her heart ache. He had the same dark hair, the same stubborn jawline. But his eyes… his eyes were hers.
"You did well, Sacha," she said, brushing a curl off his forehead. "But remember the rules. We are here for work. We do the commercial, we sign the brand deal, and we leave. No wandering off."
Sacha didn't look up from his tablet. "I know, I know. Don't talk to strangers, especially men in suits. You've said it a thousand times."
"I mean it, Sacha. This city is… complicated."
Sacha paused. He looked up at her, his blue eyes too intelligent for a five-year-old. "Because of him?"
Anaïs froze. "Who?"
"The Scum Dad," Sacha said casually, as if talking about the weather.
Anaïs sighed. She never lied to Sacha—well, not entirely. She had told him his father was a powerful man who didn't want them. She hadn't told him his name, but Sacha was terrifyingly smart. He probably suspected more than he let on.
"We aren't here for him," Anaïs said firmly. "He is in the past. We are here to make money."
"Good," Sacha said, returning to his screen. "Because I checked the stock market. His company, St. Yves Global, dropped 0.5% today. Pathetic."
Anaïs choked on her water. "Sacha! Stop monitoring his stocks."
"I'm just doing market research," Sacha said innocently. "If I'm going to destroy his empire one day, I need to know his financials."
Anaïs rubbed her temples. Most five-year-olds wanted to be astronauts. Her son wanted to be a corporate raider.
"We are not destroying empires," she corrected. "We are building our own. Now, put the tablet away. We're arriving at the hotel."
The limousine pulled up to the entrance of the Grand Imperial Hotel—the most expensive hotel in the city. Anaïs had booked the Presidential Suite. In her past life, she would have felt guilty spending this much money. Now? She felt she deserved every penny.
The doorman opened the door. "Welcome to the Grand Imperial, Ms. Eve."
They walked into the lobby. It was dripping with gold and marble. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling, sparkling like frozen tears.
Sacha looked around, unimpressed. "Tacky," he whispered. "The ceiling is too high. It's inefficient for heating."
"Ssh," Anaïs hushed him. She walked to the reception desk, her heels clicking rhythmically on the marble floor.
"Checking in for Eve and Sacha," she told the receptionist.
While Anaïs handled the key cards, Sacha wandered a few feet away toward a display of gourmet chocolates near the elevators. He had a weakness for sweets—the only thing that reminded Anaïs he was actually a child.
He stood on his tiptoes, trying to see if they had hazelnut truffles.
Suddenly, a loud voice boomed across the lobby.
"Move it, kid! You're blocking the path!"
Sacha turned around.
A large, sweaty man in a cheap suit was pushing a cart of equipment, looking stressed. He was followed by a woman who looked like a B-list actress, checking her makeup in a compact mirror.
"I said move!" the man grunted, almost clipping Sacha with the cart.
Sacha didn't flinch. He didn't step back. He simply looked at the man's shoes, then up at his face.
"There is ten feet of space to my left," Sacha pointed out calmly. "If you cannot navigate that, perhaps you shouldn't be driving a cart. Do you need a license for that? Or just a lack of brain cells?"
The man stopped. He turned red. "What did you say, you little brat?"
The B-list actress laughed, snapping her mirror shut. "Hey, watch your mouth. Do you know who we are? We're with St. Yves Studios. We're filming a documentary here."
At the mention of St. Yves Studios, Sacha's eyes went cold.
"St. Yves?" Sacha repeated.
"That's right," the man sneered. "So get lost before I call security and have them toss you out to your mommy."
Anaïs, who had just finished checking in, turned around just in time to see the confrontation. Her motherly instincts flared. She started to walk over, ready to verbally eviscerate the man.
But Sacha didn't need help.
He took a step forward, sliding his hands into his pockets. He tilted his head, looking at the man with a gaze that could freeze water.
"You work for St. Yves?" Sacha asked, his voice innocent but laced with poison. "Is the standard for hiring really this low nowadays? No wonder the stock is dropping."
"You—!" The man raised his hand as if to grab Sacha's shoulder.
"I wouldn't touch me if I were you," Sacha said softly. "My blazer is Italian silk. It costs more than your car. And my mother?"
Sacha pointed a thumb behind him.
The man looked up and saw Anaïs walking toward them. She wasn't running. She was stalking. The lobby lights reflected off her sunglasses, making her look like a terminator in a pantsuit.
"My mother charges a very high legal fee for emotional distress," Sacha finished with a smirk.
The man hesitated. He looked at Sacha's clothes, then at Anaïs's aura. He realized too late that these weren't normal tourists.
"Whatever," the man grumbled, pushing his cart around Sacha. "Waste of time."
He hurried away toward the elevators, the actress trailing behind him.
Anaïs reached Sacha, kneeling down to check him. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"
Sacha brushed invisible dust off his shoulder. "I'm fine, Mommy. Just a minor NPC encounter. But…"
He looked at the elevator where the rude man had disappeared. His expression darkened.
"They said they work for St. Yves Studios."
Anaïs stiffened. "Ignore them, Sacha. It's a big company. They have thousands of employees."
"He's casting, isn't he?" Sacha asked abruptly.
"Who?"
"Him. The Scum Dad." Sacha looked at her, his eyes serious. "I saw the billboards on the way here. The Silent Grave. Directed by Bastian St. Yves. Open casting calls are this week."
Anaïs felt a headache coming on. She stood up, taking his hand. "Sacha, we talked about this. We are not doing movies here. We are doing commercials. Movies take too long."
"But it's the biggest budget in history," Sacha pressed. "If I get the role, I could make millions. We could buy that villa in France cash."
"We have enough money," Anaïs said firmly, pulling him toward their private elevator. "And I don't want you working for that man. He is… difficult."
"Difficult is good," Sacha argued as the elevator doors closed, shutting out the lobby. "I like difficult. I want to see if he's as scary as the internet says."
Anaïs looked at her son's reflection in the gold-plated doors. He wasn't scared. He looked like a hunter who had just smelled blood.
She felt a shiver of dread. She had brought Sacha back to this city to build his career, thinking she could keep him in a bubble. But fate—and Sacha's own stubborn genius—seemed determined to push them right into the lion's den.
"No, Sacha," she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. "You are forbidden from going near St. Yves Studios. That is final."
Sacha pouted, crossing his arms. "Fine."
But as the elevator rose to the penthouse, Sacha looked down at his watch.
He had already memorized the address of the studio.
He had already hacked the casting schedule on his tablet during the car ride.
And he knew exactly what time the open auditions started tomorrow morning.
Forbidden? Sacha thought, a mischievous glint in his eye.
Mommy should know by now… that's just an invitation.
Meanwhile, across the city.
In the top-floor office of the St. Yves Tower, the blinds were drawn, blocking out the sun.
Bastian St. Yves sat in the dark.
His office was sterile and cold. There were no photos on his desk. No personal items. Just stacks of scripts and financial reports.
He looked five years older than he was. There were silver strands in his dark hair now, and deep lines etched around his mouth. He hadn't smiled since the day on the bridge.
"Sir?"
His assistant, a young man named Ken, knocked tentatively on the door.
"Enter," Bastian croaked. His voice was rough from disuse.
Ken walked in, holding a tablet. "The casting director sent over the preliminary tapes for the child role. Do you want to review them?"
"Are they any good?" Bastian asked, not turning his chair around. He was staring at the wall, where a single painting hung—a painting of a rainy bridge.
"They are… okay," Ken hesitated. "Most of them are crying a lot. Very dramatic."
"Garbage," Bastian muttered. "Throw them out. I don't want actors who pretend to be sad. I want a child who knows what sadness is."
"Sir, that's… a very high bar for a five-year-old."
Bastian swiveled his chair around. His eyes were hollow.
"My wife died five years ago," he said coldly. "She is the only loss that matters. If I am going to make a movie about grief, I will not have some pampered brat faking it. If we don't find the right kid by tomorrow, cancel the movie."
Ken gulped. "Cancel it? But the investors—"
"I don't care about the investors!" Bastian slammed his hand on the desk. "I care about the truth! Get out!"
Ken scrambled out of the room, terrified.
Bastian sighed, leaning back in his chair. He opened the top drawer of his desk.
Inside, resting on a velvet cushion, was a diamond ring.
And next to it, a water-damaged anniversary card.
I loved you, Bastian. But you never really looked at me.
He ran his thumb over the handwriting.
"I'm looking now, Anaïs," he whispered to the empty room. "I've been looking for five years. But I can't find you anywhere."
He closed the drawer, the darkness swallowing him whole again.