And as he shuttled throughout the party, aimlessly looking for that so-called significant connection—and Monica too—he ended up stumbling across quite a number of... well, let’s just say, interesting situations.
The first was a walking stereotype with a trust fund and too much confidence. A 20-sothing rich kid with a man bun stood on a raised platform near the bar, wine glass in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other, despite being indoors. He wore a crushed velvet jacket and an expression of pure self-importance.
"I’m making a film that’ll redefine cinema," he announced loudly to no one in particular, but everyone was forced to hear it. "It’s a four-hour silent film... about moss."
There was a pause, then a round of nods and murmured praises from a half-circle of sycophants who clearly didn’t understand a word of it but knew better than to say so. One woman clapped softly as if he’d just recited poetry.
Rex took a sip from his wine and muttered under his breath, "Yeah, and I’m making a trilogy about dirt."
He drifted away from the circle before anyone noticed him. The absurdity was thick in the air tonight, but things only got weirder.
He ended up beside a semi-secluded balcony, tucked behind a curtain of ivy and fairy lights. There, a rising starlet—one he recognized from the streaming charts—was slumped against the railing, glassy-eyed and mid-rant to her equally tipsy friend.
"I slept with the lead to get the role," she said with a bitter laugh, almost proud and ashad all at once. "And he still told them I was too emotional for the part. Can you believe that? Too emotional? After everything?"
Her friend awkwardly patted her arm, clearly unsure what to say.
Rex stared at the horizon, pretending he wasn’t there.
"Hollywood confession booth. Unintentional," he murmured, then quietly backed away before they noticed him.
He moved along a corridor and passed by an open doorway where sharp whispers caught his attention. Two won stood just inside, their body language tense.
One was a washed-up A-lister—the kind whose na still carried weight, but whose phone hadn’t rung in months. The other was a rising star, fresh off her first blockbuster and already glowing with the arrogance of youth.
"You think beauty and followers will last forever?" the older woman hissed. "They’ll toss you out the second soone younger shows up. The sa way they tossed after I stopped pretending to be twenty-five."
"Maybe," the younger one replied with a cold smile, "but at least I’m not kissing up to producers at parties hoping for a cao in a toothpaste comrcial."
The older woman’s eyes narrowed. "Sweetheart, fa is a treadmill. You’re sprinting now, but just wait—one scandal, one flop, and you’ll be begging to be on a reality show."
The younger woman tilted her head. "And yet here you are, clinging to relevance like a bad facelift."
Rex winced. "Oof. Savage."
He didn’t stick around for the fallout, but he was pretty sure soone’s drink would get thrown before the hour was up.
Not far from the outside pool area, nestled in a dim corner near the garden wall, Rex noticed sothing else. This wasn’t the only pool—there was another one inside the mansion, and the contrast between them was almost surreal.
The outside pool, bathed in soft lights and surrounded by palm trees, was more of a typical party scene. Bikini-clad beauties lounged on floats and perched on the edge with practiced grace, while shirtless, slightly drunk n laughed too loudly and splashed each other like college bros on vacation. Music thumped lazily from hidden speakers, and the scent of coconut oil and rosé filled the air.
But compared to what he’d glimpsed at the indoor pool earlier—this was almost wholeso. Normal, even.
That one had looked like a fever dream. The kind of thing you’d see in a scandal docuntary: velvet curtains drawn shut, purple lighting, strangers whispering sweet nothings while their hands wandered with no regard for decency. Kisses so wet they echoed, bodies clinging like life vests, people practically fused together like animals in heat. If the outside was PG-13 with occasional lapses into R, the inside was straight-up NC-17, no plot, no sha.
So yeah, the outside pool? Relatively normal. If you just ignored the wandering hands inside bikinis, the tongue-heavy makeouts, and the general air of chemically induced confidence, it was pretty ta.
Rex took it all in, then let out a slow breath.
"Hollywood, baby," he muttered. "Where even the ta is toxic."
Walking forward, in a dim corner near the garden wall, he overheard a conversation that made his stomach churn. Two top producers in tuxedos stood beneath a heater, drinks in hand, speaking in hushed tones.
"We were gonna cast Jenna as the lead," one said, "but she’s kind of blown up lately—you know, already pushing 120 pounds. That’s practically plus-size in this town."
"Can’t sell drama with thighs like that," the other replied. "And, between us, she’s not even my type. I like the toned ones. You know, smooth and young."
"What about the promise we made?" the first asked. "You know... for sleeping with us."
The second laughed. "Let’s stall her. What can she do? Cry about it in the dia?"
They both burst out laughing.
He didn’t intervene. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he knew exactly how things worked in this town. Stuff like that was practically routine in Hollywood. Promises dangled in exchange for favors, then forgotten the mont they were fulfilled. It wasn’t even shocking anymore.
He didn’t feel guilt. Just recognition. She had made her own choice—just like many others before her. Whether out of desperation or ambition, they stepped into that murky dance willingly, eyes half open. The risk, the deceit, the silence afterward—it was all part of the sa old script.
Rex had seen it all too many tis. The cycle never stopped. The only surprise anymore was how naive so people still were. Or maybe they weren’t naive—just hopeful that, this ti, it would turn out differently.
(End of Chapter)
Reviews
All reviews (0)