February 2007, London, UK
"What are you doing, Peter!?" Stephen Daldry barked. "We need those lights over there, on the other side of the prison."
Peter, the lighting guy, rushed to follow the order.
"Janey! Is the set decoration complete?" Stephen continued in the same sharp tone.
"Almost—give me five," came the swift reply.
"Better make it two," he shot back before turning to the next person.
Sometimes, Stephen couldn't help but feel like he was surrounded by fools. How difficult was it to follow simple instructions? He glanced toward the most dedicated member of the team, sitting off to the side, engrossed in the script. Then again, there was no comparing anyone to Troy.
"What's got your knickers in a twist, eh?" Connell, the first AD and Stephen's longtime friend, asked with a raised eyebrow. "Haven't seen you this ticked off in years—everyone's walking on eggshells around you."
Stephen rubbed his forehead before hissing, "Because they're all incompetent fools, that's why! We had such a good crew when we worked on [Echoes of You]."
Connell shrugged. "Obviously. [Echoes] had a much bigger budget than this. Don't forget, most of the junior crew members are new or just interns to save budget. Calm down, or you'll give yourself a stroke one day with all this stress."
Stephen exhaled slowly, nodding. "You're right. I guess I've just had too much on my plate these past few weeks. I work all day, every day, barely getting time to rest. I can't wait to be done with this shoot."
Connell raised an eyebrow. "What exactly are you so busy with? Don't you take weekends off?"
Stephen sighed. "I guess I can tell you now since it won't be a secret much longer." Lowering his voice, he leaned in. "I've been working with Troy on shooting some music videos for his second album."
"Bloody hell!" Connell said, eyes widening. "That's huge."
"I know," Stephen whispered. "That's why I agreed to do it. So keep it down, will you?" Seeing the chastised look on his friend's face, he continued, "Troy is dropping the first single from the album tomorrow—YouTube, radio, TV, the whole thing."
"You should've told me earlier!" Connell said excitedly. "I would've loved to be there to see the shoot myself."
"On a weekend?" Stephen challenged, smirking. He knew his friend all too well. Connell fell silent upon that reminder.
"Just two more days of Troy being here," Stephen went on, changing the subject. "Then we'll shoot scenes with the other actors for a week before taking a two-week break."
"Wait—why won't Troy be here?" Connell asked, frowning. "Isn't he a producer as well?"
Stephen sighed at his forgetfulness. "I'll give you a hint: Troy just attended the BRIT Awards last week. What comes after that?"
Troy had made history at the BRITs, walking away with four trophies—British Album of the Year, British Single of the Year (for All of Me), British Male Solo Artist, and British Breakthrough Act—tying with Blur, who had held the record since 1995. Not only that, but this year's BRITs had been one of the most-watched broadcasts in recent history, thanks to Troy's electrifying live performance. And what a performance it was.
"The Grammys!" Connell said in realization. "Of course—how could I forget?"
Stephen chuckled. "And the Oscars as well. The Grammys are on the 23rd, and the Oscars on the 25th. I'm actually nominated for a Grammy along Troy, but I'm too busy to go. If I win, Troy will accept the trophy on my behalf."
"Today's February 19th," Connell mused aloud. "So Troy is releasing the song tomorrow, on the 20th. Why now? Why not wait until after the Grammys, where he's highly likely to win at least Best New Artist, if not more? That would give his music a much bigger push."
Stephen shrugged. "Ask him. I just directed the videos. He's only releasing one now, but every two or four weeks, he plans to drop another. We've shot four so far. They haven't set a release date for the album yet, but I imagine that'll depend on the Grammy results."
Stephen suddenly turned to see that the crew had finally finished setting up the scene to his satisfaction.
"Let's begin the scene!" he called, commanding everyone's attention before turning to his lead actor. "Are you ready, Troy?"
The teenager gave a single nod before walking to his mark.
After getting the go-ahead from the lighting, sound, and camera teams, Stephen called out, "Action!"
The instant the word left his mouth, Troy's entire demeanor shifted. A moment ago, he had simply been himself—just in prison clothes. But now, he was someone else entirely. He was Ben Coulter, an 18-year-old boy wrongfully imprisoned for a crime he didn't commit. A boy so afraid of his surroundings that he jumped at mere shadows.
"Featherweight."
A Black man stood at the door of Ben's prison cell. "Come."
Ben hesitantly glanced at his cellmate, Hooch, who gave him a discreet nod. Only then did he rise to follow the man to another cell—one that belonged to the prison's unofficial king, Freddie Graham.
Freddie Graham was an older Black man, the kind of godfather figure everyone wanted on their side in prison, so long as they didn't cross him. Manipulative as hell, he knew exactly how to bend people to his will.
He had called Ben over at the precise moment a prison officer delivered a "gift" to him, a deliberate display of power, showing just how much control he had over the guards.
After silently signaling for everyone to leave, Freddie circled Ben like a predator, making it clear just how much influence he held in this place. Ben's eyes flickered around the room, full of luxuries that had no business being in a prison cell. An iPod. Silken sheets on the bed. Multiple books lining the shelves with photo frames. Even a small TV on the side.
"Close your eyes," Freddie ordered, stepping into Ben's personal space.
Ben hesitated. His right eye twitched violently—a nervous tic he couldn't control.
Stephen had to hand it to Troy—he played his part flawlessly. His hesitation was palpable, but not overdone; he didn't come across as a coward, just someone exhausted, someone who wanted all of this to be over. If he had pushed the performance even slightly too far, his eventual transformation wouldn't have been believable.
Ben hesitated before finally closing his eyes under Freddie's scrutinizing gaze.
Freddie took his hand and placed it over a slab of meat.
"Do you know what this is?" Freddie asked.
"Meat?" Ben guessed.
"Not just any meat. Veal," Freddie said smugly, making it clear that he could get anything he wanted, even in prison, before telling him why exactly veal was such a delicacy.
A beat passed before Freddie spoke again. "A man in this prison has made you his target." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "Do you want Freddie Graham to help you?"
Troy, as Ben, squirmed uncomfortably.
"Or do you prefer ending up dead in the shower, guts cut out, brains splattered all over the floor?"
The message was clear—protection in exchange for a favor yet to be determined.
Ben didn't respond. Instead, he simply turned and walked out.
"Cut!" Stephen called. "Print, check the gate."
What had just unfolded before him was sheer brilliance. Both actors were on fire. Troy barely had any dialogue, yet his expressions had conveyed everything and more.
"Everyone get ready for the next scene!" Stephen announced quickly. He didn't want the actors to lose their momentum.
Within minutes, the crew transformed the set—an old, abandoned prison building—into a nighttime setting. Windows were boarded up, and the lights were dimmed to cast the perfect atmosphere.
Troy, as Ben, lay in his cell, attempting to sleep.
"Action!"
At the cue, he stirred groggily and got up to relieve himself. Stephen had chosen to shoot this in a single take, immersing the audience in Ben's point of view.
Ben moved slowly, glancing around, his body tense with anticipation, as if expecting someone to lunge at him from the shadows. This was perfect for the audience as well, to build up the tension.
Nothing happened.
The walk to the communal bathroom and back was uneventful—until he returned to his cell.
His belongings—his mattress, bedsheets, clothes, everything—had been gathered in the middle of the hall outside his room and set on fire. Flames crackled, casting eerie flickers of light against the prison walls. Half the prisoners stood outside their cells, cheering at the makeshift bonfire.
Beyond the flames, a man met Ben's eyes and gave him a slow, menacing grin before dragging his thumb across his throat—a silent warning. You're dead. Beyond him, Troy could also see Freddie giving him an expectant look, as if wanting him to step up and accept his offer immediately.
And then, something shifted.
Ben Coulter was no longer just an afraid, innocent boy who had done nothing wrong.
His meekness evaporated, replaced by something sharper. His fear, his helplessness—it all burned away in the fire before him. Now, he was angry. Beyond angry even.
He met the man's gaze with pure loathing, his expression speaking louder than words. You think I'm going to break? Think again.
"Cut!" Stephen murmured, almost unconsciously.
As the scene wrapped, he knew one thing for certain—this would go down as one of Troy's finest performances. Not only because it was that good, but also because how different it was from all of his other roles. And that was saying something, considering every other film he touched seemed to redefine the standards of acting.
(Break)
♪ Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dear Rihanna. Happy birthday to you! ♪
Rihanna blew out the 19 candles on her cake, a fake smile plastered on her face as her friends clapped and cheered. To them, it was a celebration. To her, it was just another reminder of how much had changed.
It had been over two weeks since her interview with Oprah aired, and she regretted doing it every second since.
The backlash against Troy was brutal. It was as if everyone had turned on him overnight. If the Grammy voting hadn't already ended before the interview, Rihanna was certain he wouldn't have stood a chance at winning anything.
That had never been her intention. Celebrities called out their exes all the time—Justin Timberlake had released Cry Me a River about Britney Spears, and she didn't face this kind of backlash. She'd simply responded with Toxic, and soon, everyone had moved on.
Then why was Rihanna wracked with guilt?
Was it because Troy hadn't retaliated at all? No statement. No phone call. Nothing.
"Hey! Where are you off to?" Her best friend, Donna, shook her arm, snapping her out of her thoughts. "It's your birthday! You promised me you'd at least enjoy today, didn't you?"
Rihanna forced a smile. "Yeah, of course."
A few hours later, she finally escaped the party and sank into the plush seats of the rented limo, Donna beside her.
Her phone buzzed.
"Another birthday wish?" Donna asked eagerly. "Who is it? A hot guy, maybe? Do I need to make myself scarce tonight?"
"Let me check first, bitch," Rihanna joked, unlocking her phone.
She hadn't realized how many messages she'd missed during the surprise party. But what caught her attention wasn't the birthday wishes—it was the messages starting with I'm sorry or That was bad.
Her confusion deepened as she opened the latest one.
Beyoncé: I'm so sorry, Ri. That was brutal. If you need help with this, just call me, yeah?
Beyoncé had already called her that morning to wish her a happy birthday. So why was she texting now—and like this?
Uneasy, Rihanna quickly typed back.
Rihanna: What exactly are you talking about?
Her phone rang almost immediately. Beyoncé.
"Hey!" Beyoncé greeted. "Where are you, girl?"
"I was out at a surprise party my friends threw for me," Rihanna said. "On my way home now. I would've invited you, but even I didn't know."
"Don't worry about it," Beyoncé assured her. Then her tone turned serious. "Listen—when you get home, open YouTube."
As soon as she heard the word YouTube, Rihanna tensed.
The world might not know it yet, but she did—Troy owned the number one video streaming platform. Her stomach twisted. What did Troy do?
"What did Troy do?" she asked, her voice tight.
Beyoncé was silent for a few moments before answering, "I'm conflicted about what to tell you. I don't think you should hear it from me."
Rihanna's grip on her phone tightened.
"Half of me is happy you don't know," Beyoncé continued, "but the other half knows that if I were in your place, I'd want to see it as soon as possible. So… it's better if you watch it for yourself before hearing it from anyone else."
That cryptic response only made Rihanna more anxious when the call disconnected. She turned sharply to the driver. "How long until we get there?"
"Two minutes," he said. "Almost there."
Rihanna settled back, but her mind was racing.
She imagined the worst.
She didn't check any of the messages piling up on her phone. She wouldn't—not until she saw whatever it was that Troy had posted. Maybe it was time to invest in one of those big screen phones that could play YouTube videos.
"What's going on?" Donna frowned.
Rihanna didn't answer.
The second the car stopped in front of their apartment building, she threw the door open and bolted upstairs, barely aware that Donna was following.
She powered on her computer, opened the browser, and went straight to YouTube. The homepage loaded. And there it was.
Troy Armitage – That's Hilarious [Official Video]
Donna sat beside her in silence as Rihanna hesitated for only a second before clicking the video.
It had been uploaded that morning. In just a few hours, it already had 318,185 views—unsurprising, given that Troy's was the most-subscribed channel on the platform.
The screen faded from black.
Troy lay in bed, rubbing his eyes groggily. But something was… off.
He didn't look like himself.
His eyes were ringed with dark circles, deeper than she'd ever seen. His bare torso revealed sharp collarbones and ribs—he'd lost weight. A lot of weight. Troy may not have said anything, but it was clear she wasn't the only one suffering through the breakup.
A phone buzzed on his nightstand.
Troy reached for it, swiping the screen open. A floating message appeared on the screen in a blue bubble.
R: Happy Birthday!
Rihanna's breath caught. Was Troy wishing her? A little hope blossomed in her chest. Maybe it won't be as bad as she was expecting it to be?
Then another pop-up replaced it.
R: I'm probably the last person you want to talk to right now, and I accept that I messed up. I hate that I pushed you away when all you ever did was love me. Can we please behave like adults now that we're both calm?
Her mouth fell open.
That was her message. Word for word.
More texts flashed on the screen—hers, all of them—but they flickered too fast for her to read them fully, but if someone were to pause the video, then all of her one-sided texts after their breakup were there. Message after message, relentless.
Until—
Troy exhaled sharply, his frustration palpable. Then, without warning, he threw his phone against the wall. Hard.
The screen cut to black.
Then the music started.
The scene fades back in, showing Troy standing in front of a mirror, staring at his own reflection. His hollow eyes said it all, like he couldn't believe this was happening. Like he didn't even recognize himself anymore.
♪ Look how all the tables
Look how all the tables have turned
Guess you're finally realizin' how bad you messed it up
Girl, you're only makin'
Girl, you're only makin' it worse
When you call like you always do when you want someone ♪
Then Troy turned, his gaze locking onto the camera—onto her. As if he were speaking to Rihanna directly. Until now, Troy hadn't lip-synced to the lyrics, but this time, he did:
♪ You took away a year
Of my fuckin' life and I can't get it back no more
So when I see those tears
Comin' out your eyes, I hope it's me they're for
You didn't love when you had me
But now you need me so badly
You can't be serious (ha-ha-ha)
That's hilarious (ha-ha-ha-ha-ha)
Thinkin' I would still want you
After the things you put me through
Yeah, you're delirious (ha-ha-ha)
That's hilarious (ha-ha-ha-ha-ha) ♪
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
"Oh my God, that's—" Donna started, but she couldn't finish. She didn't have to. Rihanna got it.
Her stomach twisted violently.
But what shocked her even more wasn't the message. It was the f-word. Troy had once told her in private that he'd never use it in his music.
Kids sing my songs. I don't want them repeating that.
Yet here it was. Right in the pre-chorus. It wasn't just a lyric. It was a statement. He wasn't just hurt. He was angry.
On-screen, Troy turned away from the camera, walked to the sink, and splashed cold water on his face.
Then, without a word, he pulled on a black hoodie as the second verse of the song began.
♪ Now you put the blame in (now you put the blame in)
Now you put the blame in reverse
Tryna make me feel guilty for everything you've done
You're another lesson (you're another lesson)
You're just another lesson I learned
Don't give your heart to a girl who's got a broken one ♪
As the chorus played again, Donna stood up abruptly.
"That's enough," she said, reaching for the mouse. "You don't have to see the rest. Let's just close it."
"No," Rihanna replied, her voice eerily flat as she put the mouse away from Donna's reach. "I have to."
Inside, it felt like a knife twisting in her gut.
She braced herself.
When she thought the song was over, Troy appeared on screen again—now wearing a very distinct gold chain that Rihanna recognized immediately.
It was Jay-Z's chain. Complete with a record-shaped pendant.
Troy was also wearing a black hip-hop cap and black sunglasses, that complemented his black hoodie. Just like Jay does.
If he wasn't white, he could've been a Jay-Z impersonator.
And then, he started rapping.
♪ Calling me selfish, like you didn't chase my fame
Does your sugar daddy know 'bout your mind games?
Yeah, I asked you to come home with me,
Could've made you bigger than Jay-Z.
It's funny how you rewrite the past so fast,
Turned my love inside out on that twisted broadcast.
Telling one-sided tales don't make you cool,
Turned down millions for you—guess I'm the fool.
Didn't hesitate to air out dirty laundry,
All 'cause I won't reply to your 'Call me'?
You played the victim, but you held the knife,
Every move calculated—chess, not dice.
Said you loved me, but you loved the view,
Now you're mad 'cause I see right through.
I would've built you castles, built you nations,
Gave you the world—no hesitation.
Now you paint me the villain in your perfect script,
Flipping every story with a little twist.
Said I held you back, said I broke your heart,
But you stay real quiet 'bout the man who played his part.
Well ♪
Then Troy shrugged—casual, indifferent. As if none of it mattered anymore. And with that, he returned to singing the chorus.
♪ You didn't love when you had me
But now you need me so badly
You can't be serious (ha-ha-ha)
That's hilarious (ha-ha-ha-ha-ha) ♪
The song repeated the chorus a few more times before cutting off.
For a moment, Rihanna thought it was over.
But then—
Troy turned to the camera one last time.
"Hope you liked the gift, babe."
And then it ended.
Silence.
"Oh, Ri…" Donna reached a hand towards her shoulder, but Rihanna shot up from her chair.
"I'm tired."
Without another word, she speed-walked to her bedroom and locked the door.
Only when she was alone—truly alone—did she break down right there against the door.
And now, she knew for certain.
She had made a terrible, terrible mistake.
_________________________
AN: If you skipped the song, do read the bold part, I wrote it myself since I couldn't find anything 100% matching the situation. The closest one was 'That's Hilarious', that's why I chose it.
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