Walking briskly toward the lobby area, Bill was moving with a sense of purpose when he heard a sharp voice call out behind him.
"Stop. Stop right there!"
It was a woman's voice—feminine, yes, but clearly not soft-spoken. The tone carried more bark than bite, but it made him halt nonetheless. Bill turned slowly, one eyebrow raised, to see who had called out. Sitting behind the front desk was a young woman he had never seen before, clearly the receptionist—newly hired, if he had to guess. She had a headset over her neatly tied hair, fingers hovering over the keyboard, her eyes squinting at him like a hawk spotting an intruder.
Bill gave her a polite, slightly puzzled smile, assuming she must've mistaken him for someone else. As he stepped forward, ready to clear the air and explain himself, the lady beat him to it with an abrupt, confrontational tone.
"What do you think you're doing? This is a private building," she snapped, her lips curled into a frown as if she'd just smelled something unpleasant.
For a split second, Bill looked over his shoulder, half-expecting someone else to be behind him—the real target of her aggression. But no one was there. Turning back around, his expression morphed into confusion as he raised a hand and pointed to himself.
"Are you… talking to me?" he asked, genuinely unsure.
The receptionist rolled her eyes dramatically and crossed her arms. "No," she said, her voice thick with sarcasm, "I'm obviously talking to the invisible man walking his pet dragon behind you." She gave him a mocking look, clearly enjoying herself.
Bill blinked, caught completely off guard by her unnecessary rudeness. The bewilderment on his face was almost comical, and the woman wasn't done.
"Don't you know where you are?" she continued, eyes narrowing as her voice rose with exaggerated disbelief. "This is Bill's Agency, not your local roadside bakery or rundown community center where you just stroll in and ask for free samples." Her voice had that sing-song tone of someone both judgmental and self-important.
Bill just stood there, visibly stunned. This was a new experience—even for someone who had seen all kinds of personalities in the entertainment world. And still, he said nothing, mouth slightly agape as he tried to process the absurdity of it all.
Seeing his silence as weakness, she pressed on.
"Are you just gonna stand there and look like a fool?" she asked, eyebrows raised in mock concern. Then, under her breath—but loud enough for him to hear—she muttered, "Fat bozo."
With a huff, she grabbed the office phone and dialed quickly. "Can you come up here, please? I need help removing a trespasser," she said briskly into the receiver. "You know Miss Lisa's in today—we can't afford any nonsense, especially not today." Her voice was filled with urgency and a tone of exaggerated professionalism.
From the phone came a deep, gruff voice. "On my way," the man said simply.
Meanwhile, Bill stood calmly, finally finding a moment to respond. He let out a soft, dry chuckle—not one of amusement, but of someone trying to stay polite amid madness.
"I think there's been a little misunderstanding," he said gently, no trace of anger in his voice, just a cool and calm tone that suggested he was more baffled than offended.
But that only seemed to provoke the receptionist more.
"Oooh," she said with sarcastic flair, "Now that security's coming, suddenly it's a misunderstanding?" She scoffed and shook her head in disbelief. "Creep," she added under her breath, just loud enough to sting.
Moments later, the door to the hallway opened, and in walked a burly man in black security gear, eyes scanning the room. He didn't even glance at Bill—his eyes immediately sought the receptionist as he spoke.
"So where's the person you want thrown out?" he asked, already moving with mechanical efficiency, clearly expecting yet another stalker or crazed fan to deal with.
Bill's Agency, while not the most famous or influential agency in the city, had over the years become something of a hidden gem in the industry—particularly known for one unique strength: their incredible roster of exceptionally beautiful women. Thanks to Bill's keen eye for talent and Stephanie's magnetic connections in the entertainment world, the agency had quietly become one of the top three in Los Angeles when it came to signing stunning, camera-ready actresses and models.
But with that kind of reputation came its fair share of problems—namely, a steady stream of stalkers, fake managers, obsessive fans, and creepy wannabe producers trying to sneak in and get close to the talent. It happened so often that security guards barely flinched anymore. It was just another Tuesday to them.
So the guard approached without any real caution, fully prepared to toss out yet another troublemaker—until the receptionist pointed at Bill and said loudly, "It's him."
The guard turned with a sigh, probably expecting some deranged man in stained sweatpants or an overeager teen fanboy. But as he lifted his gaze, his eyes locked on Bill—and everything about his posture changed.
His brows shot up in surprise. His eyes widened as he stumbled a step backward, blinking twice as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
"Boss…?" the guard muttered, his voice suddenly quiet.
"Mr. Miller, I'm so, so sorry," came the panicked voice of Lisa, his assistant-turned-interim head of the agency—a promotion born more out of necessity than strategy, since Bill had long since relaxed his grip on the agency's daily operations, diverting most of his attention elsewhere.
Lisa stood near the entrance of his office, clearly flustered, red-faced, and waving her hands as if to physically swat away the guilt clinging to her. "I swear I'll deal with her. Severely! That girl must be out of her mind. How dare she—how dare she speak to you like that? She must have a death wish or at the very least a brain freeze!"
She paced like an angry school principal, ready to hand out expulsion slips for breathing incorrectly. Her voice was climbing—climbing so high it could've gotten a nosebleed.
But Bill, seated comfortably behind his desk, wasn't angry. Not even a bit. In fact, the entire incident was more amusing than offensive. He was still wrapping his head around what had just occurred outside. A misunderstanding, sure—but what a dramatic one! He leaned back, fingers lightly tapping on the wooden desk, the corners of his lips twitching as he tried to stifle a chuckle.
His mind wandered. He remembered those late nights when his wife had been obsessed with those Chinese light novels. Oh, how she had forced him to read along, waving those apps in his face like she was holding a divine scroll. She would nudge him at every twist and turn, saying things like, "See? SEE?? This is how a real man faces humiliation!"
And Bill would read them—those gloriously cliché stories. Every single one seemed to have the same plot: a fatally misunderstood male lead, always treated like dirt at first, usually by some arrogant security guard or a bitter secretary who didn't know better. Then boom—a face-slap moment. The MC would reveal his secret identity—billionaire, immortal cultivator, young master of a hidden clan—and suddenly everyone would start fainting from shock, clutching their chests as if they'd been hit with divine retribution.
Bill almost burst out laughing remembering how those protagonists would always win in the end. Sometimes they'd even walk off arm-in-arm with the same secretary who disrespected them minutes before. Absolutely wild.
A part of him started wondering—was he… the MC? Him? Bill Miller? The guy who spent most of his life making sure others shined in the spotlight? Was this a sign? Was the universe finally giving him his face-slap arc?
He narrowed his eyes dramatically and thought, What if there's some devilishly handsome author out there, somewhere in another dimension, writing a story about me… and decided to pick me—a slightly overweight, balding but emotionally rich man—as his main character?
That thought made him snort quietly. If so, he better write me with abs by chapter 10, he thought.
Lost in this comical daydream, Bill was actually smiling when he turned to Lisa, who was still mid-rant. "Calm down, calm down," he said, raising a hand in a motion that was more amused than commanding. "Really. I'm not angry at all."
Lisa paused mid-sentence, visibly thrown off. Her eyebrows drew together in confusion as she tilted her head. "You're not?"
"No," he replied with a light chuckle, adjusting his posture. "More than getting angry about what just happened, I'm actually more curious…"
Lisa leaned in slightly, listening.
"…curious about why I'm here in the first place," Bill finished, his voice calm, but layered with a growing sense of seriousness.
The air in the office shifted. The tension in the room tightened like a drawstring. Lisa's brows furrowed again, but this time with hesitation, not outrage. The pacing stopped. Everyone else in the room—assistants, a couple of junior managers—froze where they stood. Even the air conditioning seemed to quiet down.
Lisa nodded once, almost solemnly, and reached behind her toward the shelf near the door. She pulled out two sleek folders—black, crisp, thick with contents. Her fingers held them as though they weighed far more than paper. Her expression was tight.
She took a step forward.
"This…" she said, voice low, her hand trembling ever so slightly as she passed the folders over to Bill across the polished oak desk.
Bill received them slowly, eyes fixed on hers. The exchange felt ceremonial—like a general receiving classified battle orders. His fingers brushed the folder's cover. His face held no smile now, just growing curiosity and focus.
He flipped it open.
"This is—" he started to say.