My heart drums in my ears, thinking why I am a target to someone whom I didn't remember offending. At this moment, I just hope William never lets me go.
His presence once annoying, he had now become a pillar of safety in the presence of this stranger who sought to target me.
The man's gaze shifts between us before settling on William with a forced smile, thinly veiling the tension beneath.
"Ah, I've been looking everywhere for you…" he says again, his voice polite, almost too eager.
I frown. Why would a hunter's voice be this eager? He was supposed to be dragging me away, or maybe William's presence had something to do with it?
Whatever it is, I just need to be cautious.
"...the break is over," he continued. "We're ready to begin whenever you're."
Begin? I internally mused. Begin what?
Also, there is no demand in his tone or authority, I noticed. Just a hint of unease and deference. Maybe he isn't as bad as I had cast him to be?
William doesn't respond immediately. His grip on me lingers at his words, his thumb pressing against my skin as if testing something before slowly dragging down and finally letting go.
He straightens, his expression unreadable, every trace of the intensity he just aimed at me vanishing behind a mask of indifference.
"Director Whitmore…" he gave him a duchenne smile.
"What?!" I exclaimed, my heart that was stuck in my throat suddenly falls back down into my chest. "Director Whitmore?"
I've heard about him on the television and even the maids whispering about it back at the mansion about how they would have loved to audition under him, hinting at his professionalism.
And here I am, turning him into someone he's not. I let out a sigh of relief.
"Yes, Mrs…" he drawls, stretching out his hand for a handshake, not knowing how to proceed.
"Mrs Alexander Moon."
He took a quick, surprise glance at William before fully turning to me and after masking it away, offered a smile. "Welcome to Star entertainment. Why are you here? You did not come here for the audition, did you?"
I shake my head. "No, no, I didn't." I say, suddenly remembering why I was here in the first place. I had come to take William's signature and now here we are.
A flicker of something close to loss crosses Mr Whitemore's face. "That's so unfortunate. Maybe you should have a rethink about—"
William harshly cleared his throat, his gaze cutting sharply to Mr Whitemore. The middle aged man hesitated, lips pressing together as if weighing whether to push further.
The moment stretched, heavy with unspoken tension, before he let out a soft chuckle, masking whatever thought had just crossed his mind.
"Of course," Mr Whitmore said smoothly, adjusting his cufflinks. "I wouldn't dream of overstepping."
William barely glances at him before speaking, his voice effortlessly calm and controlled. "Well then," he says, "I suppose we should move on, shall we?"
"Yes, yes, Mr William." Said the director, briskly walking to the front and leading the way.
I pout my lips, annoyed that William didn't let Mr. Whitemore finish. Whatever he was about to say, I wanted to hear it.
Grumbling under my breath, I follow as we make our way to the audition hall.
The room is grand, the kind that swallows sound, yet detention in the air was thick. Contestants line the walls, some whispering their lines, while others fidgeted.
The judges sit at a long table in front. William sat at the center, his expression unreadable. I flanked his right, while Mr Whitmore, his left.
Mr Whitmore clasps his hands together, his sharp eyes scanning the eager faces before him.
Any trace of initial hesitation has disappeared, replaced by the focused intensity of a seasoned professional.
Right now, he doesn't look like the man I met when William dragged me back. He was giving off that vibe of the man in the van.
I had heard of his reputation long before today—his ruthless pursuit of perfection, his ability to turn raw talent into brilliance, and his complete intolerance for mediocrity.
Actors either earned his approval or crumbled under his scrutiny. There was nothing like in-between.
One by one, the auditionees are called.
The first girl, with a tall and lean build walks in, her hands shaking as she clutches the script.
She starts strong, her voice clear, but when the emotion rises, she stumbles. Her attempt at crying is forced, her breaths uneven and her tears are non-existent.
Mr Whitmore barely hides his disappointment. His fingers tap against the table as he leans back. "Next," he says bluntly, voice clipped.
The girl's eyes widen. She knows she has lost her chance of becoming an actress under Mr James Whitmore.
The next contestant takes a different approach. He storms in, voice booming , delivering his lines with exaggerated anger. His face contorts, veins popping in his neck, but instead of commanding the scene, he looks totally ridiculous.
I hear a sigh escape Mr Whitmore. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose before he waves the man off without a word.
Another comes in, eyes wide, and voice shaky. She barely makes it through the first line before bursting into tears but that's her mistake.
A script had been given to me the moment we took our seat, and what this contestant was acting wasn't on the scene she was acting.
Mr. Whitemore tilts his head, studying her with cool detachment. "Are you crying because of the scene or because you're just terrified?"
I watch as the girl struggles like a tree open to the wind, but she stammers, unable to answer.
"Next."
"Next."
And so it continues. Some overacted, their performances loud and dramatic, thinking volume equates to emotions.
Others are too stiff, delivering their lines with lifelessness of someone reading a grocery list.
It's so painful to watch, the constant misfires, the desperation to me noticed, but none of them but the mark.
I can see Mr Whitmore's patience wearing thin, his every movement mirroring his disappointment as his sharp gaze be alone colder with every failed attempt.
By the time the 150th auditionees walks in, the energy in the room feels drained with no progress.
The actors are either stumbling over their words or shouting their lines as if volume can mask a lack and depth.
The judges exchange weary looks, their exhaustion palpable. Like an emperor seated on his throne, William seems not bothered by it, though I can tell his attention is no longer entirely focused on the proceedings.
I let my eyes linger on his body for a bit too long, but I swiftly turn away when our eyes meet.
Glancing over at Mr Whitmore, whose lips are pressed into a thin line, his eyes flickering between the actors like a hark assessing prey.
He taps his pen against the blanket, something I notice he had been doing since the first contestants.
"Contestant No 1080, you can come up the stage now."
I hear heels clanking against the marble floor of the auditorium and I sit up. I raised my head to see and I don't believe what I see!