"So, do you accept the role of Mary Jane—Spider-Man's girl?"
Even though she wasn't facing the contract directly, Charlize, lingering just below the surface of Alexis's mind, felt dizzy, unmoored.
It didn't feel real. Where was the second round of auditions?
The endless meetings with directors, producers, and the back-and-forth approvals? Could it be this simple?
Fully immersed in the illusion, Charlize couldn't help but raise doubts, even unconsciously.
"Why is it this easy?" she asked.
"Shouldn't the director make the final call?"
A flicker of suspicion crossed Alexis's face.
There it was—the crack.
Christian noticed it immediately. The final stretch was the part he'd worried about the most.
The illusion was delicate, and Charlize's instinctive pushback threatened to unravel the whole thing.
The script had been tight, but now the seams were starting to show.
The signing, in retrospect, had come too fast. Too clean.
It didn't smell like Hollywood.
He'd hoped Charlize's talent would carry the scene.
She'd been flawless until now, but even the best slip when the subconscious calls out the lie.
Alexis was close to waking.
Christian stepped in, voice calm but calculated.
"You're not wrong," he said.
"Usually, yes, the director has the last word."
He paused, letting the bait settle.
"But this isn't usual. The man at the helm is James Cameron. You know the type—studio juggernaut. In his films, actors are moving parts. Replaceable. The real star is the spectacle: groundbreaking effects, war machines, end-of-the-world fireworks. As long as the talent's passable and the paycheck doesn't touch the VFX budget, he doesn't care who's in the shot."
Charlize hesitated inside, confused by the name.
Something didn't fit. Alexis frowned.
She wasn't buying it. Not fully.
Christian understood. Trust was a rare commodity, especially for women in this industry.
Every offer came with strings, unspoken terms, and the ever-present risk of exploitation.
They'd learned to keep their guard up—too many predators with golden contracts.
Encouragement wouldn't work here.
So Christian pivoted.
"James trusts me," he said, his tone shifting—sharp, grounded, unmistakably real.
"He lets me make calls like this. Do you doubt my judgment?"
"I I-no, I just—"
"You do. Don't bother denying it."
He stepped closer, voice low and edged with fire.
"You think I'm another suit trying to play puppet master. I get it. You've probably been offered 'opportunities' wrapped in flattery before. Perhaps you're accustomed to men like me seeing you as a means to an end. But here's the thing—I don't barter. I make decisions. I pick who fits. After that, I owe you nothing. It's not about you owing me either. You get the part, or you don't. Gratitude has nothing to do with it."
He flicked the contract once, letting it fall open on the table between them.
"So, one more time. Do you want to be Mary Jane, or should I look for someone else? Don't waste my time."
Alexis flinched at the sharpness, cheeks burning, her pride bruised.
But the harshness felt real. More real than the rehearsed sweetness she was used to.
That's what finally cracked her.
"Yes," she said quickly.
"Of course I do."
She snatched the contract and scanned it.
"This is it? That little pay?"
Christian lit a cigarette, smirking.
"What'd you expect?"
His tone was dry, amused—somewhere between insult and inside joke.
"It's a superhero movie. The guy playing Spider-Man's got a mask on for three-quarters of the runtime—they don't even need a star. And you? You're set dressing. You cry, kiss the hero, and look good while dangling off a building. The real budget's in CGI and stunt wires."
Alexis looked up, half-offended, half-aware he was right.
Christian shrugged. "Welcome to the big leagues."
Alexis reluctantly accepted the reality of the meager pay.
Still, it was the lead role, and the modest paycheck was higher than anything she'd earned in her smaller parts.
In the end, she put pen to paper without further complaint.
Alexis Rachel Hyden.
"That's better."
Christian took the signed contract, and the mockery in his expression vanished instantly, replaced by a pleasant, almost warm smile, as if he'd been rooting for her all along.
"Trust me, Alexis. You made the right call. You're going to be big. Before we wrap up, I need a quick photo for formalities. Did you bring any headshots?"
"Photos?" she blinked.
"No, but they're on my resume."
"Sure, but I need a fresh one. Internal stuff. Don't worry—I'll take it now."
He turned and snatched a Polaroid camera from the cluttered table behind him, holding it up like a sacred relic.
"Alright," he said, aiming the lens at her.
"Say 'Cheese.'"
"…Cheese."
The flash popped. The photo ejected with a click, slowly developing as he gave it a casual shake.
"Did it come out okay?" Alexis asked, leaning in slightly.
Christian squinted at the photo.
"It's fine. Just wishing this damn thing wasn't so wasteful. The film's expensive, and the pictures degrade over time. Polaroids—they're fast, sure, but not built to last. Digital's the future. Eventually, we'll be laughing at how primitive this feels."
He caught himself rambling and chuckled under his breath.
"Sorry. Old habit. One more thing—mind signing this too?"
He handed her the photo.
Alexis raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Just a personal quirk," Christian said, almost sheepish.
"Every time I cast someone, I take their picture and have them sign it. Years from now, I'll remember who walked in, who made it, and who didn't. A wall of faces, frozen in the moment right before everything changed."
There was something in his voice. Not nostalgia—premonition.
Alexis hesitated for just a second, then nodded and took the pen.
The photo wasn't embarrassing; after all, he had picked her.
Maybe indulging a small request like this was a fair trade.
"Here," she said, handing it back.
"Don't let it get dusty."
"Thanks," he said, grinning like a man who had just collected something priceless.
He held the signed Polaroid and contract together, his fingers lingering on her name.
"Alexis Rachel Hyden."
She looked up, puzzled. "What?"
And just like that, a sudden gust of wind tore through the room—unnatural, forceful, cutting through the stillness like a warning.
Curtains flared—papers scattered.
Alexis's hair whipped across her face.
She turned to Christian, startled—but he was already gone.