….
John had no clue what Brad was talking about. And maybe he didn't want to.
But one thing was clear: Brad Carter was thinking again.
And that never meant anything good.
….
Soon it was time for the Announcement of the Best Direction.
The lights dimmed. Onstage, two presenters bantered briefly before opening the golden envelope.
A hush fell.
"And the Golden Globe for Best Direction goes to…"
A flicker of hope. Regal didn't breathe.
"Nadiya Karim – Dust City!"
Thunderous applause. Whistles. Cheers.
Nadiya rose from her seat with poise and strength, embracing her producers as she made her way to the stage.
Regal clapped. Genuinely. Not just because he was supposed to.
Beside him, Simon leaned closer and whispered. "I mean, yeah, she deserves it… but I really thought it might be us."
Regal nodded. "Same here."
It wasn't disappointing exactly. Not bitterness. Just a quiet weight settling in his chest. A pause to reevaluate.
Then-
"Haaa…" A sharp, unexpected laugh cut through their table.
Sitting there, arms folded, smirking, fully loaded, was Ross Oakley.
The Ross Oakley.
His mere presence made the air thicker. People with praise to offer stayed back. People with grudges stayed further.
As the applause died down, Ross leaned forward slightly and said, loud enough for everyone at the table to hear.
"I told you you were going to lose this time around." Ross said, his voice as casual as if they were chatting over coffee. "Should have made a better movie."
Regal chuckled at Ross' blatant mocking. But he wasn't angry.
In fact he felt… he was right?
Why was he feeling bad?
He should have just made a better film.
Regal responded heartfully. "I will keep that in mind for next time." However, he couldn't let the comment slide either. So he added. "And before I work on my craft, maybe you could work on your communication skills. No offense, sir, but you are terrible at comforting people."
Samantha glanced sideways, eyes flicking to her glass as if the wine had just become fascinating.
Darren found something deeply interesting in the center of the table.
Simon's jaw tensed, his fingers curling slightly on the white linen.
Nobody wanted to pour gasoline on whatever this was. Only Regal could speak to Ross Oakley like that and walk away with his dignity intact.
And yet, the question lingered in all of their minds -
Why was Ross even at their table?
There were empty seats scattered across the hall. He definitely had a table of his own, probably one with a nameplate and a better view. And yet, here he was, sharing space like it was intentional.
Because it was intentional.
"Haaa… Comforting people?" Ross echoed, letting the words roll lazily off his tongue. "I see you can still joke around even at a time like this… not bad."
Regal didn't look at him again.
Ross didn't press.
He just leaned back with that amused, vaguely dangerous smirk he always wore when he was enjoying himself too much.
The moment passed, but the tension didn't.
….
Later, in the lobby, the team gathered near the tall champagne bar.
Samantha handed Regal a glass. "You know, I watched that whole category and still thought you had a shot."
Regal took a small sip. "The day I think I deserve to win everything I am nominated for is the day I stop improving."
Simon chimed in, tapping his phone. "But the press buzz is still strong. The nomination alone got you three new offers in your inbox. And that interview with Hollywood Reporters? It was trending till date, like even now many expressing their disappointment."
Darren blinked. "For real. I mean, just look at these hashtags." - as he scrolled through his mobile.
Regal glanced around the lobby, people laughing, hugging, networking. The inner machine of Hollywood grinding behind every glittering smile.
He didn't win.
But he had arrived.
And as he clinked glasses with his team, his people, he realized something deeper:
He wasn't chasing trophies. He was chasing a legacy.
And tonight was just the prologue.
Just then, a voice cut through the low buzz behind him. Without any greeting or pleasantries. "Everyone in Hollywood knows how small the industry really is…"
The voice said, laced with arrogance. "Ever wonder why some actors vanish overnight? Or how total nobodies suddenly explode into fame?"
Regal didn't need to turn. He already recognized the voice, half by tone, half by irritation.
Still, he turned.
Liam Bethell.
The same man he came across when he participated in the LA Got Talent show, and also the lead in [Mastor], Pixy Studio's.
A few steps behind him stood Brad Carter, casually watching, and beside him, that same assistant Regal had clocked once, John.
To Regal's quiet surprise, John gave him a small nod of acknowledgment. Subtle, quick. Almost deferential.
Regal didn't return it. That would have been stupid. But he did give a flick of the eyes. Enough.
Liam wasn't finished. "It starts with little things, you know." He continued. "Like pissing off people you shouldn't. Or… drawing someone without permission, maybe?"
Regal took a slow sip from his glass, expression unreadable.
Of course. The moment Ross Oakley stepped away, even just for a breath, someone like Liam had to slither in.
So you waited until the room was clear to act bold. Coward.
He lowered the glass and finally spoke. Calm, cold, cutting.
"True… Hollywood is small. Which explains how I managed to run into two spoiled brats from the same family within a week." He tilted his head slightly, almost curious. "What's with the copy-paste monologue though? You and your nephew write that together? 'Don't upset the wrong people…' blah blah, same speech, different face."
Then, flatly. "Should I give you the same response I gave your dear nephew? Screw of-"
"Regal."
Another voice cut through, firm, unbothered.
Ross Oakley.
He was already walking back, already reaching for Regal's arm like he owned the moment.
"What are you doing wasting breath on useless scraps?" Ross asked, voice low and dismissive, like Liam wasn't even there. "Didn't I tell you not to burn time on meaningless distractions?"
Before Regal could respond, Ross was already dragging him away with surprising strength.
"Come on." He commanded. "There is someone I want you to meet. A tool you might find useful. Try not to break this one."
Regal barely had time to register what was happening before being pulled through the crowd.
His only thought - Why is his grip so strong for an old man?
Still, as they moved, he muttered something under his breath. A lie, but one for pride's sake.
"He approached me, not the other way around."
Behind them, Liam stood frozen, jaw tight. The light in his eyes no longer smug, just quietly simmering.
His fingers clenched the glass until his knuckles went pale.
Face darkening. Grip tightening.
Left behind.
….
Next Day.
The sun hadn't even fully risen when the first wave of headlines hit.
["Golden Night for 'Dust City', But All Eyes on Debutant Director Regal"]
["Following Fails to Win, But Its Director Might Be the Future of Cinema"]
["Who Is Regal? A Young Director with his Debut Film Earned His Seat at the Golden Globes Table"]
Regal woke to the buzzing of his phone.
He didn't check it right away.
Instead, he stared at the ceiling of his modest hotel room, half-draped in shadow, still caught between exhaustion and clarity.
The tux jacket hung on a chair.
His Golden Globes invitation lay folded on the nightstand like a quiet reminder that it hadn't been a dream.
….
By 9 a.m., the entire team had gathered at a small café a block away from their hotel. They'd ditched the glamour for sweatshirts, sunglasses, and caffeine.
Samantha had already organized three folders on the table, each color-coded. "We got eight meeting requests overnight. Two from major studios, one from a producer in London who wants to remake [Following] into a British mini-series, which, by the way, is absurd, and a streaming platform asking if you would like to helm a techno-thriller they are funding for fall."
Simon, still chewing a pancake, raised an eyebrow. "A thriller? About what, blinking Wi-Fi signals and predictive ads?"
"Apparently it's about a dating app that matches people based on subconscious desires." Darren muttered, scrolling through her tablet. "Sounds dystopian already."
Regal didn't reply. His eyes were fixed on the article in front of him, The Hollywood Standard's full-page editorial titled:
[Regal's Following: The Arrival of a Quiet Voice]
It didn't praise him with glittering exaggerations.
It dissected his camera language.
His patience with scenes.
The way [Following] made you feel like a voyeur to a stranger's descent.
"…In an age of louder, faster, and flashier cinema, Regal directs like a man who trusts the silence."
He folded the page and smiled faintly.
….
Later that afternoon, back in Regal's temporary office at Red Studios, the team gathered around a dry-erase board.
The team was gathered, Samantha seated at the edge of the couch with her laptop open. Simon pacing near the coffee machine, mug in hand but forgotten. Darren leaning on the windowsill, arms crossed, silent but watching.
In the middle of it all stood a dry-erase board. Covered in multicolored scribbles, names, contacts, budget estimates, press schedules, venue options, hashtags, potential interviewers. A storm of ideas thrown at the wall. Some are stuck. Some didn't.
But Regal's eyes weren't on the board.
They were fixed on a single manila folder he held in his hand.
It was thick. Marked in precise handwriting:
[DEATH NOTE: PROMOTION STRATEGIES]
He didn't open it yet.
Just stared at it for a moment.
Then spoke.
"We are moving to Phase Two."
.
….
[To be continued…]
★─────⇌•★•⇋─────★
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