CHAPTER 11

If Lucifer had a face, I wonder if it looked like Sebastian Von Kleist.

Because this fucking bastard is anything but a proper human being.

Why, you ask?

To answer that, we need to go back 20 minutes earlier.

20 Minutes Earlier

It was meal break after nearly four hours of non-stop shooting. I'd been running between teams and sets, fixing problems with the promotional material. My legs were screaming, and my hunger was worse. I finally sat down next to Jaehun, ready to bite into my burger, when—

Tap. Tap.

"Ms. Fernandes?"

It was one of the crew members. I didn't remember his name, but the way he looked—nervous, twitchy—made me pause mid-bite.

"Any problem?" I tilted my head.

"Uh... the director called for you. Urgently."

"She'll come after she finishes her burger," Jaehun said calmly, though both of us sensed something off. "Last I checked, there wasn't anything that urgent needing her."

The crew guy blinked and gulped. "Actually, Sir Sebastian asked for her. He's with the director. Something about a serious issue with one of the promotional products."

I clenched my fist.

Sebastian fucking Von Kleist.

I stood up, but Jaehun's voice followed me.

"Anny, don't get in hot water with him. You know better. Regardless of his on-screen persona—

"He's a fucking nutcase," I cut him off.

Jaehun didn't argue. He just sighed and followed behind me. "I'll jump in when things get ugly."

"That's not like you."

He removed his thick, transparent glasses and gave me a dry look. "I don't want Director Louise drinking my blood if something happens to you." Then, a pause. "Don't get cocky. I just want to get under Von Kleist's good graces."

I rolled my eyes. "Sure, sure. Let's go see what our Ice Prince is fussing about."

We took the elevator to the 21st floor—reserved for the main actors' resting suites. Glamorous didn't even begin to cover it.

The entire floor had been converted into luxury spaces. Each of the four leads had their own suite, styled like presidential hotel rooms. The rest of the cast shared modest quarters, but here? Gold chandeliers, gold-tiled floors... the hallway practically glowed.

Just like the illusion these rooms created: actors as gods, untouchable and radiant.

But illusions are funny things.

The rich pretend to be happy with shiny things. The poor eat the crumbs and wrestle with fate.

Yet no one knows who's really happy... or who's planning to die next.

Jaehun knocked on Sebastian's door.

The assistant director opened it, looking like a man who had seen hell and hadn't been allowed to leave. The room behind him was lit dimly by a crystal chandelier, walls painted a dark peach-black. It looked ominous. Too fitting.

Sebastian was seated on a corner couch, left leg crossed over the right, sipping wine like he was born on a throne.

The assistant director shot me a look that screamed, "You've caught the attention of the wrong man, kid."

Director Jonathan Blue—Hollywood darling—was seated near Sebastian. His hands were clasped like he was praying to every god he'd ever heard of. He looked ten years older than he had this morning, dressed in a crumpled grey tee and a blue denim shirt half-buttoned over it.

"Director, you called for me?" I said lightly.

Jonathan looked up at me, tired and wary. "Anaya… Sebastian wants to speak to you."

The air was tight with tension. Cigar smoke lingered, thick and heavy. No windows open, no curtains drawn. Breathing felt like inhaling fire.

"If you don't want everyone suffocating from the ashes of your cigar, shouldn't you open a window, Mr. Von Kleist?" I said coldly.

Sebastian looked at me, amused. Planning something.

His black coat was tossed carelessly on the bed. The first three buttons of his white shirt were undone, giving a glimpse of collarbones and a muscled neck. Sleeves rolled, veiny forearms exposed. He looked like trouble.

Handsome, dangerous trouble.

"Am I supposed to care, Anaya?" he asked, voice cool—more threat than question.

He'd cause trouble either way.

"Public image matters—even for the heir of a conglomerate empire," I replied, calm.

Jonathan and the assistant director both panicked at my words, but I didn't flinch.

It wasn't recklessness. It was calculation.

Sebastian was bored. Too bored. He needed entertainment.

And I just happened to be the chosen show.

But he picked the wrong girl.

I've fought too hard for my freedom to become a chess piece in his game.

"Hmm, you make a point." He nodded at the window. "Open it."

As I stepped toward it, he suddenly dropped the wine glass.

It shattered. Red wine bleeding into the white carpet.

"Oh. "My hand slipped," he said, clearly lying.

I kept my face composed and opened the window. Sunlight poured into the dark, smoky room.

"The human body needs sunlight," I said sweetly. "Vitamin D strengthens the bones. Don't worry, Mr. Von Kleist. I'll make sure you get enough so your hands and legs don't tremble."

Jonathan and the AD looked at me like I was a ghost—or a goddess. Something they couldn't process.

Sebastian arched a brow. "Are you saying I dropped the glass because I lack vitamin D?"

I nodded. "Of course. There's no way the elegant heir of the great Von Kleist family would drop a wine glass. Not on purpose. Right, Director?"

Jonathan blinked, then chuckled nervously. "Of course. That's impossible. I'll have it cleaned."

He signaled everyone else to leave. Jaehun looked back at me once, impressed, before disappearing.

Now it was just me and Lucifer.

"You're mocking me," Sebastian said, voice low. The kind of low that came from men who were used to being worshipped and feared.

I smiled. "Mocking you? How could I? I'm just a minor marketing analyst. You're the most sought-after actor in the industry. Why would I mock you?"

Of course I'm mocking you. But look at my tone—perfect.

Sebastian stood. He was tall. Unnecessarily tall.

But I didn't back down.

"If that's true, then you must care about my health," he said slowly.

"Didn't I tell you yesterday? The success of Winter's Gaze depends on how well the actors and director breathe life into the characters. We can't afford you breaking bones from vitamin deficiency."

He walked toward me, slow and deliberate, eyes cold and searching—as if peeling me apart.

"Anaya," he said, "I prefer it when you act like your real self. Not this... polished version."

The words hit deeper than I wanted.

I clutched my floral skirt. My smile faded.

"Am I supposed to act how you say, Mr. Von Kleist?"

"No," he said, standing in the sunlight, golden skin glowing. "You should act like you."

"What do you want?" I asked, cold.

"I want you to manage my PR. I want you to build the persona of Kian—not just for the film, but so every photo, every appearance, makes the public believe it's not Sebastian playing Kian, but Kian playing me."

I blinked. The precision in his words was alarming.

"You have a team of experts."

"They're all too scared to tell me the truth."

"You're aware of your own attitude?"

"Doesn't that make me unforgettable?"

"That makes you insufferable. I'm happy with my current role."

"Even if I pay you extra?" He tilted his head, reading me. "$700,000 by the end of filming. $800,500 if you stay till release. $1 million if you handle the entire promotional campaign."

"Refuse me," his eyes dared. Go ahead.

"What's the catch?" I asked.

"You'll have to deal with me."

I raised two fingers. "$2.6 million."

He faltered for the first time.

"You're taking the deal?"

I smiled. "Why? Is the great Von Kleist family too broke to pay $2.6 million?"

"You won't argue?"

"Nope."

"You're just negotiating money?"

I nodded again.

He muttered something in German—definitely not polite.

"Don't worry," I said, placing a hand over my chest dramatically. "I believe in the Father of Capitalism."

He stared at me, lips parting, then pressed them shut again.

I won this round.

"I'll send the paperwork. "Talk to my assistant," he said, voice flat.

I grinned. "Don't worry, Mr. Von Kleist. By the time I'm done, the world won't know if you're Sebastian Von Kleist or Kian of Winter's Gaze."

Something in him shifted. A subtle widening of pupils, a stiffening of shoulders, a barely-there breath.

He didn't want to admit it—but I'd made him speechless.

"Then please take rest. Your next shot's in 30 minutes." I turned toward the door.

"Anaya."

I stopped, half-turning.

He stood backlit by sunlight, his blonde hair glowing like someone had dusted it with gold. There was a glint in his eyes—wicked, curious, intrigued.

"I'm looking forward to seeing how you'll represent me as Kian."

I smirked. Confidence was my second name. I could drink a salted coffee, smile like royalty, and still throw it out like a queen.

"Don't worry, Mr. Von Kleist. I always get the work done. Even if it means bearing with you a bit longer than planned."

His lips twitched downward—almost impressed.

And I walked away with a $2.6 million contract tucked under my sleeve, courtesy of a brooding heir who clearly had no idea what kind of hurricane he just hired.