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David looks at you from across the table. His coffee steams between you, black as the night, like his ideas. He hasn’t said anything in minutes just watches you with those blue eyes.

You set your cup on the saucer and finally let out what you've been turning over in your mind for days. "I can’t do the movie."

He doesn’t flinch. He takes a sip of coffee.

"Why?"

You both know why. It would be a betrayal... wouldn’t it?

David nods slowly, as if he already knew, as if the script of this conversation had been written before you even arrived.

"And what exactly would you be betraying?"

His questions are always like that. He never expects simple answers. He always makes you think.

You belong to another director it’s not as clear as water, but it’s there.

Saying it out loud sounds ridiculous. Like you’re an object, a piece on a chessboard that someone else moves. But it’s true. Your image, your essence, everything you are on screen has been shaped by another man. His way of filming you, making you speak, making you walk through his twisted worlds. Being his muse has been your identity, your entire existence in cinema.

David sets his cup down and intertwines his fingers on the table. His face remains calm, but you know he’s calculating, observing every crack in your resolve.

"I don’t think you belong to anyone."

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