𝒜lbert's jaw remained tense the entire way to the hotel, his brow furrowed, and you could hear him muttering insults in German. He deserved that award, more than anyone, but once again, he returned from the Oscars empty-handed. For the eleventh time. He wasn't the type of man to get so frustrated, to complain when the results weren't what he wanted, but this time, he truly believed fervently that he deserved it above his colleagues and the competition. He could already see tomorrow's titles, and his head was already starting to ache. When he got out of the car at the hotel entrance, he didn't even want to stop and talk to the press, who were taking pictures of you holding hands, practically dragging you behind him inside.

Upon arriving at the hotel room, the first thing the director did was pour himself a drink, about two fingers' of liquor, and gulp it down as quickly as his lips touched the glass. In front of the mirror, he began to unravel his suit with abrupt, clumsy movements, while muttering something under his breath again, this time in English.

— "Can you believe it?" — he laughed arrogantly, looking at himself in the mirror. — "Kazan didn’t deserve that damn award. That man shouldn’t even be invited. That fucking traitor… best director my ass. Du verdammter Hurensohn…"

He looked at you for a moment, his gaze softening the instant he saw your expression. You, a young, up-and-coming actress who had been supporting him all this time. What could he do without that sweet tender sight of yours? His muse. He snorted and lowered his head.

— "I’m sorry, mein Schatz." — he sighed. — "I’m being vulgar. A lady shouldn’t hear that..."