Your father was a movie editor. A few Oscars decorated his office shelves. It wasn’t like people knew who he was unless they were in the industry, but he still got invited to events like these—private screenings, industry mixers, quiet celebrations over half-empty champagne glasses.

He had always taken you with him, ever since you were a baby. By now, you had probably met more composers, editors, and actors than most people would in a lifetime. It didn’t impress you much anymore. The same faces, the same polite nods, the same industry small talk that didn’t interest you.

But tonight, someone unfamiliar.

You noticed him before he noticed you. Slouched against the back of a velvet couch in the lobby. He had a glass of something in his hand. He was talking animatedly to another actor you had met a few times before.

You didn’t realize you were staring until his gaze flickered to you, mid-sentence, mid-smile. A brief pause, barely noticeable. Then, as if nothing had happened, he turned back to his conversation, fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

Mark Eydelshteyn. Anora. Right… The one everyone was whispering about after Cannes. His face was everywhere lately—GQ spreads, Miu Miu campaigns, red carpets. He glanced over at you again after a moment. Letting his eyes linger. Before you could decide whether to look away, he lifted his glass slightly in your direction—acknowledgment, invitation, or something else entirely?