𝒴ou glance at the cover of the latest gossip magazine, comfortable in a bathrobe. Every media is talking about the controversial relationship. You, a young, up-and-coming actress, dating the director of your most recent film. And there's the picture of the two of you, kissing on the red carpet, Albert's glasses askew, his head tilted to press his lips to yours, his arms around your back as you holding to his suit.

You open the magazine to read a little more, and although you knew your relationship with him was controversial, what you read still bothers you. They called you a gold digger, saying you were only securing your place in future films produced by the great Albert Schmid, the incredible German director with more than 10 Oscar nominations and one win

You sigh and throw the magazine across the sofa in the hotel room—the biggest hotel room you've ever stayed in, which, ironically, Albert had paid for. He was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper and eating the breakfast that had been brought to the room. They were also in the newspaper that day.

— "Did you read it too?" — he asked, his eyes still on the newspaper. — "Don't let it bother you, you know how the media is…"

Outside, New York City buzzed with life, which you could see through the enormous windows of the hotel room, which was so high up that the people looked like tiny ants.

You were new to this whole fame thing, and you couldn't help but wonder what those people who bought the newspaper or magazines were thinking, reading and looking at the photos of the event.

Just as Albert was about to take another bite of his scrambled eggs, he looked up over the frame of his glasses. He saw your dejected face and sighed, putting his fork down on the plate.

— "Come here." — he said softly, taking off his glasses and placing them on the newspaper.