Still buzzing from the party, and a little drunk, Morthisal made it to his room and quickly closed the blinds and curtains. Before he got ready for bed, he sent out a couple of messages, fingers fumbling over the phone's screen as he typed out a few messages and sent them.

  Morthisal's swirling brain, thanks to one or three too many drinks, returned to tomorrow's audition over and over. His power level was low, but a night with the TENS machine on the lowest setting should. What if he couldn't summon a thread on himself again? The technique had worked brilliantly at Levi's party, but could he replicate that magic? Exhaustion dragged at his thoughts, and sleep claimed him before he could worry any further.

  Morthisal woke to his door rattling in its frame under heavy banging. The merciless morning sun found ways in through the slat blinds. The drapes remained open, obviously forgotten, resulting in a ray of sunlight that blasted across his face as soon as his eyes opened. Still wearing yesterday's clothes, the dark lord grimaced at the unwelcome dawn.

  He rolled over, peered at the alarm clock, and found it was nearly 9 AM. His head hurt, a clear sign of one too many Sex on the Beaches and not enough water. His stomach was sour, most likely from the rich appetizers he had consumed, and he had completely forgotten his diet.

  "What!" Morthisal groaned, wondering if he had any ibuprofen.

  "Hey, man. Want to go on a run? Saw your video. Wow. Can you come out here?"

  "Vince. Honey. Oh! My! God!" Kristol added. Loudly.

  Morthisal dragged himself from bed and stumbled to the door. His mouth tasted as if something had died in it, and his head throbbed with each heartbeat. He wore the same clothes from the party, wrinkled blazer, Dark Lord Energy shirt, and jeans that smelled faintly of cigar smoke.

  "Hold on," he called out.

  He stripped off the blazer, tossed it on the bed, then rummaged through his drawer for a fresh t-shirt.

  "Almost ready," he said, louder this time.

  "Take your time, man."

  Morthisal opened the door.

  Kenadee stood there in neon-yellow shorts and a matching tank top, his sculpted arms bared. His hair was perfect, not a strand out of place. Beside him, Kristol wore a bikini top that barely qualified as clothing and denim shorts cut so high they were practically decorative. Her blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders in waves.

  "We need to talk," Kristol said. She held her phone up. "This video has like half a million views already. How did that even happen? How do you know Serena Freaking Winters!?"

  "Ah. We met at a coffee shop."

  "A coffee shop? That's it?" Kristol frowned. "That's insane. Like, I've been making content for three years, and my best video got fifty thousand, and I've got these!" Kristol pointed at her chest.

  Morthisal shrugged.

  Kenadee nodded and flexed his bicep. "The algorithm blessed you, bro. The algorithm is everything. So. Run?"

  "Blessed him? Look who he's performing with. Serena Winters! What the fuck, Vince! Why are you living here if you're rubbing shoulders with the Hollywood elite?"

  "I am afraid I must decline to answer your questions for now. My head throbs, and I must prepare for an audition." Morthisal stepped into the doorway, blocking their view of his room. "We can discuss this later."

  "But—" Kristol started.

  "Later, please." Morthisal prepared a pair of threads in case he needed to usher these two away.

  Kristol bounced on her toes. "Wait, wait, wait. What's Serena Winters like in person? Is she nice? Does she smell good? I bet she does. Find out what kind of makeup she uses, Vince. Please."

  Morthisal gripped the door frame and firmly stated. "I must prepare for my day. Please find me later."

  "Fine." Kristol pouted, her lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated expression. "But we're talking about this later. You owe us details."

  Kenadee nodded. "Don't forget your personal trainer when you're a big star."

  The door closed with a soft click, and he sighed, leaning against it.

  The phone buzzed on the nightstand. Morthisal crossed the room and picked it up. It was a message from a car agency informing him that it would arrive in thirty minutes.

  "Bloody—" Morthisal didn't have time to finish a proper curse before he raced into the bathroom for a shower.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  The black town car pulled up to Pinnacle Studios and was ushered through the gate. Morthisal jabbed at his phone screen, fingers clumsy from the hangover that still clung to him despite the shower and ibuprofen.

  I appreciate your assistance with this matter. Truly.

  Morthisal hit send before the driver came to a stop. He hopped out and opened his door.

  "We're here, Mr. Logan."

  Morthisal nodded and stepped out onto the pavement. The studio lot sprawled before him, different from the utilitarian buildings where he'd done his first audition. This area featured manicured lawns and polished glass facades that reflected the morning sun.

  A man in his thirties rushed toward him from the entrance. He wore a headset and carried a leather portfolio under one arm. His dress shirt had wrinkles near the collar, and sweat beaded on his forehead.

  "Mr. Logan?"

  "That is me."

  "Thank God." The man gestured frantically toward the building. "We need to move quickly. Jordan wanted to squeeze this in before your audition with Ms. Winters. Headshots, paperwork, the whole nine yards. Studio heads are already asking about you. Agents are circling. This is happening fast, and she wants to get ahead of it."

  Morthisal was not prepared for the dizzying amount of industry jargon, but followed the man through glass doors into a lobby with white marble floors. They passed a reception desk where a woman spoke quietly into a phone.

  Morthisal grunted in agreement. He had no fear of the agency taking advantage of him. Not yet, anyway. A secret weapon was already on its way to help him navigate all of this.

  They turned down a corridor lined with framed movie posters. Morthisal recognized a few titles. Most were unfamiliar.

  The man stopped at a door marked Studio B and pushed it open. The room beyond held professional lighting equipment on stands, a white backdrop stretched across one wall, and a makeup station with a mirror, its surroundings bathed in bright bulbs. A small changing area, separated by a folding partition screen, occupied the space off to one side of the room.

  A woman in her late twenties stood near the camera equipment. She had dark hair pulled back in that same sleek ponytail from the party. Jordan Park turned as they entered.

  "Vince." She crossed the room and extended her hand. "Glad you made it. We've got a tight schedule, so let's get started."

  Morthisal shook her hand. "What exactly is happening here?"

  Jordan turned to Morthisal. "Do you have headshots? We couldn't find any."

  "It was on my to-do list."

  "Vince. Every client needs professional headshots. Lucky for you, I put a team together to get you in our records." Jordan glanced at her assistant, who hovered near the door. "Aiden, can you grab the stylist team? They should be waiting in the green room."

  Aiden nodded and disappeared.

  "I see. And this is common treatment for new talent?"

  Jordan laughed and waved her hand. "No it is not. But there is a lot of buzz, and one thing studio heads like is buzz. The more the better. Your performance last night could make you an overnight success. I'm here to make sure that happens."

  "I am most grateful."

  Jordan nodded and stepped away as the door opened again. Two people entered. A woman with purple streaks in her hair carried a box filled with makeup supplies. A man with a perfectly trimmed beard held a garment bag.

  They descended on Morthisal without introduction. The woman guided him to the makeup chair while the man unzipped the garment bag and pulled out several shirts on hangers.

  "We're just going to enhance your features," the woman said, opening her tackle box. "Nothing dramatic. Clean, professional look."

  "Er—" Morthisal managed.

  She worked quickly. Foundation to even his skin tone. Powder to reduce shine. A touch of something around his cheekbones. The man with the beard studied Morthisal's hair, then produced a comb and began adjusting the white streak.

  "This is striking," the man said. "Very distinctive. We'll make sure it photographs well."

  "The woman leaned back and examined her work. "Are you working with a personal trainer?"

  "I am." Morthisal nodded, thinking of Kenadee. An excellent one."

  "Good. If you need recommendations for nutritionists or specialized coaches, we can provide some recommendations. Most of our clients work with professionals."

  The makeup artist stepped back. "Done."

  The stylist held up two shirts. One was a simple black button-down. The other was charcoal gray with a subtle texture.

  "Put the gray over your first," Jordan said, and motioned toward the changing area.

  Morthisal changed shirts and reappeared while the photographer adjusted his equipment. The man positioned the lights and checked the settings on his camera.

  Jordan shot him a thumbs-up. "That color is perfect on you. Keep it for the audition."

  Morthisal inclined his head.

  "Stand in front of the backdrop," the photographer said. "We'll start with some basic shots. Look directly at the camera. Chin down slightly. Good. Now turn your head to the left. Hold that. Perfect."

  The camera clicked repeatedly. Flash bulbs popped.

  "Smile. Not too much. We want approachable but serious. Good. Now give me intensity. Think about something that makes you angry. Excellent. Hold that expression."

  The session continued for twenty minutes. He tried on a different shirt. Different poses. Different expressions. The photographer gave constant direction.

  Finally, the photographer lowered his camera. "Got everything we need."

  Jordan nodded. "Great. Marcus will get those processed and sent over by the end of the day." She turned to Morthisal. "Follow me. We need to discuss your contract."

  They left the studio and walked down another corridor. Jordan pushed open a door to a small conference room. A table sat in the center with several chairs around it. Windows overlooked the studio lot.

  Jordan pulled a folder from her portfolio and set it on the table. "This is a standard representation agreement. Fifteen percent commission on all work I book for you. Three-year term with options to renew. I handle negotiations, scheduling, publicity coordination, and career strategy."

  Morthisal's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

  I'm outside. Where should I go?

  He typed a quick reply.

  Jordan raised an eyebrow. "Am I interrupting something?"

  "My lawyer is here and would like an escort to our location."

  Jordan blinked. "Your lawyer? An entertainment lawyer?"

  Yvette had messaged him last night to ask if he already had an entertainment lawyer lined up. He did not, so she had suggested someone and promised to have them there for the signing tomorrow. As he had arrived, Yvette had messaged him the lawyer's name.

  "Yes."

  Jordan blinked rapidly. "Okay, but we should hurry this along. Who is it? I'll have them zipped up here immediately."

  Morthisal nodded. "Her name is Regina Vaughn. She is waiting at the gate. Holding up traffic, from what I hear."

  Jordan's face went pale. Her mouth opened slightly. "Reggie Vaughn?"

  "Yes."

  "Fuck me," Jordan muttered under her breath.

  "She is good?"

  Jordan shook her head and sighed. "Yeah. Pretty much the best. This is going to take a while."

  Morthisal nodded, silently thanked Yvette, then sat back and patiently waited.