Chapter 11
Franklin kept his word. He read through the highlighted pages, thought carefully, and returned the script to Noah the next day with handwritten notes tucked inside.
When Noah skimmed them, a rare flicker of approval touched his face.
"hmmm, you added some notes," Noah said.
Franklin rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Well… it's my role too. I want to get it right."
Noah set the papers down, leaning back in his chair. "Most actors just nod and say, 'Yes, director.' You gave me something worth considering. I like that."
Franklin's lips tugged into a faint smile. "Truth is… I was at your conference once. A couple years ago. At the Frazen hall."
Noah blinked, then let out the smallest laugh. "Wow, I only ever went there once, and it has been years. So you were one of the faces in that crowd."
"Yeah," Franklin admitted. His tone softened, almost reverent. "Your words… they pushed me, to work hard and believed in my dreams."
For a moment, the silence between them wasn't heavy. It was steady. Noah's gaze was direct, but not cutting, as if he was weighing Franklin differently now.
"You've got the look," Noah said finally. "That much is obvious. But looks fade. I have another movie after this, and I'm looking for lead role, normally I don't use the same actor twice as lead actor. What I'm looking for…" He tapped the side of the script. "…is whether you can bleed for it. That's the part no one can fake."
Franklin's throat tightened, but he nodded. "I'll prove I can."
Noah leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Good. Then keep surprising me, Franklin Eddie."
When Franklin left the office that day, his chest felt strangely lighter — though he wasn't sure if it was relief or the dangerous weight of wanting to impress Noah even more.
And in the days that followed, their interactions shifted. Not in public — Noah kept his distance on set, cool and authoritative — but in those rare moments they were alone, his tone softened, almost… friendly.
A glance of approval here.
A quiet comment there.
Enough to make Franklin feel seen.
Not as a star, not as a face, but as an actor.
----
The set was buzzing again, lights blazing, cameras adjusting. Franklin stood beside Isabelle, script in hand, waiting for Noah's signal.
From across the stage, Adrian watched. His script was neat as ever, highlighted within an inch of its life, but his attention wasn't on the words. It was on Noah.
Because Noah's gaze — cool, focused, deliberate — lingered on Franklin.
"Good," Noah said when Franklin delivered a line with the quiet weight of Elias Cross. "Hold that pause a second longer. Makes the silence heavier."
Franklin nodded, adjusting, grateful for the note.
Adrian clenched his jaw. He had delivered his line flawlessly too, but Noah hadn't said a word.
When the take wrapped, Franklin stepped aside, flipping through his script. Noah leaned close as he passed, his voice low, private: "That was sharper than yesterday. You're learning."
Franklin glanced up, surprised, but managed a small smile. "Thanks."
Adrian caught it. Caught all of it. The low tone, the faint curve of Noah's lips — things Noah never gave him, no matter how hard he tried.
"That's it," Noah called. "Reset for the next scene."
As the crew shifted, Adrian slid closer to Franklin, his smile razor-sharp.
"Looks like someone's become the teacher's favorite," he murmured. "Enjoy it while it lasts."
Franklin blinked at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Adrian's smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Just saying… Director Noah doesn't hand out approval easily. But maybe it's not your acting he's interested in."
He walked off before Franklin could reply, leaving the words hanging like a trap.
-----
"Scene Twelve," Noah called, his tone brisk. "Roll."
Adrian stepped into place, script gone, body shifting smoothly into Marcus Hale. He was good — Franklin couldn't deny it. His voice cut sharp, precise, every gesture deliberate as he circled Isabelle's character.
"You think Elias can save you?" Adrian's voice dripped menace, his eyes cold. "No one can. Not him. Not anyone. Because the truth isn't what you want it to be. It never is."
The crew murmured quietly in approval, a ripple of impressed silence passing through the room. Adrian hit his marks with practiced ease, and when Noah called cut, he stood taller, waiting.
But Noah only gave a clipped nod. "Reset. Good. Keep the edge, but don't oversell it."
Adrian's jaw tightened — it wasn't the glowing praise he'd been hoping for. Still, he forced a smile and returned to his spot.
From his side of the set, Franklin leaned back against the prop desk, watching. Adrian's earlier words echoed in his head.
Maybe it's not your acting he's interested in.
His eyes flicked toward Noah's back as the director adjusted the monitor with the DP. Cool, focused, unreadable. Franklin shook the thought off. Ridiculous. Someone like Noah — who's worked with hundreds of actors, who's seen everything — he wouldn't… Adrian's just jealous.
His phone buzzed. Franklin slipped it from his pocket, shielding the screen from the crew.
Mason: Hey, might be late. Got stuck with an errand, and traffic's a mess. Don't wait outside.
Franklin sighed quietly, typing back.
It's fine. Just don't take forever. Long day.
He slid the phone away, glancing once more at Noah. Then he turned back to the script, reminding himself why he was here: the role, the story, the work. Not the whispers, not the rivalries.
At least, that's what he tried to tell himself.