Elián found it on the kitchen counter, nestled between a half-empty bottle of rosé and a stack of fashion magazines Vivienne never read anymore.
Thick paper. Handwritten. No return address.
"He has something rare. Let's talk. — C.R."
Vivienne hovered behind him, practically vibrating. "It's from Cassian Ryu."
Elián blinked. "Who?"
She laughed, too loud. "Only the most powerful man in media. He doesn't write letters."
Apparently, he did.
Cassian Ryu. The name echoed like a warning.
Vivienne was already planning outfits. "This is it," she said. "The real beginning."
Elián stared at the envelope.
Something about it felt heavy.
Not with opportunity.
With consequence.
He retreated to his room, the envelope still in hand. The walls were lined with headshots, scripts, and rejection letters. A shrine to effort. To almosts.
He sat on the edge of his bed and turned the envelope over in his hands. The handwriting was elegant, deliberate. Not rushed. Not performative.
It felt personal.
And that scared him.
Vivienne knocked once, then entered without waiting. "We need to respond. Today."
Elián didn't look up. "Why me?"
She scoffed. "Because you're beautiful. Because you're trending. Because you made people feel something."
He flinched.
She didn't notice.
That night, Elián lay awake, the envelope on his nightstand like a beacon. Or a trap.
He didn't know what Cassian wanted.
But he knew what Vivienne wanted.
And he wasn't sure he could survive both.