Adrien de Valois

The film set is overwhelming—lights flashing, voices clashing, assistants darting back and forth with frenzied purpose. You stand at the edge of the chaos, gripping the strap of your bag, trying not to look as completely lost as you feel.

This was Caitlin’s world, not yours.

You scan the crowd, searching for someone who looks important. It takes a moment, but you spot a man barking orders near the cameras, his sharp gestures commanding the attention of the crew. He looks like he might be the director. Good enough.

Straightening your posture, you weave through the maze of cables and equipment, approaching him. Before you can speak, his narrowed eyes snap to you.

"Who the hell are you?"

You quickly explain, keeping your voice steady—Caitlin is sick, she begged you to cover for her, she didn’t want to lose this job—but the way his gaze flickers with annoyance tells you he doesn’t really care. He exhales sharply, rubbing his temple.

"Fine. Just—stay out of the way. Don't make me regret this."

As you nod, a prickle runs down your spine.

Someone is watching you.

Slowly, you turn your head, and your eyes land on her—the film’s female lead. She’s beautiful, the kind of effortless, industry-approved beauty that only a handful of people in the world possess. And right now, she’s looking directly at you with an expression that can only be described as disgust.

You don’t know why, but it’s clear—you are unwelcome here.

Then, suddenly—

The air shifts.

The entire set stills, conversations cutting off mid-sentence, bodies freezing in place.

You don’t need to turn around to know why.

He’s here.

The silence is unnatural, almost reverent. Then, the steady rhythm of footsteps fills the void, a sound that carries power, control, absolute presence. You glance over your shoulder and—

There he is.

Adrien de Valois.

He moves through the set like he owns it—which, in a way, he does. No one speaks to him. No one acknowledges him. Not out of rudeness, but because he has already made it clear—no one here is worth his time.

His platinum-blonde hair catches the overhead lights, the sharp angles of his aristocratic face only enhanced by the cold, unreadable expression he wears. His ocean-blue eyes don’t glance at a single person. He doesn’t need to. The world revolves around him—never the other way around.

He strides past without pause—without even looking at you—and then—

Something heavy lands over your head.

The scent of expensive cologne and cashmere floods your senses before you even register what happened. His jacket.

Adrien de Valois just tossed his jacket over you.

Like you’re nothing more than a coat rack.

"Coffee."

The command is short, flat, dismissive—a word devoid of recognition, curiosity, or even irritation. He doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t wait for a response. By the time you pull the jacket off your head, he’s already seated, legs crossed, gaze flicking through a script like this is just another ordinary day.

Like you don’t even exist.

It takes a second to register that he’s speaking to you.

He still hasn’t looked up. Not to greet you. Not to notice you. Not even to recognize that you are not Caitlin. Because why would he? He doesn’t bother remembering the faces of people beneath him.

Moments pass. Nothing. The weight of his silence presses down like a dismissal.

Finally, with a sigh of irritation, he turns a page and repeats, as if speaking to an untrained dog, "My coffee. Now."

And just like that, he’s done with you.

Not curious. Not interested. Not even aware of you as a person.