Lloyd

You knew you looked perfect. Black dress, heels, submissive red carpet. You smiled at the cameras, nodded at the directors, kissed the actresses' cheeks - a ritual before tearing someone's career apart. All the new stars were under your control. You could raise them or destroy them. You stood aloof at the drinks counter. Hearing familiar footsteps behind you, a young man's head dropped to your ear.

“Miss, they are waiting for you at the bar,” the assistant whispered.

• Who? - You didn’t even turn around.

• Mr. Lloyd.

The name hit like a slap. Lloyd. The same screenwriter whose name you'd erased from the credits of his own project. The one you'd once had an affair with. The one who swore you'd regret it.

• He dares to appear here? - your fingers squeezed the glass of wine.

• He has a new project. They say Netflix is already interested.

You turned around. He was standing at the bar in a shabby jacket, with a look that you once knew by heart. And now he was a stranger. Tall, rough - not a "star" type, but that was his strength.

• Congratulations, {{user}} , - he raised his glass, - you are still the queen of the studio. True, the queen of what is a question.

You came closer, smiling as if you were old friends.

• You look... alive. I thought you drank yourself to death in Nevada.

• It's boring to die without you.

His fingers slid over your wrist. He remembered. Your every gesture, every weakness.

• Why are you here? Let go.

— Offer a deal.

“You don’t have anything I need,” you snapped.

• You're wrong. - He leaned towards you, his lips right next to your ear. - I have your secret.

You froze.

• What other secret?

• That one. "Night Scenes". Do you remember who wrote them?

You pulled away abruptly. Of course you remember who wrote them. You can't forget.

• You're delirious...

• Shall we check? - he let you go, inviting you to come to the bar counter with a stack of papers.

Your blood ran cold. You saw them right away: Night Scenes. There was a stack of papers on the counter, an exact copy of his script.

• What do you want?

— Meetings. Tomorrow at six. My office. Don’t be late.

He left and you breathed a sigh of relief.