1
SEBASTIAN
They were talking about me before I even entered the room.
It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.
I knew this mostly because over the past ten years, my name had become a cornerstone of comparison, like the Mona Lisa or the moon, a cultural icon.
But I knew that everyone was talking about me today becauseWaking Nightmarehad just premiered and was already generating a tidal wave of Oscar buzz. Despite the glowing early reviews from critics and fans, I had no doubt that I would emerge come March empty-handed yet again. It seemed my famous luck didn’t extend far enough to secure me the handsome golden trophy I had lusted over since I was a child. I had received the top accolade as a writer for my screenplay ofBlood Oath, but never for acting despite being nominated six times.
Still, over the past decade of my career in Hollywood, I had achieved the seemingly impossible dream I’d harbored since I was a child. I had managed to become a household name.Someone who men and women of all ages could recognize by face and name.
The former liked me for my style, the fast cars, the beautiful women, the irreverent charm that made me seem humble despite it all. An affinity for self-deprecation I’d learned from the Brits during my stint in England.
The latter, well, they liked me for the face and the body God and my parents had given me that I worked hard to maintain. They liked the romantic films I’d done, the part of Romeo in the modern mafia adaptation I’d starred in afterBlood Oath’s success, Diego Rivera in the adaptation of his life and relationship with Frida Kahlo, and most famously, Matteo Rossi in one of the saddest love stories to hit the silver screen in the last two decades.
I was called to my art form like Picasso with his paints and Mozart with his notes, so the success meant something to me. It meant I was doing it well. That Icoulddo it for as long as I wanted in an industry where most people floundered after a time, even if they managed to hit it big. After ten years, I had star power that promised longevity.
It should have been enough.
But I’d always known it wouldn’t be. Couldn’t be.
Not for a soul like mine.
Dozens of romantic roles may have made the world fall in love with me, but no one had touched my own heart since an American expat with pale gold hair and a British aristocrat had taken hold of me like the moon with its tides.
It was this contrast that, ironically, made my fans even more rabid for me.
The elusive bachelor who was not a playboy.Brooding and mysterious, they said.
Untouchable, some wrote.
It made me scoff to know how wrong they were.
It was not that I was untouchable but that I had already been so touched by the presence of two hearts that I seriously doubted there was room for any future romance. My heart was a haunted house, empty but for ghosts I had no hope of exorcizing.
It was, undoubtedly, one of the talking points that Isla Goodspeed had written on the tablet she held in her hand as she stood to greet me in the lobby of Château Marmont. She was an elegant woman in her early forties with curly brown hair and huge eyes the colour of maple syrup. I liked her haughty beauty and professionalism. She reminded me of my eldest sister, Elena.
“Sebastian, it is good to see you again,” she greeted me with an extended pale hand and a warm smile. “You look even more handsome than the last time we spoke.”
I flashed her my megawatt smile as I raised her hand to kiss her knuckles. “You know how to flatter a man, Isla. You can tell me the truth. I look haggard as hell.”
She let out a surprised bark of laughter before covering her mouth with her hand. “We both know that’s not true.”
I shrugged, indicating she should sit down at the corner table tucked into the murky shadows of the dimly lit bar. Château Marmont was a celebrity haunt in LA because it offered privacy to its guests.
“I jumped immediately from production for my latest project,Black On, to the press circuit forWaking Nightmare. Perhaps I don’t look as haggard as I feel, thanks to the Los Angeles sun,” I allowed as I sat down after her, unbuttoning my black blazer as I did so.
Isla’s gaze dipped briefly to the tight stretch of the white cotton T-shirt across my pectorals before she locked eyes with me again. I had trained with members of the Navy SEALS in preparation forBlack Onand was consequently in the best shape of my life. The edge of my mouth ticked up in a knowing smirk.
She blushed slightly and turned her focus to arranging her recorder and tablet to her liking on the wooden tabletop.
“Black Onis your first war film,” she started, her tone coolly professional. “What made you curious about the script? You’re notorious for only taking projects that speak to your soul, and a war film seems rather…unromantic for you.”
I laughed. “Does it?Certo, there is nothing romantic about war; the gore and violence, the horrifying waste of human life, and the erasure of dignity. But that is exactly the point ofBlack On. It highlights the despair of war, of wondering what exactly one is fighting for beyond trying to protect one's country and loved ones. The title itself references the military term ‘black on’ something, as in lacking a resource. In this case, the characters lack empathy. My character, Stefan, does not realize how mechanical he has been about death until he accidentally kills a child and then secretly helps the family in an attempt to make amends. I suppose I enjoy the idea that there are no ‘good’ or ‘bad’ guys in the film. War makes those concepts impossible.”
“That’s quite a shift from your character, West, inWaking Nightmare, who critics have described as the consummate villain.”
