Two weeks could pass in a blur when your days were filled with meetings, table reads, and contracts. For Izaac, they didn't just blur — they compressed, every hour spent threading needles between Hollywood charm and business steel.
Hereafter was already knee-deep in its second week of shooting. The novelty of "first day on set" had burned off, replaced by the heavy rhythm of 5 a.m. call times and nightly wrap drinks. Even so, the set felt electric — a mix of Amazon Prime executives drifting in and out, PR reps monitoring every camera angle, and actors living somewhere between themselves and their characters.
Henry had been away in London for a week on another project, which meant Izaac was flying solo in LA. The Ferrari was still his go-to for late-night drives, but without Henry in the passenger seat it felt quieter — more like a tool than a thrill.
That afternoon, the sun baked the Warner lot into a golden haze. Izaac stepped out of Stage 14, script in hand, the air smelling faintly of hot asphalt and coffee carts. He was headed toward the production office when a voice stopped him.
"You've been avoiding me."
He turned. It was Adrian Lomas — a mid-tier actor on Hereafter, one of those guys who'd never quite made A-list but carried himself like he'd been wronged by fate. Dark hair slicked back, crisp button-down despite the heat, sunglasses hiding the eyes but not the tension.
Izaac's voice stayed level. "Avoiding you implies I think about you."
Adrian smirked. "You know, I've worked in this town for fifteen years. Paid my dues. And then some guy from… where did they even say you're from? Singapore? Just walks in here with a co-producer credit and starts making calls like you've been doing this since film school."
"I didn't go to film school," Izaac said.
"That's my point." Adrian stepped closer, the smell of his cologne sharp in the dry air. "I've seen you whispering with the director. You think that gets you respect? All it gets you is enemies. You might want to remember — this isn't your city."
Izaac let the words hang, then smiled faintly. "You're right. It's not my city. But it's not yours either. It's rented. For all of us. Difference is, I know when to pay on time."
Adrian's jaw tightened, but he said nothing more. He turned and walked toward the soundstage, muttering something under his breath.
By the time Izaac made it to the office, the tension was already gone from his body. Confrontations like that were just noise — reminders that not everyone smiled when you walked in the room.
That night, he found himself at an industry mixer in West Hollywood — a quiet rooftop affair, invite-only, no press. A good place to hear whispers without being seen listening.
The skyline was sharp against the dusk, the city sprawling like a living circuit board. Glasses clinked. Conversations bled into one another. He worked the crowd the way he always did — not searching for anything, but open to whatever surfaced.
Near the edge of the deck, he spotted Henry — fresh back from London — holding court with two showrunners. A quick nod was exchanged across the crowd, the kind of silent check-in that said, later.
It was just after 10 p.m. when the air shifted. Conversations paused just slightly. A new arrival moved through the crowd.
Abigail Spencer.
She wasn't supposed to be here. At least, not according to any guest list Izaac had seen. Her entrance wasn't loud — no entourage, no flashing smile — but it pulled attention anyway. Dark silk dress, hair in loose waves, eyes that seemed to already be in on the joke. There was something about her that made the room recalibrate.
Her gaze caught his across the space, and for a heartbeat neither of them moved. Then she began weaving through the guests, each step deliberate.
"You don't return calls," she said when she reached him. Not a question. Not quite a smile either.
"I've been busy," Izaac replied.
"I noticed." She glanced toward the skyline, then back at him. "Two weeks in this city and you've already got people talking. Not all of it nice."
"Nice doesn't build anything worth keeping."
Her eyes held his in a way that hinted at something unspoken — something older. "Maybe not. But enemies build faster."
For a moment, it felt like the rooftop noise dulled around them. There was a flicker of recognition in her expression — not from tonight, but from years ago. He knew she was remembering Singapore, even if neither of them said it.
Before he could respond, someone called her name from across the deck. She didn't turn, just held his eyes another second.
"Don't disappear again," she said, then melted back into the crowd.
Izaac stood there a moment longer, the city's hum beneath his feet. Two weeks in LA and the game was already heating up. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew — the next move would be his.
Abigail didn't disappear for long.
Izaac caught glimpses of her across the rooftop — always in conversation, always with someone leaning in a little too close, as if drawn by a magnet they couldn't see. But every few minutes, her eyes would find him again, a flash of heat and something darker passing between them.
He'd been talking to a cinematographer about location permits when she appeared at his side, silent. She didn't acknowledge the man Izaac was speaking with, just slipped her hand around his wrist.
"Walk with me."
Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried an edge — the kind you didn't argue with.
She didn't lead him toward the exit, but deeper into the building, away from the music and conversation. Past a narrow hallway lined with framed photographs, then a sharp left into what looked like an unused office. The door shut behind them with a quiet click.
Before he could speak, she pushed him — not hard enough to hurt, but enough to press him against the wall.
"Three years, Izaac." Her tone wasn't raised, but it was tight. "Three years of nothing. No calls. No messages. You vanish like I dreamed you up. And now I find you here, in LA, walking around like you own the room?"
Her eyes were bright, but there was no mistaking the frustration in them.
"I didn't know you'd be here," he said evenly.
"That's not the point," she shot back. "You don't get to disappear and then… show up in my city, at my kind of party, and pretend nothing happened in Singapore."
His jaw tightened slightly. "Pretending isn't what I do."
She studied him for a moment, searching for something in his face. "Then tell me why you're here."
"To make something worth my time."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you'll get tonight."
For a long moment, they just stood there — close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off her. She didn't move away. Her hand was still on his arm, her nails pressing lightly into the fabric of his sleeve.
"Damn you," she said softly, almost to herself. Then she let go and stepped back.
"Damn you," she said softly, almost to herself.
Her eyes stayed locked on his, unblinking, searching for something — an answer, a confession, anything. The air between them felt tighter, charged, as if the room itself was holding its breath. Neither of them moved, and yet it felt like they were standing on the edge of something irreversible.
Her fingers brushed his jaw, hesitant at first, then firmer, as though confirming he was real."I waited three years to forget you," she whispered, her breath warm against his skin. Izaac didn't answer. He didn't need to — the way he stepped forward closed the space between them, the way her back met the wall made it clear neither of them planned to leave this room soon.