The camera zoomed in for a close-up.
Aster stood in front of a burned-down set replica, fake ash dusting his shoulders, red-rimmed eyes reflecting devastation.
The director watched, breath held, as Aster delivered the final lines of the movie's climax with a shaky, rage-filled voice—controlled fury that pulsed with restrained grief.
"Cut!" the director yelled. "That's it! That's a wrap on Ashes of Glory!"
The crew clapped.
Aster exhaled slowly, letting the intensity seep out of his bones. He didn't let go completely, not yet. His hands still trembled slightly as he walked off set and into the cool shade of the waiting lounge.
It was done. His first major movie—done.
And he had been the lead.
The male lead.
The very idea still felt surreal.
On the ride home, Aster scrolled through his phone—and found his name trending again. This time for something less flattering.
@teaunfiltered:
How does someone go from unknown extra to MOVIE LEAD in six months? I smell a backer 😮
@cheekybabe03:
Not saying anything, but there are rumors. You know the type.
@SourLime:
You either work hard or work your knees 💅
#AsterRising
He snorted softly.
Trolls.
He should've expected it. Everyone liked an underdog until the underdog actually got ahead.
Still, he locked his phone and stared out the window.
Let them talk.
Anyway, he kept his dignity before but it was snatched away. Now, he gladly offer it and gained more.
If he just knew, he would've pinch his dignity in a ball and just toss it to Adrian right there and then.
His mind drifted, unbidden, to the night he met Adrian...
It was a party.
Aster hadn't wanted to go.
Evan had practically shoved him into a borrowed suit and dragged him into a penthouse full of cigar smoke, clinking glasses, and people who didn't see actors as artists—but as the main dishes.
Aster remembered the uncomfortable gazes. Leering women, hungry old men. Everyone evaluating him like he is on sale.
Evan had left him to "go network," which meant he was busy flattering potential sponsors with backhanded compliments and pushing Aster into the conversation every chance he got.
"Fresh talent," he said with a chuckle. "Can dance, can act, and won't complain if you want to skip dinner."
Aster's skin crawled.
That night, he nearly fled.
And then—
Adrian entered.
He didn't make a scene. But the room shifted around him like the tide yielding to gravity. Tall, immaculately dressed in dark gray, expression unreadable—but those eyes...
They locked on Aster almost immediately.
Aster remembered fidgeting under that gaze. It wasn't lust. Not exactly.
It was... intent.
All night, no one approached Aster again. As if some unspoken line had been drawn around him. Even Evan noticed, growing more irritable as the evening wore on. By the end, he was practically hissing in frustration.
"What the hell did you do?" Evan whispered as they left. "Smile wrong? You were supposed to mingle!"
Aster hadn't done anything. That was what made it even stranger.
He thought the night ended there.
But the next day, his phone rang.
An unfamiliar number.
When he arrived at the address, a high-rise office greeted him—glass and steel and quiet power. He was ushered to the top floor and into a sleek office with floor-to-ceiling windows.
Adrian was there, behind his desk.
He didn't waste time.
"How much," he said, simply. Calmly. Like he just asked him if he wants water.
Aster had flinched. "Excuse me?"
"For six months," Adrian clarified, voice steady. "You'll live with me. Everything will be handled. And in exchange, you belong to me during that time."
It wasn't exactly romantic. More like instinct or something Aster also can't explain. It's just like Adrian staking his claim.
There is for sure Lust in his eyes. Like he wants to devour him alive. Like heat. Precision. A hunger that promised he'd possess every bit of Aster if given the chance—body, heart, mind, all in one breath.
It scared him. Frighten him so much he just wants to escape.
So he said no.
He didn't tell Evan. Something told him that if Evan found out, he'd wrap Aster in a red bow and offer him like a gift basket.
Still, the offer lingered in Aster's mind long after.
Now, three years and a death later,
He was living in one of Adrian's houses.
With Finn.
With an entertainment contract that looked like it was written for a national treasure.
And Adrian hadn't devoured him—not yet. But Aster still didn't know what Adrian really wanted from him.
The man gave him everything and asked for nothing but six months.
And maybe a few dirty jokes and long kisses. And long, tiring but wonderful nights.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Adrian.
Adrian:
Heard you wrapped. Duck's in the oven. Finn made cookies. Hope you're hungry.
Aster smiled faintly.
For now, he'd eat dinner.
And ignore the question clawing at the back of his head—
What happens when six months run out?
It's a question for later.