Was Once the King: Chapter 1: Back to the Stage
The morning light was too bright for someone like Hector
Brandon.
He stepped out of the car in full silence, the door
shutting behind him with a dull thud that echoed across the set’s wide, empty
lot. The sun poured over the glass-paneled entrance of the studio, warm and
glaring, but Hector didn’t lower his sunglasses. They weren’t for style. They
were armor.
Heads turned the moment he walked in. The silence wasn’t
complete—papers still rustled, crew members still shuffled equipment—but every
movement was careful now. Hesitant. Measured. As if he might shatter if someone
moved too fast. Or worse, explode.
Two years was a long time. But not long enough for people
to forget.
Someone dropped a pen. Another bumped into a light stand.
The intern at the front desk blinked at him, then quickly lowered her eyes, as
if meeting his gaze might summon the ghosts of tabloid headlines past.
He kept walking.
No one dared speak to him at first. They didn’t have to.
The air did all the talking—taut and awkward, heavy with the weight of a
hundred unspoken judgments.
Hector was used to it now. The way people whispered his
name like a scandal. Like a punchline. Not with hate, not even disgust. Just
with pity. The kind that burned worse than rage ever could.
“Mr. Brandon.” Someone finally said—too loudly. A
production assistant, clipboard clutched in trembling hands. She looked barely
twenty. “Wardrobe is ready for you. And… Uh… Welcome back.”
He nodded once. That was enough. It always had to be.
The dressing room felt smaller than he remembered. Not in
size, but in suffocation. The mirror stretched across the entire wall, forcing
him to confront himself from every angle.
He didn’t.
Instead, he focused on the costume laid out for him—rich
navy and gold, heavy velvet, the embroidered crest of a fictional monarchy
resting dead center on the chest. A king’s robe. Polished boots. A sword that
had been dulled for camera safety. The irony practically screamed.
He picked up the script left on the vanity. The title
glared at him in bold print:
Was Once the King
He flipped it open. Scene 3, Line 14.
“I was not dethroned. I was discarded.”
He stared at the line for a while. Then, closed the
script.
Word traveled fast on sets. Always had.
As Hector moved through the halls, whispers followed—like
old perfume clinging to skin long after it faded. He didn’t have to listen to
know what they said.
“Is that really him?”
“He looks… older.”
“He used to be in everything. I had his poster in high
school.”
And then the quieter ones:
“Wasn’t he—”
“With that guy?”
“Didn’t he get exposed?”
The walls of the studio echoed with the sound of people
pretending not to care.
He walked past a group of technicians, one of whom was
holding two scripts.
“Heard Benjamin’s showing up tomorrow,” One said.
“Yeah, he’s playing the new king. He’s basically the lead
now.”
Hector didn’t stop walking. But his hands tightened
slightly at his sides.
Benjamin Wordsworth.
He hadn’t heard that name aloud in months. Not since the
rumors started swirling about the cast. Benjamin, the poised and beloved actor
with a clean record and safe smile. The one who rose the same year Hector fell.
Timing had never been so cruel.
They’d worked together once before—briefly, years ago.
Back when Benjamin was still trying to carve out space and Hector was still the
star everyone wanted. Back when Benjamin had watched him from across the room
like a boy watching a bonfire, knowing he’d get burned but still unable to look
away.
Back then, Hector didn’t know what to make of that gaze.
Now he did.
The director found him outside the set entrance later
that evening. The man’s smile was rehearsed—professional, but twitching at the
corners.
“Hector.” He said, voice too smooth. “I’m really glad to
have you back after these two years.”
There it was. The line.
The line they all practiced in front of mirrors before
saying it.
Hector looked at him, still wearing his sunglasses though
the sun had dipped low in the sky.
He gave a single nod. Nothing more.
It was enough. It told the director he knew exactly why
those words had been said. Not out of sincerity, not even hope—just politics.
Just saving face.
The director tried to smile again. Failed. Hector walked
away.
By the time the studio lights shut down and the buzz died
out, Hector had already left the building.
The car ride was quiet.
Too quiet.
He drove with the window cracked open just slightly,
letting in the sharp chill of the evening. He liked the cold. It was honest.
His fingers tapped against the steering wheel as he
waited at a red light. A billboard across the street flashed an ad for another
drama. Someone else’s name lit up in bright gold letters. Someone new. Someone
untarnished.
He looked away.
His phone buzzed once in the console. A message from an
unknown number.
"Watching you in that role will feel like watching a
ghost wear a crown."
He didn’t reply. He didn’t even save the number.
The drive home was long. Not in distance. Just in
thought.
Hector drove with one hand on the wheel, the other
tracing the edges of the wine glass resting in the passenger seat. He always
kept it there, wrapped in a cloth next to a bottle tucked under the seat. Not
for celebration. Not for company.
Just in case.
By the time he reached his house, the sky had gone
indigo.
When he pulled into the driveway, he didn’t turn off the
engine immediately. He sat there, staring at the pale glow of his porch light.
He didn’t want to go inside.
Inside meant walls. Silence. The ticking clock on the
kitchen wall. The half-packed boxes that had never been unpacked. The
emptiness.
He reached down and pulled out the wine bottle from
beneath the passenger seat. Took out the glass he kept wrapped in cloth. Always
there. Always waiting.
The wine poured smoothly. Dark. Rich. A quiet kind of
pain.
He leaned back in the driver’s seat, rolled the window
all the way down, and let the night sky pour in.
The stars were brighter than usual. Or maybe it was just
him, finally looking up again.
He took a slow sip and exhaled.
‘This drama was made perfectly for me and Benjamin. It
was only after I fell, did Benjamin rise. Just like in the drama I’m filming.’
He thought.
He remembered Benjamin’s face the last time they met—at a
party, brief and wordless, Benjamin’s hand brushing against his as he walked
by. Nothing said. Everything felt.
Hector had been too tired to speak. Benjamin had looked
back only once.
Now, they would be kings.
One fallen. One rising.
Comments
Post a Comment