Was Once the King: Chapter 11: Whatever Story He Owns
The morning came with a strange hush.
The kind of quiet that only settled before a storm.
Hector arrived on set early. Too early. The wardrobe team
hadn't even unzipped the garment bags yet. He sat alone in the corner of the
trailer, script unopened on his lap, eyes unfocused.
He had a feeling. An ache in his spine he couldn't name.
Benjamin arrived soon after, greeting the makeup crew
with a warm smile and settling into his chair beside Hector's without a word.
He didn't ask anything. Didn't press. Just existed nearby, like a second
heartbeat.
It was comforting. Until the silence shattered.
By mid-morning, the director clapped his hands together
with theatrical energy. "Alright, everyone, listen up!"
The cast gathered in the main rehearsal space. Script
binders in hand. A few coffees still steaming.
"We're introducing a new character this week—Prince
Dastan," The director announced. "Oran's former confidant. Now
rival."
Hector felt the temperature drop in his chest.
The door opened.
In walked Sam Aron.
His smile was polite. His suit sharp. His presence
calculated.
Hector didn't move.
The world around him dimmed into a low hum.
Benjamin stood very still, his gaze sharp and unreadable.
"Sam will be joining us for the second arc."
The director continued, oblivious to the tension now slicing through the room.
"We wanted someone who could bring real intensity to the betrayal dynamic.
He's perfect."
Hector said nothing.
Sam's eyes flicked toward him. There was something
unreadable in his expression. Not quite remorse. Not quite smugness either.
Just... familiarity. The kind that burned.
The table read was quiet. Too quiet.
The cast read their lines. The director gave notes. Sam
delivered each word with silky precision, especially in his scenes opposite
Oran.
"Power doesn't corrupt." His character
whispered at one point. "It reveals what you were hiding all along."
The line wasn't underlined in the script.
But it was meant for Hector.
Benjamin's hand tightened slightly on the script binder.
He didn't look at Sam. But his jaw was set.
Hector didn't break.
Not yet.
The next scene was rehearsal-only: a confrontation
between Oran and Dastan.
The air was heavy. Lines became jabs. Stage directions
felt like history. The emotions written in the script stirred real shadows from
the past.
Hector's voice cracked once—not from weakness, but
memory. He pushed through the line. Sam, ever smooth, didn't miss a beat. Their
exchange felt less like rehearsal and more like reckoning.
When the director finally called cut, no one exhaled.
A quiet fell over the studio.
Sam packed up quickly, murmuring a quiet goodbye.
Hector didn't reply.
Benjamin followed him out of the room.
They walked in silence for a long while.
Hector's hands were clenched, his shoulders stiff. But
Benjamin kept close—not crowding, not prying. Just nearby.
Finally, Hector stopped in one of the side corridors. The
hallway was dim, the echo of footsteps fading behind them. He leaned back
against the cold plaster wall and let his head fall back slightly.
He closed his eyes.
"He never misses a chance." He murmured.
"Not even now."
His voice wasn't bitter—just tired. Heavy with old
wounds.
Benjamin leaned beside him, mirroring his posture.
"He doesn't get to define the story anymore."
Hector's lips twitched faintly, not quite a smile.
He didn't reply.
But he didn't walk away either. Later that afternoon, a
photo resurfaced online.
It wasn't from the drama's social media team.
It was posted by Sam.
A behind-the-scenes shot—an old practice session photo of
him and Hector during their previous drama. Hector was mid-laugh, unaware.
Sam's hand was raised, just slightly, as if adjusting something on Hector's
shoulder.
The caption was vague. But the intent wasn't.
"Full circle. Some stories never really end."
The post exploded.
People remembered.
The scandal. The betrayal. The unanswered questions.
"Is he hinting at something?"
"Was it all true then?"
"So Hector really was lying all along?"
The threads bloomed—accusation, speculation, venom.
Benjamin didn't say a word.
Instead, he posted a still from the upcoming episode. One
where Oran had broken down, on his knees, shaking—Cale beside him, holding him
without judgment.
His caption was quiet.
'Betrayal is still betrayal. No matter how much sugar you
pour to make it sweeter.'
The comment section flooded with support.
Some fans fought.
Others wept.
But the tone shifted. The blame no longer sat solely on
Hector's shoulders.
And Hector saw it.
He didn't like being seen. But he didn't mind this.
He saved the screenshot.
Just like the last time.
Evening fell.
The set emptied. The crew dispersed.
And once again, the rooftop called.
Hector climbed the stairs with the quiet heaviness of
someone who had no intention of speaking. The city skyline glimmered faintly
beneath clouded skies. He carried his usual wine bottle and a single glass.
He didn't expect Benjamin.
But the door creaked open ten minutes later.
Benjamin stepped through.
This time, he didn't immediately approach. He saw Hector
seated at the ledge, gulping down a mouthful of wine, eyes locked on the stars
he couldn't quite see.
Benjamin said nothing.
He walked to the far side of the rooftop, lowered himself
gently against the opposite wall, and just... stayed.
Watching.
Waiting.
Hector didn't speak.
But after a few moments, his shoulders relaxed. Just a
little.
He poured another glass.
Lifted it to his lips.
Swallowed.
And then Benjamin's voice floated across the quiet
rooftop:
"Whatever story he thinks he still owns... let him
keep it. You don't need to live there anymore."
The words landed like silk.
No pressure. No pity.
Just truth.
Hector closed his eyes.
And a single tear slipped down his cheek.
Then another.
He didn't hide it.
Benjamin didn't move closer.
He didn't need to.
They just sat there.
One sipping wine. One holding silence.
And above them, the stars began to emerge. Slowly. One by
one.
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