Was Once the King: Chapter 16: The King Rewrites the Ending

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The city hadn't quieted after the interview. If anything, it had grown louder—but this time, not with scandal.

That night, Hector didn't go to the rooftop. He went home. Alone.

He changed into soft clothes, turned off his phone, and sat cross-legged on the floor of his living room. For a while, he just listened—to the hum of the air conditioning, to the distant laughter of neighbors, to his own breath slowing down.

Then he reached under the couch and pulled out the old box.

It had been taped shut for years. Dusted, forgotten, moved from apartment to apartment but never opened. Until now.

Inside were scraps of a former life: tabloid clippings, dog-eared scripts, call sheets from past dramas. A photo of him and Sam, laughing in a behind-the-scenes shot. A handwritten letter from a fan who'd said his performance "saved her during the worst year of her life."

Hector read the letter. Then read it again.

And gently set it aside.

He picked up the photo.

Stared at it for a long time.

Then stood, walked to the balcony, and lit a match.

The flame was small. Brief. But it was enough.

He watched the image curl, blacken, and disappear.

Online, the reaction to the interview had been swift and staggering. Clips circulated with rapid speed. Headlines shifted tone:

'Hector Brandon: Not a Comeback—A Reckoning.'

'What Strength Looks Like When It's Finally Heard.'

Fan art surged again, this time with quotes from the interview.

'Closure doesn't need an apology. Sometimes it just needs a full stop.'

#KingReclaimed trended worldwide.

And with it, the ratings of the drama soared. The betrayal scene, now public, was hailed as a masterclass in restraint and rawness. Critics called it 'the moment the fiction became truth.'

The director issued a public statement:

"I didn't direct that scene. I just watched history unfold."

The morning after the interview, the studio was unusually still. Not silent, but subdued—as if everyone was walking on the edges of a story still unfolding. Whispers echoed across makeup chairs and coffee stations. Everyone had seen it. Everyone had read the headlines.

Hector Brandon, no longer a man at the edge of his legacy, but the one writing its final, defining chapter.

Benjamin walked into set just after sunrise, script tucked under his arm, and a quiet steadiness in his stride. A few crew members nodded, offering small smiles. Even the lighting tech who usually muttered about everything gave him a thumbs-up.

In the greenroom, Hector sat alone, scrolling through his phone. His name was still trending—but not in the usual way. Not as the cautionary tale. Not as the ghost of a scandal. But as something else.

A survivor.

When Benjamin stepped in, Hector held up his phone wordlessly. A clip of the interview was playing on loop. The moment Hector had said, "Closure doesn't need an apology. Sometimes it just needs a full stop."

Benjamin sat beside him. "It landed."

"I didn't think it would."

"It did."

Hector let the phone drop into his lap. "It's strange. All these years, I thought I'd feel better if Sam ever admitted what he did. But when he started spinning the apology, all I felt was... empty."

"That's because it wasn't an apology." Benjamin said. "It was a PR patch. He still doesn't think he did anything wrong. He just regrets the consequences."

Hector nodded slowly. "I think I finally get that now."

Later that day, the director pulled them aside. "I want one more scene. One we never planned."

"What kind of scene?" Hector asked.

"A quiet one. Just Oran and Cale. After everything. No plot. No twist. Just... stillness."

Benjamin tilted his head. "Why?"

The director smiled. "Because people are watching now. And they need to know what healing looks like."

The cameras rolled just past golden hour.

The set was bare. No costumes. No grand staging. Just Oran and Cale, seated at the base of the ruined throne room. Silence stretching between them like a bridge.

No lines. Just breath.

Then:

"Are you still angry?" Benjamin asked as Cale.

Hector hesitated. Then shook his head. "No. Just tired."

"Then rest." Benjamin said. "I'll keep watch."

It wasn't in the script.

But it didn't need to be.

The director called cut.

No applause. No cheers. Just a shared stillness.

Later that night, the clip was posted by the drama's official channel under the caption:

'After the fire, the quiet matters too.'

The comments flooded in.

'This saved me more than I can explain.'

'You don't need a villain to tell a good story. You need healing.'

'I needed to hear someone say, 'rest.''

Hector saw them all.

And for the first time in years, he didn't scroll past. He read each one. Slowly. Letting them in.

That same night, Benjamin knocked on Hector's door.

Hector opened it wordlessly.

He looked tired, but not wrecked. Something in him had settled.

"Thought you might want company." Benjamin said, holding up a small paper bag. "There's tea. And those weird almond biscuits you pretend not to like."

Hector's lips twitched. "I don't pretend. I just don't want to share."

Benjamin stepped in.

They didn't sit on the couch. They sat on the floor.

The tea steamed between them. The silence was warm.

For a while, they didn't talk.

A chime broke the quiet.

Hector's phone lit up on the coffee table.

Sam Aron.

Hector didn't even blink.

He opened the message. A long one. Apologetic. Defensive. Soft-spoken desperation wrapped in PR polish.

'I never meant to hurt you.'

'I was scared.'

'I still think about us.'

Hector scoffed. Audibly.

He handed the phone to Benjamin, who read it with a clenched jaw.

Then, slowly, Hector took the phone back.

He blocked Sam.

Deleted the message.

Set the phone down.

"I used to dream of getting this." He murmured. "Of hearing him say he regretted it."

"And now?" Benjamin asked.

"Now I realize it doesn't matter."

Benjamin watched him.

Then, soft: "Can I kiss you?"

Hector blinked.

Something in his chest cracked open—but not with fear. With readiness.

"Yes." He said.

Benjamin leaned in—slow, deliberate, reverent.

The kiss wasn't dramatic. It wasn't meant for the cameras or for spectacle. It was steady. Earnest. Warm.

When they pulled back, Hector let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"I said everything I needed to yesterday." Hector said. "To Sam. To the world. But not to you."

Benjamin tilted his head. "I'm listening."

"I don't know when you became home." Hector whispered. "But somewhere between silence and survival, you did. And I think I'm done running from that."

Benjamin didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Just waited.

"I'm not promising perfection." Hector said. "But I'm promising I won't shut you out again."

Benjamin smiled.

And Hector, for once, didn't hesitate.

He leaned in.

And kissed him.

It wasn't cinematic.

It was soft.

It was real.

When they parted, Benjamin rested his forehead against Hector's.

"No grand declarations?" he teased.

Hector chuckled. "Just one."

He pulled a folded page from his coat pocket. This time, it wasn't a thank-you. It wasn't a quote.

It was the final scene rewrite.

And at the bottom, handwritten:

'The crown never made the king. But love... maybe it did.'

Benjamin took the page.

And tucked it into his coat like it belonged there.

Above them, the city lights flickered.

And below them, the story they thought had ended... kept going.

Piece by piece.

Together.

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