Was Once the King: Epilogue: The Light We Choose

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Years didn’t pass in headlines. They passed in quiet mornings and late-night scripts, in fingers brushing under café tables, in sunlight filtering through curtains shared by two people who no longer needed to prove anything.

Three years had passed since the Adrien Vale interview. Three years since Hector Brandon and Benjamin Wordsworth sat across from the world and calmly ended a lie. In those three years, their careers grew—yes—but more importantly, so did their peace.

The city hadn’t changed, but they had.

The apartment remained their sanctuary, though it had evolved. The photos on the wall told the story of a life rebuilt: one of Hector and Benjamin at a film premiere in matching suits, of candid snapshots at beach cafes, of their first dog—a mutt with ears too big for her body named Olive. The skyline beyond their balcony still sparkled like applause, but neither of them needed the validation anymore.

That afternoon, the apartment was buzzing with quiet celebration. Hector had just signed on to direct his first full-length feature, a character-driven drama that centered on redemption and art. Benjamin had wrapped his third major series, earning accolades not for his looks or tabloid appeal—but for the range and heart he brought to his work.

There were no parties. No flashing bulbs.

Just a dinner with close friends, wine that actually tasted like something, and the kind of laughter that curled into the walls and stayed there.

Later, after the guests left, Benjamin found Hector standing at the balcony, barefoot and thoughtful, a glass of wine in hand.

"You okay?" Benjamin asked.

Hector smiled softly. "I’m good. Just… thinking."

"About?"

"Chapter One of my life after the scandal broke out." Hector said. "The night before I met you. I was rehearsing lines for a project I didn't care about, pretending not to care about people who'd already walked away. And now…"

Benjamin stepped beside him. "And now?"

"Now, I’m standing beside the one person who never did."

Benjamin wrapped an arm around him. "I didn’t stay because I had to. I stayed because I couldn’t imagine the story without you."

Hector laughed, quiet and real. "God, that’s so dramatic."

Benjamin grinned. "And yet true."

They stood like that a while—watching the city hum. Hector’s fingers traced the rim of his glass.

"Sometimes I wonder if I ever really was the king." He murmured.

Benjamin turned him gently by the shoulder. "You were. You are. But not because of the cameras or the fans. Because you kept walking when everything told you to stop. Because you never stopped loving, even when you were terrified to try again. Because you chose light. Again and again."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wrapped box.

"This was supposed to wait for your premiere, but… tonight felt right."

Inside was a silver pendant—minimalist, clean-lined, etched with the shape of a crown made of stars. On the back: The light we choose.

Hector stared at it. "Is this…?"

"Your reminder." Benjamin said. "That you were never made of the fire that tried to burn you. You were made of what you built after."

Hector leaned into him. "You should be a writer."

"No thanks. Too many emotions."

They laughed, and the city didn’t seem so loud anymore.

Two months later, they found themselves seated beside each other at the prestigious Aurelius Awards. The drama they had starred in together—an emotionally raw, beautifully shot series about survival and forgiveness—had taken the world by storm. It was their first project together since everything had changed.

When the envelope was opened and both their names were called for Best Lead Duo, the applause was deafening. But neither of them moved immediately. They looked at each other and smiled—one of those wordless smiles that carried years.

On stage, they stood side by side under the golden light.

"We were once told that love was a distraction." Benjamin began, holding the mic. "That it would cost us our shine."

Hector added, "But what we found was that love doesn’t dim you. It anchors you. It holds you steady so you can reach higher."

They didn’t thank publicists or studios first. They thanked each other.

And when they stepped off the stage, the applause didn’t feel like validation.

It felt like a chorus saying, we see you now.

That night, they returned home and carried two golden statuettes to the rooftop. Olive trailed behind them with lazy curiosity. The city was unusually quiet—hushed like it was holding its breath just for them.

Benjamin spread out a blanket and a small speaker. Hector brought up champagne. They clinked their glasses under the stars.

"We did it." Benjamin said softly.

"Yeah." Hector whispered. "But not just the awards. All of it. We came through the storm."

He looked up at the sky. "And now we're here. Still us. Still choosing this."

Benjamin took his hand. "I’d choose it a thousand times over."

They lay back, watching the stars move slowly above them. The crowns they held weren’t made of gold—or maybe they were. But more than anything, they were made of choice, and grace, and persistence.

They talked about the next stories they wanted to tell. About casting ideas, future scripts, maybe even teaching at a small film academy together someday.

"Can you imagine it?" Hector mused. "A classroom full of students who still believe in the magic of storytelling."

"We’d drive them mad." Benjamin chuckled. "You with your metaphors, me with my notes."

"But they’d leave believing in something real." Hector said. "And maybe that’s enough."

As the night deepened, Benjamin played a quiet melody on the speaker—an old track from one of Hector’s earlier films. The music curled around them like smoke, soft and nostalgic.

"Do you remember this scene?" Benjamin asked.

"Yeah." Hector said, voice quiet. "It was the first time I realized what acting could really mean. Not pretending. Just… telling the truth out loud."

Benjamin looked over. "You’ve always been telling the truth, Hector. It just took a while for the world to hear it."

Across the industry, people still whispered about them—but now it was different. Not as scandal, not as speculation. But as reverence.

The boy who’d been shattered.
The man who’d stayed.
And the love that withstood it all.

Hector no longer feared the mirror. He no longer needed the audience.

He had love. He had peace.

He had everything he once thought fame could give him—and more.

He was once the king.

But now?

He was simply himself.

And that was more than enough.

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