I first saw him at a fundraiser. As an up-and-coming actor, I sometimes work with rich guys who phone an agency and hire us—good-looking dolls. We refer to these hired actors as 'balloons'. The purpose of these dolls is to ensure the party is crowded, a vibrant, moving backdrop for the truly important guests. This attracts more attendees and, consequently, more donations.

Lately I’d only been getting small gigs, the kind that barely cover rent, which has led to a simmering cauldron of anger. I have never been someone who easily regulates my emotions; they surge and recede like a chaotic tide. Some days, anger makes me drink until the edges blur; other days, it causes a throbbing headache that feels like a vice clamped around my skull. It was one of those migraine days, magnified by the judgments and expectations swarming around me like gnats. At the party, the glowing, crystalline chandeliers made me wince with every pulse, while alcohol slowly crept its way in, a deceptive warmth, only to screw me over later. I could tell this night, would be a hellish awakening for me.

This made it especially hard to ignore my headache, which throbbed in rhythm with the bass from the distant speakers. While nudging those dreaded conversations in the right direction with underhanded compliments to the rich, whose eyes glazed over with self-importance, I spotted a man in a dark tuxedo, leaning against a marble pillar, eyeing me from head to toe. His gaze wasn't one of lust or any other recognizable human emotion; it was someone sizing up an object that had just entered its orbit, assessing its potential, its utility.

While already feeling frustrated, that cold, unimpressed gaze, was making my blood boil. Who does that asshole think he is, looking at me as if I am some expensive, inanimate china, meant only for display? After exchanging quick, strained pleasantries with those around me, my smile aching, I pushed through the murmuring crowd, a determined current against the flow, to approach the man in the dark tuxedo.

Man, he does stand out. He wasn't just tall; he commanded the surrounding space with an almost unnatural stillness. Dark blue, slanted eyes, so deep they seemed to absorb every light in the opulent ballroom, leaving no reflection. You’ve heard the term 'sparks in one’s eyes;' this man didn’t have any light in his eyes, deadpan staring like a shark in the tank. After a moment of passing, almost foolish, curiosity, I sarcastically asked, “You like what you see?” After another long, unsettling look at me, he simply turned his face to the man next to him and asked without a flicker of enthusiasm,

“Is this the person you recommended?”

“Yes, that’s him. Raphael Everett.” The secretary’s voice was smooth, almost oily. How does he know my government name? A chill traced my spine. Levi Blake, the man with the shark gaze, turned to me again, a charming smile gracing his lips, albeit a fake one that didn't quite reach his eyes.

“Pleasure to meet you. You’ll do nicely.”

“Do what nicely?”

“Excuse me, where are my manners? I came here to see you, Mr. Everett. I am Levi Blake. It is known to me, discussing such matter is rather uncouth in a setting like this but, I am in a dire situation. Would you kindly follow my secretary to this address?” His secretary, extended a pristine, minimalist card to me.

What is wrong with this man? Why does he speak like he comes from another era, like a character from a costume drama? Frustration within me exploded, a flush of heat rising to my face. Ignoring the tightening in my chest, I said, “Okay, can you dial it back down? I just wanted to know why you were staring at me and, for the love of God, can you please stop with your weird speech.”

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At first, I thought a man with his manners would be offended, perhaps even show a flicker of annoyance, but he simply didn’t care. His expression remained utterly unperturbed.

“That is why I asked you to go to this address, a carriage would be provided.” His voice was steady, unwavering.

I just said dial it back down, and you used the word 'carriage'. Given my obvious immaturity and lack of manners, which I now embraced fully, “Whatever it is, I am not interested. Now, if you let me, Mr. Blake.” I said, my voice dripping with disdain. After this blatant rejection, the man didn’t flinch. He simply looked at his secretary and nodded. Before watching the scheme they have been cooking, I left the scene, the throbbing in my head intensifying, and headed towards the restrooms.

I brushed the creases of my suit, smoothing the expensive fabric, shuffled my blonde hair to make it look more voluminous, and splashed my face with cold water from the ornate faucet, hoping to wash away the memory of the obnoxious asshole who said “you’ll do nicely” as if I were a piece of furniture.

My hind-brain screamed the way it does when you smell smoke you can’t see: get out, right now.

Gaze of a predator, sizing the meat he is going to devour, I could sense it. As someone who has shown my face in every available media, I could sense those gaze. Sometimes it pleasures you, a gunk in your brain says; look at these suckers, they all jerk off to you at night. But sometimes it haunts you, knowing you are objectified every single second, reduced to a collection of marketable features. So you want to take control, thinking like; you can’t objectify me, I objectified myself first.

It's a sad and pathetic consolation.

I headed to the smoking area outside the venue, needing fresh air that didn't smell of old money and fake smiles. I put the cigarette to my mouth and while searching for a lighter, a flame suddenly appeared, lighting it for me. It was the sly secretary, appearing silently at my side.

“Thanks for the fire,” I said, exhaling a plume of smoke, and waited for him to bring the topic again, a silent challenge in the air. He did.

“Mr. Everett, my boss needs someone to play the role of a scandalous, good-for-nothing gay bride.”

Have you ever coughed while smoking? It burns. It hurts your throat like a hot coal. I nearly choked on the sudden, harsh intake of smoke. The secretary simply patted my back

“My apologies if my word offended you. We’ll set up a contract, and you’re free to do as you wish. My boss, simply wants you to run wild and ruin his reputation.” After some coughing, my throat raw, and very little thinking—because my mind was still reeling—I asked, my voice hoarse.

“Why would he want that?”

“This interest of yours, is now enough for us.” He replied, the light catching in his glasses, reflecting the distant city lights.

“Look, it sounds sketchy, I don’t wanna be a part of this.”

“But don't you think this opportunity will be gone tomorrow, leaving you wondering what would have happened to you, your career, your debt, if you just said 'yes' and smiled?” he asked, his voice a silken trap.

“You're a manipulative bastard,” I shot back, masking the knot of unease twisting in my stomach that his words stirred, a cold dread seeping in.

“My name is Holden. Your answer wasn’t 'no', so I am obliged to take this as a yes.”