I didn’t want to dwell on that. Maybe I was reading too much into it. It was also entirely possible I had simply slipped back into my own fractured world. He just didn’t want me to look at him for a while; there was nothing inherently wrong with that.

At least, I wanted to believe this with every fiber of my being.

In the morning, the house hummed with an unfamiliar energy. I could hear the muffled sounds of people moving about, hushed voices, and occasionally, the sharp, clear shout of someone giving directions. My headache from the previous night, mercifully, had subsided, replaced by a dull anxiety. I got out of the room, still in my pajamas, and blinked at the spectacle unfolding in the living room. A gigantic, luminous green screen dominated the space, stretching from floor to ceiling. There were photographers, their lenses gleaming under powerful light boxes, makeup artists unpacking their elaborate kits, and stylists draping garment bags over chairs.

Oh. The wedding photo shoot. Levi, already dressed in a tailored suit, noticed me emerging from my room and approached, his gait fluid and purposeful. “Good morning, Raphael. I surmised it would be more convenient for our photographic session to be conducted within the domicile. We anticipate completion by midday. I have procured suitable attire for your wearing.”

He means business when he means business, a chillingly efficient kind of business. He sounded considerate, almost thoughtful, but if he gave a damn about my comfort or preferences, he would at least have allowed me to choose my own wedding suit.

A makeup artist, prepared my hair and face for the shoots, expertly concealing the faint shadows beneath my eyes. I donned three different wedding suits, each more opulent and restrictive than the last. All the while, Levi stood nearby, calmly issuing precise instructions to Holden, his secretary, regarding some unseen, complicated job. There was so much I didn’t know about this man, so many layers to his facade. We even wore ridiculous beach clothes for our supposed ‘honeymoon’ shots, posing awkwardly in front of the green screen. It was all a meticulously choreographed fraud. Amidst this elaborate deception, everyone—the photographers, the makeup artists, the assistants—was completely on board with their CEO having a sham wedding, casually playing dress-up doll with his newly acquired husband. Nobody cared, at all. Not about the lie, not about the absurdity.

Was I having second thoughts? No, shut up.

Think about the money. Think about the fame this man is going to give you. Think about the agency. Think about the praise.

After the shooting concluded, Levi explained to the photographers which high-end venues should be digitally imposed as backgrounds for the composite images. In order to fabricate an illusion of authenticity, he had actually rented an actual wedding venue just for background photos. Couldn’t we have simply gone there? I mean, everything was ready: the clothes, the makeup, the staged intimacy.

He did have an airtight plan to prove his marital status, didn’t he? A part of me, the part that still yearned for genuine connection, hung stubbornly onto the blatant disregard for everything I actually wanted, everything I secretly craved. But let’s be real here; he had already said, quite bluntly, “I cannot compensate for feelings.”

“Raphael, I have, in fact, engaged the services of certain theatrical performers to portray your parental figures. I recollect this subject being a point of distress for you, therefore, I solicit your esteemed opinion regarding this arrangement.” he stated, his voice devoid of any discernible empathy, as if discussing the weather.

This dude truly knows how to make someone absolutely furious.

“So you couldn’t, perhaps, have asked for my opinion before you went and hired a bunch of strangers to play my fucking parents? You already did what you wanted, Levi! Why are you even asking me this now? Just to rub it in?” I demanded, my voice sharp and edged with raw frustration. He simply gestured, and the remaining crew quietly filed out, leaving us alone in the cavernous living room.

“Tomorrow, we are scheduled for a formal repast with my parents. I have not yet apprised them of the particulars concerning your familial background. However, as I was not entirely certain which course of action would best suit your preferences, I implemented certain precautionary measures.” he explained, utterly unruffled by my outburst.

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Oh my god, it’s like talking to a fucking brick wall. A polite, eloquent, impenetrable brick wall.

“No! I mean, absolutely not! This whole absurd, fake marriage is already more than enough for me. I don't want fake parents too! Are you out of your mind?!” I yelled, my voice cracking with disbelief and impotent rage. How could he force this upon me as if it meant nothing?

“Understood, Raphael.” he simply said, his expression remaining a blank, unreadable mask. Do you have any emotions at all? I just yelled at you; didn’t that sting a little? Didn’t that pierce through your perfect, polished shell even for a second? Yet, his blank expression felt like a reinforced concrete wall, leaving me utterly frustrated and even more infuriated.

“Raphael, individuals of noble lineage adhere to a rather extensive compendium of regulations and established protocols concerning the arts of dining, libation, and social interaction. I assume you have not received formal instruction in these particular etiquettes.” he stated, his gaze fixed on some point beyond my shoulder.

“Of course not! Who the hell cares which fork to use when you’re just trying to eat, for crying out loud?” I retorted, exasperated.

“Nobility, Raphael. That is precisely why you were not provided with preparatory tutors for such occasions. I merely require you to inject a degree of disruption into the proceedings.” he replied, his voice a low, precise murmur.

“So, you want me to play the role of the uneducated, boorish commoner, is that your grand design?” I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Indeed. Were my intentions not sufficiently transparent? After the Saturday repast, we will attend a rather popular establishment for a public dinner. There will be a considerable number of journalistic observers present.”

The dinner on Sundays was explicitly part of the contract. This meticulous nut job, Levi Blake, had already called reporters to our date, whether I signed the contract or not. He knew I would sign it. Asshole.

“So, that’s it? I’m just going to live my entire life by your meticulous instructions? Acting precisely however you deem fit?”

“Not necessarily, no. However, I believe it pertinent to refresh your recollection concerning the specific stipulations within our contractual agreement.” His voice was unnervingly calm.

Oh, I’m the asshole now, for not sticking to his precise, convoluted rules. What did it even mean, to “act however he wanted”? Be myself? How could I possibly be myself in front of nobles, these ancient, powerful entities steeped in generations of money and fame, when even in my own life, I struggled to define "myself"?

“You are really infuriating me, do you know that?” I stated, my voice raw, straining against the confines of my rage.

“I express a desire to observe a similar degree of emotional fervor during the forthcoming dinner, Raphael. I have already selected a collection of garments and accoutrements, though naturally, you retain the prerogative to select any attire of your own preference.” he replied, his words precise, almost mocking in their detachment.

After Levi greeted me, a curt nod, he left for his job, disappearing into the city’s concrete labyrinth. And I was alone again. In this vast, sterile, utterly uninviting house, I felt an isolation that seeped into my very bones. I had been surrounded by people all my life—family, friends, colleagues, fans—a constant hum of human presence. So these moments of unwanted loneliness, these gaping silences, were hitting me harder than anything. And Levi, with his impenetrable facade, was certainly not helping. He was the coldest among everyone I had ever encountered.

As an actor, you spend countless hours immersed in the meticulous study of human emotion. You read, you understand, you reflect. You watch every tiny twitch, every subtle shift in someone’s face, every flicker in their eyes. You also mimic them, a valuable skill that proves relatively helpful for subtly persuading people around you.

In the perplexing case of Levi Blake, he remained an absolute mystery to me. He didn’t seem like he was lying, not directly, but he was deliberately leaving pieces of information out, divorcing them from their necessary context, baiting me to pry further, to dig deeper. It was like a mouse following a tantalizing trail of cheese deeper and deeper into a bewildering maze. At least a mouse gets sugar water at the end of its arduous journey, but what did I get?

A cold gaze, a blank expression, dead eyes. What, if anything, could I possibly do to make him actually feel something towards me? Do I act pitiful? Perhaps he might then extend his enigmatic help to me, just as he had, in his own detached way, aided all those countless other people in need. Perhaps then I could finally understand the man behind the myth.