_____________________________________________________
Ail was nearly seventeen now.
Almost three years had passed since they had entered Quenlinne's industry, and everything was moving smoothly—far too smoothly. They had acted in more films, perfected their craft, and even gained occasional recognition on the streets, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough. They wanted to be known. To be revered.
Since that party nearly a year ago, where Aoife-Clíodhna's words had lingered like an itch beneath their skin, Ail had been more driven than ever. Quenlinne had clung to them after that night, always near, always watching. Ail allowed it, even encouraged it, letting Quen think they had some control when, in reality, it was Ail pulling the strings. Quenlinne spoiled them with attention and resources, offering more than they gave anyone else. The other actors in the industry noticed, but no one dared to voice complaints. Not when they knew what would happen to those who fell out of Quenlinne's favor.
Ail played the game well. And now, at last, it was paying off.
________________________________________________________________________
One week after their seventeenth birthday, they were seated in the lounge, legs crossed, as Quenlinne perched on the armrest of their chair. The blonde was sifting through the morning letters, lazily discarding irrelevant ones with a flick of the wrist.
Ail watched them closely.
Quen knew it too, fidgeting under the weight of Ail's gaze but refusing to show any true discomfort. Then, something changed. Quenlinne's bored expression sharpened, eyes darting back and forth as they reread a particular letter.
Once.
Twice.
"You've been offered a main lead role," Quenlinne said finally, voice tight. "In the second-largest film industry's upcoming drama."
Ail sat up straight.
"You aren't reading that right." Their voice was steady, but their fingers twitched.
Quenlinne reluctantly handed over the letter—more like Ail snatched it from them. Their eyes ran over the words, scanning them twice.
Then, they folded the paper and slipped it neatly back into its envelope.
"Yeah. You read it right."
Ail stood without another word, turning toward the door. Normally, they would kiss Quen's hand before leaving—an act of feigned obedience. Tonight, they didn't bother.
Quenlinne watched them go, their lips parting as if to say something, but no words came.
They never were of any use, Ail thought.
And now, they truly weren't.
_______________________________________________________
Ail accepted the offer immediately.
The following afternoon, a director from the new industry arrived at the estate, a tall, unassuming man in his mid-forties who introduced himself curtly.
"Fern," he said. "That's all you need to call me."
Perfect.
Ail didn't need unnecessary attachments.
"Understood. Ail," they replied just as bluntly.
Fern wasted no time getting to business.
"As the lead protagonist of this drama, there are a few things we'll need to adjust."
Ail nodded, prepared to take notes, but they quickly realized this wasn't about the script.
Fern handed them a neatly printed list of "recommended changes."
Physical training: Leaner, sharper angles. Diet: No excess carbs. Energy-focused meals only. Hair adjustment: Softer, more versatile styling. Wardrobe overhaul: Less rigid, more adaptable to Industry standards. Voice refinement: Adjust intonation to sound less theatrical.
Ail's gaze skimmed the list, their expression unreadable.
They had always known the Industry would demand changes. It was the price of ambition.
"How tedious," they murmured under their breath.
Fern raised a brow. "Excuse me?"
Ail's lips curved slightly. "Ah—no, I meant the process itself… seems extensive."
The director gave them a long, measuring look but said nothing. Instead, he tapped the document.
"You'll be expected to start these adjustments immediately. We don't have time to waste."
Ail nodded. "Understood."
_________________________________________________________________________
Quenlinne had not appeared all day, sulking in their private quarters. Ail hadn't checked on them, nor had they felt the need to. Quenlinne was no longer relevant to their goals.
Still, as the evening passed and the murmurs of concern from the staff reached Ail's ears, they eventually made their way to Quenlinne's chambers.
.
.
.
.
The knock was soft at first.
"Dear Quen?"
Silence.
Ail knocked again, louder this time.
"Quenlinne."
A faint sob.
Ail sighed and pushed the door open. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of perfume and wine.
Their eyes landed on the chaise lounge.
There, draped in a silk crimson blanket, lay Quenlinne. Their golden hair was tucked neatly beneath the fabric, their breathing soft and even.
Asleep.
Ail approached and stood over them for a long moment, watching the slow rise and fall of their chest. Then, without hesitation, they reached down, picked Quenlinne up, and carried them to the bed.
Ail set them down carefully, ensuring the blanket still covered them.
Then, they turned away.
No words. No lingering attachments.
Quenlinne had served their purpose.
Ail walked to the door. A glance.
"Sleep well, Quenlinne."
And with that, they left.
They had a new world to conquer.