As always, he woke up ready to face the day with energy and a powerful workout. He threw himself into it with determination, his arms moving with strength. Boxing practice had become a sacred ritual for him. What he really wanted was someone to spar with, someone to test him—it was what he needed, yet he still felt a little trapped.
–You need to keep your arms lower –said Jad. His hook was lightning-fast, and every blink helped Billy improve his dodging. Closing his eyes while moving his feet gave him rhythm and a strange kind of calm—it was almost a form of acceptance.
–Anyway, it's been a busy year. Feels like when I come back, nothing's ever the same again –Billy replied, dodging a jab. Even now, people were paying more attention to him; it had only taken one tour, impossible numbers, and record-breaking sales for people to start seeing and remembering him. Not far away, the daughters of wealthy families—New York's finest—watched him with bright, curious eyes, each in her own way. Billy's features were maturing; he was crossing the delicate line between boy and man, his jaw sharp, his eyes intense.
Billy wore a long sweatshirt, his shirt already soaked through from the intense workout. His athletic build spoke for itself—muscular but graceful, like a gymnast. A tattoo ran from his lower back to his shoulders, visible when he stretched. The girls would sigh like foolish dreamers whenever they saw it. He knew what he was doing.
–Stop doing that –laughed Jad.
–Doing what? –Billy asked.
–Acting like a total idiot. You've got a girlfriend. –Jad shook his head.
–Jad, my good man... –
–Buddy, this whole contest has been insane. For the past two weeks, my cousins haven't stopped using my connection to get more magazines of you. I keep telling them you're just a lazy guy who spends all day staring at himself in the mirror and partying. –Jad smirked.
–Where's Matt? –Billy asked.
–Movies. He's been deep into the action film scene lately. Started taking Judo and Jiu-jitsu lessons. Says it's as tough as learning to land a proper punch. I think he's even had some minor injuries already. –Jad replied.
–It's been ages since we've had a friendly match. –Billy said, longing for that adrenaline again. The feeling of trading blows, of being pushed to the limit—there was something revitalizing about it that cleared his mind like nothing else.
–You really need at least two months of solid training. –Jad made a face; Billy's form had clearly suffered. Muscles didn't lie—stop training, and it showed instantly.
–That bad? –Billy asked.
–Yeah. You're a mess –Jad laughed.
Finding a sparring partner wasn't easy. They had to be professionals, fighters who could take hits without losing control—no cheap shots, no foul play. It cost nearly a hundred grand for five sessions of two three-minute rounds, where Billy would learn to take hits, defend, and grow.
–Damn it, man, it's not my fault. The tours are brutal—flights, rehearsals that last a week, the shouting, the parties, the women who keep throwing themselves at me. –Billy sighed.
Jad gave him a crooked grin.
–Oh, poor Billy… thousands of women begging for your attention, the best hotels, the finest food. I saw your blog, you jerk—every day there's a new woman in it. No wonder you're out of shape. Jerry called me and said you'd better start— –Jad began.
–I brought you something for your wife. Some nice Brazilian sapphires and a few Chilean gold bracelets. –Billy pointed to a box nearby. Jad's wife was a wonderful woman—charming, full of humor, and a joy to be around.
–You just saved me, man –Jad said with a sigh, already thinking about his wife's upcoming birthday.
–And your cousins—I'll get them concert tickets for my show in New Jersey. –Billy grinned, bumping fists with Jad before grabbing a towel from his bag. He wiped the sweat from his face and slipped into a clean shirt.
***
Scarlett had just finished a quick recording session. For days, she'd been working nonstop on the songs for her next album, giving everything to her voice, pouring all her emotion into every note.
–You've got a new role –her agent said. The Black Dahlia. Lately, every script she got seemed to cast her as just another beautiful woman.
–Yeah, I'm not interested. –Scarlett replied flatly.
–He wrote to you –the man said carefully.
She lifted her head, eyes flashing with frustration. It was always the same—he wouldn't call for days, and then he'd show up like he owned the room.
–He came back five days ago. Already been to three parties. –Scarlett said coldly.
–He sent you a song –the agent added, hoping to steer the conversation away from drama and back to work. Her last film, Rounders, had been brilliant. Woody Allen was reportedly fascinated by Billy's growing career, seeing him as a director's muse—someone who could bring complex, conflicted characters to life.
She wanted to resist, but curiosity won. She stood up and took the pages from his hand. Billy's handwriting filled a piece of graph paper—lyrics and chords scattered across it. She read through it quickly, trying to hear it in his voice, though she already could.
–It's good –she said softly. Her smile lit up her flushed cheeks as she hummed the melody. Scarlett's assistant, sitting nearby, watched nervously, tapping her fingers to the rhythm.
–Really good. Now, about your roles—want to hear the updates? –the agent asked.
–Actually, yes. –Scarlett replied, still humming the song. There were a few films she was eyeing—prestige pieces, the kind that could define a career.
The Prestige was one of them—a film from early Christopher Nolan, a masterclass in rivalry, obsession, and illusion. Two performers at war, pushing each other to the brink. A story full of urgency, envy, and the endless chase for greatness.
...