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"Ah! You don't have to worry about that. If he has said he's going to do it, he will," Evans said with a bright smile.
"This is going to be awesome, the money, the fame. Michael is going to be a big star," Evans thought.
Evans was walking toward the set with Greg and Andrew right beside him. He was in a good mood because the negotiation went well. Though he was skeptical of what Michael was thinking, it was well known he didn't like interviews or cameras, but if he said he was going to do it, then it was fabulous news.
When he was thinking about this, Michael suddenly appeared out of nowhere and started pulling him towards where the golf cart was parked.
"We are going..." Michael said while pulling Evans.
"Wait, wait, wait... what is up with you? We have to meet with the director, the cast, talk about the production. Why are we going? And where are we going?" Evans said while halting.
Greg and Andrew ran towards both of them, and Greg said in a nervous tone, "Yes, Mr. Owen, why are you leaving? Is there any problem? Just tell us; we will fix it for you." Andrew nodded.
"We can't let him get offended...he still owns the IP," Andrew thought.
"It's nothing... I don't feel right. I will meet the director and others later," Michael said as fast as he could before walking toward the golf cart.
"Oh! I think we should leave. We will be staying at The Newt. You don't have to worry about him," Evans said hastily before running towards the golf cart, whose key he had already asked from Andrew.
Greg and Andrew sighed. They really wanted to get along and talk to Michael or make connections with him.
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After the mysterious guy in the sunglasses quickly walked away, the five cast members stood in the middle of the path, looking at each other in total silence.
"Well, that was bizarre," Zain finally said, breaking the quiet.
Henry frowned, looking at the spot where the guy had just been standing. "You know, maybe we shouldn't have been so harsh. He might be one of the higher-up production guys. That cigar he was smoking... it definitely wasn't cheap like you said, Emma. That was a premium, hand-rolled cigar."
"So what?" Emma said, crossing her arms. She still felt completely justified. "I don't care if it was rolled in solid gold. He was smoking in a prohibited area right next to our wardrobe trailers! We had to do something."
"She's right," Asha agreed, nodding. "Rules are rules. You can't just smoke wherever you want on a closed set."
Before they could debate it any further, a loud, stressed voice called out to them.
"Hello! Have any of you seen him?"
The cast turned around. It was the show's director. He was power-walking toward them, looking incredibly frantic, clutching a script to his chest.
"Seen who?" Carla asked.
"Mr. Owen!" the director huffed, stopping in front of them and looking wildly down the path. "My assistant said he came walking this exact way a few minutes ago. Did he pass by here?"
Every single cast member looked at each other. Not a single one of them connected the weird, silent guy smoking the cigar to the brilliant, wealthy author they admired.
"No," Emma said honestly, shaking her head. "We haven't seen anyone like that. Just some rude guy smoking by the vans."
"Dammit," the director groaned, rubbing his temples. He looked terribly agitated. "The management specifically told me to give Mr. Owen the absolute best care today. He has total creative control. We cannot afford to anger him mid-production! If he thinks we are ignoring him, he could shut us down!"
While the director was pacing back and forth, Andrew, the Netflix representative, came sprinting around the corner. He was completely out of breath and sweating through his shirt.
"Director!" Andrew gasped, resting his hands on his knees. "I just... I just talked to Evans, his manager. Mr. Owen has left the set for the day. He's already in a private car heading to his suite at The Newt hotel."
The director froze. "Why? What happened? Did someone insult him?!"
"I don't know!" Andrew said helplessly, throwing his hands in the air. "Evans said Michael suddenly wasn't feeling well. But that makes no sense! He looked perfectly fit and healthy the moment he arrived. He was totally fine, and then five minutes later, he's fleeing the set!"
A very small, very cold feeling of doubt started to creep into Henry's stomach. He looked over at Zain. Zain looked back, his eyes widening slightly.
The director let out a massive, heartbroken sigh. "I couldn't even ask for an autograph. I've been carrying my first-edition copy of his book all morning. I would have loved to just shake his hand."
"I know," Andrew said, standing up straight and catching his breath. "And he was so incredibly humble, too! Not what you'd expect from a young millionaire. And honestly? Very good-looking. I mean, who else can pull off a skin-tight black turtleneck, black jeans, and vintage dark sunglasses?"
The silence that fell over the atmosphere was absolute.
It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
Henry stopped breathing.
Zain's jaw slowly dropped open.
Asha and Carla looked like they were going to pass out right there on the asphalt.
Emma's face drained of all its color.
She went completely, paper-white pale. The horrifying memory of her pointing her finger at him,screaming at him that her "favorite famous writer" was coming,played in her mind on an endless loop.
She had just scolded Michael Owen. She had yelled at him for ruining Michael Owen's visit.
"You have got to be kidding me!" the entire cast shouted in perfect, horrified unison.
The director and Andrew both violently flinched, taking a shocked step backward.
"What?" the director panicked, looking at their pale faces. "What did you do?!"