April tilted her head slightly, catching Caleb's eye. "You deal with critics too, right? Film reviews?"
Caleb blinked.
"Yeah," he said, finding his footing. "Though I think Mateo has the right approach. Most critics are mad they’re not the ones creating."
Mateo raised his glass. "Exactly."
April's hand moved, squeezing Mateo's knee once before reaching for her drink. His thumb doing that slow, distracted thing against her leg.
Arthur leaned toward Killian, voice low. "The Singapore deal closes tomorrow."
Killian nodded. "I know. You ready?"
"Always."
It was quick, a check-in between people who'd worked together long enough that full sentences were optional.
April caught the moment. She always did.
"Caleb," she said, pulling his attention back. "You were saying? About critics?"
He refocused. "Just that Mateo's right. You can't let them define your work."
Arthur handed April her water before she reached for it. She murmured thanks, her fingers brushing his.
He didn’t let go.
His hand rose from hers and settled at her jaw, steady, certain. He held there until she met his eyes.
When he kissed her, it was firm enough that she felt it settle into her.
He drew back slowly, his thumb lingering against her cheek before he released her.
April turned toward Jax.
“Jax,” she said, grounding herself back into the room, “didn’t you say something earlier about the algorithm favoring organic engagement?”
Jax leaned forward immediately. “Oh, absolutely.”
“Because,” April added lightly, glancing toward Caleb, “do reviews even matter anymore? Feels like audience scores can bury a movie faster than critics can.”
Caleb blinked, then leaned in. “They can.”
Jax grinned. “User-generated content drives perception way more than….” The conversation shifted.
A moment later, when Mateo mentioned a supplier issue, April turned toward Arthur. “Didn’t you say something about logistics at the gala? With the—” She gestured vaguely.
Arthur’s expression softened. “Supply chain optimization. Different scale, same principle.”
Mateo nodded, already engaging. April watched the conversation take hold, voices overlapping, glasses clinking, shoulders angling closer.
Caleb
IT'S A TRAP.
His name. Clean font. Good kerning. The kind of thing that usually lived on billboards and trailers and the back of a director's chair with the tape starting to peel.
He'd pinned it on a hundred times. Press junkets. Cast photos. The network's annual golf scramble.
