William's Pov.
I blink, slowly lifting my head to look at her. A hush falls over the room as all eyes turn to Moon, the weight of her words settling heavily in the air.
Every judge, every crew member, even Mr Whitmore, shifts their gaze to her.
There's a sudden shift, a ripple of unspoken tension spreading like wildfire through the space.
I watch Clarissa stiffen, the smug confidence she had just moments ago faltering.
I let her act however she pleases. She can be arrogant. She can be condescending, I allow it. After all, if I don't take care of my lover, who will?
But now, she looks wounded, slightly in a way I hadn't expected. And it was all because of Moon!
How dare she say something like that?! Like, what gives her the right to judge Clarissa? As if she could do any better. She's nothing more than a housewife, and the thoughts alone irks me to no end.
Why can't you just walk like every other woman I know? Like the way my Clarissa does?
I lean back, twitching fingers tapping lazily against the armrest, my gaze settling back on Moon.
She stands tall, chin tilted up, and deep brown eyes burning with an intensity that almost feels like a defiance.
Hmm.. she's serious. Deadly so.
My browse lifts in surprised astonishment.
Clarissa lets out a maniacal laugh, but there's no amusement in it. "Oh?" Her head tilts as she fully faces Moon. "Who do you think is better than me? You?" she asks, eyes glaring down at her in a condescending glare.
The mockery in her voice is suffocating, thick enough to fill the room, but Moon doesn't even waver. If for anything, her expression shows even more determination.
"I think anyone with real talent is better than you." Her voice is calm, and soothing, firm, carrying the weight of someone who isn't here to argue but to state a fact.
Clarissa's smile is forced, but I see the flicker of something else there. She is hurt. Even so, she does not relent. Have fingers clench at her sides before she folds her arms across her chest.
"You sure have a lot to say for someone who's just here to watch," she counters, bitter eyes betraying her anger.
Moon smirks, totally unfaced and unbothered. "And who says I am here to watch?"
Clarissa blinks, confusion flashing across her face, and so was her voice when she asks, "what?"
"I told you, you're not the only option to director has, did I not? When I say you are not the only one, then you're not the only one."
"You mean…"
"Yes. Me."
Clarissa lets out another bitter scoff just immediately. "That's impossibly absurd. You—you don't know how to act!"
"And neither do you," Moon replies smoothly, expression calm, almost regal.
Unlike Clarissa, who is barely holding back her emotions, Moon exudes the quiet confidence of a queen addressing a subject beneath her.
I find myself admiring this side of her, a side I never knew she possessed—an unwavering quality of someone who is unafraid to challenge what others wouldn't dare to question.
And she says she can act?
I shake my head, dismissing that possibility. It's impossible. Moon berely leaves my mansion. Where could she have learned to act?
I watch, intrigued. This isn't how I expected today to unfold.
Mr Whitmore clears his throat, shifting in his seat. His face remains unreadable. To others, he may appear unreadable, but not to me. I know him well enough to recognize that flicker of interest that sparkled beneath his usual stern expression.
"You seem quite confident in your claim," he says turning his attention to Moon. "Would you mind showing us?"
At his words, a collective pause fills the room. The other judges exchange uncertain glances before reluctantly turning their gaze back to the stage.
Moon nods and a wave of anticipation ripples through the room.
The judges lean forward, the crew members begin readjusting the lightning. But even after doing all these, Moon still remains still.
For a long, heart pounding moments, nothing happens.
Murmur's begins to rise, whispers about how she bragged but couldn't deliver.
My patience wears thin. I was beginning to lose it. Did Moon come here just to embarrass the Alexander family?
At this point, except for Mr Whitmore, who seems fixated as if witnessing something extraordinary, everyone else appears confused, myself included.
Clarissa unclasps her crossed arm, about to speak, but Mr Whitmore lifts a finger, silencing her, still enthralled.
She presses her lips shut immediately, swallowing back whatever she wanted to say.
My frown deepens. I've always known him as the man dedicated to his craft, to his profession, but right now, I can't help but wonder if he's lost his mind. Because what the hell on earth was he smiling about even when Moon wasn't still speaking?!
By the side, the door slowly creaks open and I watch as the shift in the atmosphere becomes immediate when tall man steps in.
He is striking—a round face framed by jet black hair that is combed to perfection, his tanned skin glistens under this studio lights.
A casual shirt feet snugly over his torso, but even beneath that fabric, I can see the sharp definition of his muscles, honed to perfection.
Overall, he's good looking, but I know I'm even more better.
The thought makes me smirk, pride swelling as I think of the sculptured abs beneath my tux.
My eyes track his movement as he walks in, his gaze locking unto Mr. Whitmore. When he notices the admiration on his face, he traces his gaze to his stage where he immediately adopts Mr Whitmore's, who is still wearing that ridiculous entralled expression.
I trace his gaze also and when I see that admiration on his face for Moon, I suddenly feel a twich somewhere I shouldn't. Why the hell was he looking at her like that, huh?
I try to shake out that feeling. I shouldn't feel this way. To divert it, I shift my gaze to Clarissa —and my temperature spikes.
It's not from anger, nor is it from frustration. But from the way she ogled at this stranger.
Like she's seeing something she shouldn't. Like she's forgetting I'm right here.
My fists clenches on the judges table, jaws now twitching in anger.
How dare she?!