Stephen Daldry looked around the set, and sure enough, the atmosphere was quite cheery. It usually was on the last day of filming.
All scenes involving other actors had already been shot, with the sole exception of this one, featuring Troy, who had only just returned from promoting his new movie and album.
"So this is it, huh?" Connell, the first AD, remarked idly as they all waited for Troy Armitage.
"It is," Daldry agreed. "I have to say, it's been a unique experience shooting this show. And honestly? This might be my best work yet."
Connell nodded. "I've seen the dailies—I know exactly what you mean." He glanced around the set, where everyone was ready to shoot except for the lead actor. "He's taking his time today."
Daldry shrugged. "You know how it is with actors. But I don't mind this time. He's worked hard on his physique, all the while shooting this show and promoting other projects. For that alone, Troy has earned my utmost respect. Let him finish those last-minute pushups and crunches before the scene."
Just then, the man in question walked onto the set, and the moment he did, everyone stopped what they were doing to focus solely on him.
He wore sweatpants and trainers. And that was it.
He had chosen to forgo a shirt, as required for the scene. Usually, actors wore robes between takes, but the temporary tattoos printed on his upper body looked freshly applied, and a robe might've rubbed them off. Two prominent designs stood out: a crown on his neck, right above the clavicle, and a fiery motif across his pecs.
His biceps and shoulders weren't just defined—they were big. His hair had grown a lot, which he had tied up in a tight bun. And the most striking part was his abdomen. The six-pack shone under carefully applied oil, making it look like Troy was sweating hard, or had just stepped out of a shower.
Though he had gained significant muscle mass since the first episode, it wasn't to the extent of a professional bodybuilder. But one thing was clear: no one looking at Troy would think he was only 18.
"Holy shit," Connell muttered. "That's… something."
Stephen nodded silently, unsure what to say about the young man he'd known since he was a ten-year-old boy.
"Let's begin, shall we?" Troy asked jovially, completely at odds with the mood required for the scene.
"Right." Stephen pointed to an exercise bench. "There's your mark. Do we need to go over the scene, or do you know what to do?"
"I know," Troy said simply, taking his position.
"Action!"
Troy lifted the barbell above him and began a few reps. He grunted with exertion as though it took everything he had, but Stephen knew the truth. The weights were fake, filled with thermocol to look heavy.
Troy could've lifted them if they were real, of course. But when you had to repeat the same take over and over, it was best to play it safe.
Troy reracked the weights before getting up, his upper body glistening with the fake sweat. He crossed the floor toward Freddie Graham—the prison's Godfather—who was watching him closely, and gave him a fist bump.
Freddie returned the gesture with a respectful look as Troy sat beside him. Troy's face, meanwhile, was blank—filled with angst and worry.
Just then, another man in his mid-to-late twenties entered through the door. He was short, very thin, and his face was badly bruised. He took a seat as far from the two protagonists as possible.
Freddie noticed him and gave a subtle nod in his direction. Catching the cue, Troy rose from his seat and walked over to the bruised man, sitting abruptly across from him. The sudden move made the man recoil in fear.
And seeing Troy's expression, it was clear why. His face was dead—an expression that silently screamed don't mess with me.
"Who did that to you?" Troy asked, motioning to the man's bruised face, wasting no time with pleasantries.
"I don't know," the man hesitated. "I didn't see the face."
Troy scoffed. "Sure you didn't."
Then, suddenly, he lunged forward, as if about to strike. Instinctively, the man shielded his head with his arms.
Stephen was impressed by the small improvisation from both actors. It may have seemed minor, but it added remarkable depth to Troy's character, Ben.
"You gotta stand up for yourself, mate," Troy said firmly. "Grow some balls. If you can't, just say the word, and I can arrange some protection for you."
The man lowered his arms and asked cautiously, "What protection?"
"You'll see," Troy replied mysteriously. "Tell me, are you married?"
"Yes," the man nodded.
"Good, then. We'll let you know about it."
With that, Troy stood up abruptly. His leg bumped the table, making it shake—and the man flinched again. A happy accident that added even more weight to an already powerful scene.
Troy walked back to Freddie and announced confidently, "He can work for us." Then he sat opposite the older man again. "He has a wife."
"Good job," Freddie said, clearly impressed.
"Cut!"
Stephen called it, but he remained in awe of what he'd just seen.
The Troy in front of him wasn't the same boy who once played Billy Elliot or Harry Potter. This was a completely different man, and not just because of the tattoos or the bulked-up physique. It was all in the eyes, the energy. Gone was the innocent boy who was a coward at the start of the show. In his place stood a hardened man who didn't take shit from anyone.
Stephen wanted to heap praise on Troy, to tell him just how remarkable his performance had been. But he stopped himself. Troy had made it clear—no excessive praise in front of the crew. As a producer on the project, it would look unprofessional.
"Great job, everyone! That's a wrap on the series!" Stephen announced instead, prompting cheers from the cast and crew.
Troy's demeanor shifted instantly. The angry, hollow look vanished, replaced by a beaming smile as he shook hands with those nearby.
His assistant brought him a robe, which Troy slipped on before laughing at something another crew member said.
Stephen walked over to him and his assistant and called out when it was just the three of them, "Troy, that was a fan-fucking-tastic performance. I didn't know you could act so negatively as well. You should try playing a full-fledged villain sometime."
Troy and his assistant laughed, as if sharing an inside joke, before Troy replied, "Sure. One day I will."
Stephen nodded, slightly confused, before shifting to the real topic. "Have you read the script I gave you a month ago? Since you don't have anything lined up right now, [The Reader] would be perfect for you. And challenging too—you'll have to learn a German accent."
Troy shook his head. "I can't, Stephen. My Harry Potter contract forbids me from doing any kind of nudity or explicit sex scenes. Technically, I'm not even allowed to do a series like this because of the drug use and violence, but since HBO is distributing it, it won't matter much."
"What if I convinced Warner Bros on your behalf?" Stephen persisted.
"One word: Weinstein."
As soon as Stephen heard the name, he suppressed a groan. His second feature film, [The Hours], had been distributed by Miramax, which was then run by Bob and Harvey Weinstein. While Bob was relatively decent, Harvey was anything but. He liked to exercise control over every little detail—shouting, cursing, belittling, and threatening were his go-to methods in all situations.
Because of him, Stephen had already walked away from another proposed film production. He had even decided to stay away from production for a few years. That was, until Troy came to him to direct [Echoes of You].
Stephen had shared all of this with Troy while they were working on Echoes, so it made sense that the young man would be skeptical.
"Harvey apologized to me personally," Stephen offered. "That's why I'm willing to work with him again."
"It's not just you," Troy said seriously. "I've heard stories—mostly from women. That man is a predator and a rapist. I won't work with him even if you gave me a billion dollars."
Stephen hesitated, then said, "He's not the only one in Hollywood like that."
Troy closed his eyes and shook his head. "I can't believe you said that. Just because everyone's bad, we'll do the same thing? I like to think I run a clean company. We have an open-door policy at Phoenix for reporting anything like that. I personally fired three people from influential positions last year alone.
Every person who works with us—be it a director, producer, or casting director—is clearly briefed about it by my team."
"I got that briefing too," Stephen nodded in agreement.
"It doesn't take a lot of effort to do the right thing. People like Weinstein just choose not to," Troy said, his voice passionate.
As much as Stephen wanted to say he wouldn't work with Harvey, he knew his hands were tied contractually. Weinstein owned the rights to [The Reader], and nothing could be done if Stephen wanted to make the film.
"Now, if you don't mind, I have to change."
With that, Troy stormed off toward his changing room, his assistant right on his heels.
(Break)
"Where are those guys!?" Benji said irritably as he roamed around the living room of my new home in the UK.
"Calm down, Benji," I said lazily. "Jamie's here already, isn't he?" I motioned toward my old friend, who was taking a shot on my pool table.
"Ha! Just the 8-ball left for me. You're as good as lost, Troy," Jamie returned with a grin.
I shook my head before taking my shot. I knew I wasn't going to win, but not everything is about winning or losing, just like this upcoming trip I'd planned with a few friends.
"Woah."
Someone had just walked in with a bewildered expression. "I had no idea you lived in a castle, Troy."
The one to call me out was none other than Michael B. Jordan, whom I had invited. Beside him stood an equally baffled Ryan Gosling, looking around like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
"This is Hawthorne Keep," I announced, trying not to sound too proud. "Built in the 1800s, spread across forty thousand square feet. I have just moved in—only bought it because the owner went bankrupt and sold it to me for nearly half the original asking price."
I'd been on the lookout for a property for a while—well, Dad had. He came across this castle an hour outside London, in serious need of repair. Anything of comparable value usually goes for $50–60 million, but the owner was desperate, so he settled for $28 million after some heavy negotiations.
Over the past year, it had undergone massive renovations, and finally, it was good enough for me to move in. It looked a bit like the home in the movie [Saltburn], only grander.
There were twelve bedrooms, each with an ensuite marble bathroom. I'd commissioned a private music studio with soundproofed walls and an underground recording booth just for me. There was also a grand ballroom that could be used for events or music video shoots if I ever wanted.
Other features included a home theater, a spa wing, a heated Olympic-sized indoor pool, a private chapel (which I'd converted into a personal writing and creative retreat), a helipad, and an underground garage with a car lift. The place even had an emergency landing strip for a small plane.
And if I ever wanted more, there was space to expand as well.
The exterior had kept its antique charm, complete with turrets crowning the multiple towers, but the interiors had been reconstructed to meet modern needs. Exactly what I needed.
The best part? I'd also purchased a hundred acres of land surrounding the property for an additional $17 million—forests, lakes, and private roads included. Security was posted at the main entrance, so no paparazzi could enter without my say-so.
"This is superb," Ryan commented as he took in the surroundings. "What I wouldn't give to live in a place like this."
"You're staying here tonight," I said with a grin. "And after that, you're more than welcome to come by whenever you want. Come on, I'll give you a tour of the place. After that, you can rest—I know you both must be tired after your flight. We'll begin our road trip tomorrow."
"Hell yeah!" Michael called out excitedly.
I would have invited Evan too, but he was busy working on Twilight, and my time here was limited before I had to start shooting my next film, so I decided to make the best of it. I'd never been on a proper road trip before. This time, we planned to tour all the major spots of Europe in a car that one of the five of us would always drive.
My security team would follow us in a separate vehicle, but they'd hang far back enough that we wouldn't feel like we were being watched every second.
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AN: Visit my Pat reon to read ahead, or check out my second Hollywood story set in the 80s.
Link: www(dot)pat reon(dot)com/fableweaver