Ethan Sullivan, as the person most qualified to make a joke, didn’t laugh at all when he heard the word “father.” Instead, he withdrew his gaze from John Brooks, and that faint, almost imperceptible smile disappeared as well.

“Alright, alright.” William Carter made a “stop” gesture. “Let’s all take it easy. We haven’t even started filming yet—don’t scare our leading man.”

He glanced at his watch and considered, “How about this, it’s getting late. Let’s head over to the banquet hall and meet the cast and crew.”

Everyone stood up at his words. William Carter got up and patted John Brooks on the arm. “Don’t just stand there. You didn’t mean to mistake him for someone else. Pour Teacher Sullivan another drink and apologize to Teacher Sullivan.”

John Brooks nodded stiffly. “Thank you, Director.”

The others filed out, leaving the private room feeling empty.

Aside from the mess on the table, only Ethan Sullivan remained seated and John Brooks standing. With both doors closed, the previously lively atmosphere vanished in an instant, replaced by an almost eerie silence.

John Brooks’s current mood was hard to describe—even a top scorer in the college entrance exam’s liberal arts section would struggle. His chest felt tight, as if a heavyweight boxer had punched him hard—not enough to kill him, but just enough to leave him half-dead.

He shifted a little and carefully sat down next to Ethan Sullivan. Only after sitting did he realize this was the closest he’d ever been to Ethan Sullivan, even closer than when they’d spoken in the restroom.

John Brooks lowered his eyes and could see the engravings on Ethan Sullivan’s watch, as well as the bluish veins on the back of Ethan Sullivan’s hand. Under the table, there were Ethan Sullivan’s slender thighs wrapped in black dress pants. Glancing sideways, he could see Ethan Sullivan’s elegant, straight nose, the texture of his skin, and his thick eyelashes.

When they first entered the private room, Ethan Sullivan was squeezed in among a group of flushed, tipsy men, looking fresh and handsome, with a refined, scholarly air that made him stand out at first glance.

John Brooks silently counted—he had seen Ethan Sullivan a total of four times.

…Damn.

How shocked was John Brooks? Even after being completely sure, he still couldn’t help blurting out, “...Are you really Ethan Sullivan?”

Ethan Sullivan replied, “Want to see my ID?”

“No, no need...” John Brooks was so startled he changed his tune.

He fell silent, at a loss, and suddenly realized he was still holding an empty wine glass. Setting it down, he picked up half a bottle of Krug and poured Ethan Sullivan a drink. “Teacher Sullivan... let me toast you again.”

Ethan Sullivan said, “Do you want to repeat your toast speech?”

John Brooks’s wrist trembled as he tried hard to recall the words he’d forgotten out of fear. “If you want to hear it...”

Ethan Sullivan said, “No need, I can’t listen to it again.”

John Brooks secretly breathed a sigh of relief. After pouring the wine, he turned and toasted Ethan Sullivan again. Ethan Sullivan reached out, tracing circles on the base of the wine glass with his fingertip, but didn’t pick it up.

He asked, “Are you really my fan?”

John Brooks didn’t answer directly, only said honestly, “I’ve seen all the movies you’ve written.”

Ethan Sullivan didn’t press for the truth, but asked something else: “How did you feel about today’s script reading?”

John Brooks said, “I learned a lot.”

Ethan Sullivan asked, “Did you digest all the details?”

John Brooks had a bad feeling and replied, “Not all of them...”

Ethan Sullivan said, “Your digestion isn’t very good, is it?”

John Brooks felt like he wasn’t doing well at all.

Why did he have to greet Ethan Sullivan in the restroom? Why did he have to chat with Ethan Sullivan? Why did he have to show off in front of Ethan Sullivan?

Along with regret, John Brooks inexplicably felt a bit wronged. As the saying goes, ignorance is no crime—he really was ignorant, but Ethan Sullivan knew everything all along.

He mustered up his courage: “Teacher Sullivan, you knew I made a mistake, so why didn’t you tell me?”

Ethan Sullivan countered, “Didn’t I hint at it?”

John Brooks thought back—Ethan Sullivan’s hints had been pretty obvious. To lessen his own responsibility, he self-deprecatingly said, “I’m a bit slow, I don’t get hints.”

Ethan Sullivan looked at him as if pondering a mystery of the world. “So, dummy, are you trying to play dumb with me?”

John Brooks hurriedly said, “I’m just a nobody, how would I dare play dumb with you? I got happy for nothing and made a fool of myself. I—I really don’t know what to do.”

Ethan Sullivan asked, “Didn’t you say pretending to be humble was annoying? What are you happy about?”

“You specifically asked to see me, of course I was happy!” John Brooks blurted out in his panic, not even stuttering, and his voice was quite loud.

After saying it, he remembered he was talking to Ethan Sullivan, and got a bit timid again. He muttered, “You knew everything and still called me over—were you trying to see me make a fool of myself?”

“Didn’t you say it yourself,” Ethan Sullivan replied, “since you’re here, of course I want to see the soul of the whole show.”

John Brooks’s face burned. “So after seeing me, do you regret letting me play the lead?”

Ethan Sullivan finally picked up the wine glass and downed the remaining champagne in one gulp. John Brooks watched Ethan Sullivan’s Adam’s apple move, reacted a beat late, and hurriedly finished his own glass as well.

He had just swallowed, the moisture at the corner of his lips not yet wiped away, when Ethan Sullivan seemed to answer—or perhaps warn him—by saying, “Whether I regret it or not, we’ll only know after filming starts.”

That bowl of noodles had long since gone soggy. Ethan Sullivan picked up his chopsticks, stirred them a few times, and said, “Alright, let’s go.”