Seeing me arrive with Gwen, Kyle regained his arrogance. "Leo, you pathetic worm, only fit to be your Gwen's tail-wagging dog. When I win Best Actor, I'll settle the score!"

I watched him coldly, waiting for his collapse when the truth hit.

Signing began. Gwen looked at the contract. "My screenwriter is here today. He has some thoughts on casting."

Monroe was thrilled.

Her recent hits all came from the mysterious writer behind Gray Pictures—the one the entire industry was desperate to identify.

"Your screenwriter?" Monroe leaned forward. "The one behind 'Ashes of Eden' and 'The Last Kingdom'? Both billion-dollar box office?"

Gwen nodded. "He's very selective about who brings his characters to life."

Kyle stood in the corner, rehearsing his audition lines. He had no idea what was about to happen.

I stepped forward.

The room went silent.

Kyle's head snapped up. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"You—" he stammered. "You're the screenwriter?"

Monroe looked between us. "You two know each other?"

"He's my twin brother," I said calmly. "And he's auditioning for the lead in my new film."

Kyle's face cycled through disbelief, rage, and something that looked disturbingly like hope.

"You wrote those scripts?" His voice cracked. "You? The kid who cried over a photograph?"

I tilted my head. "And you're the kid who chose the wrong family. Twice. Shall we keep comparing?"

Monroe sensed the tension but was too excited to care. "If the screenwriter himself wants to oversee casting, that's unprecedented. We'd be honored."

I opened my script notes and looked directly at Kyle.

"The lead character is a man trapped by people who claim to love him. He's talented, broken, and desperate. He thinks the world owes him something, but really, he owes himself the courage to walk away."

Kyle's breath hitched. He recognized himself in every word.

"Show me you can play this role," I said. "Not the version you've rehearsed. The real one. The one the Chambers beat into you."

His eyes went red. For a moment, I thought he'd lunge at me again.

Instead, he began to act.

And for the first time in both our lives, Kyle was honest.

His performance was raw, agonizing, and utterly compelling. He drew from real pain—the years of forced perfection, the stolen autonomy, the desperate need to prove his worth.

When he finished, the room was silent.

Monroe wiped her eyes. Gwen's expression was unreadable.

I closed my notebook.

"He'll do," I said.

Kyle stared at me, chest heaving. "Why? Why would you give me this?"

"Because unlike you, I don't need to destroy my brother to feel powerful."

He stood there, trembling, as something inside him broke—and maybe, just maybe, began to heal.