Because Christian Lavalle demanded attention. His beauty was compelling and undeniable. In a lily-white shirt and black jeans he looked infernally cool; the heat seemed to be beneath his notice. In his ad campaigns he had been merely exquisite; in motion he was...distracting. His hair, made golden by the sun, just touched the corners of his smiling eyes. He was laughing.

“Don’t look so offended, Madden,” said Madalena, slipping into the seat next to his. She stretched out her arm along the back of his chair and crossed her long legs. “The boy’s done nothing to deserve your wrath except land the job. This is a very good look on him. Very chic.”

“He’s twenty-five years old,” said Nicholas. “Hardly a boy.”

“Then you are positively ancient.”

Madalena grinned at him. In the Parisian sunshine, she, too, was more beautiful than usual. Her dyed hair was burnished to an auburn sheen; with her white skirt splayed over her crossed legs, her sweetheart neckline betraying a fair amount of brown-skinned cleavage, she looked like an actress right out of the nineteen forties. A shame she had never shown any penchant towards the vocation. She was content to be his PA, to haul him out of bed in the mornings and drink his expensive coffee. Nicholas dreaded the day when she grew tired of him and went off to ru(i)n someone else’s life. He suspected her exorbitant pay had something to do with how long she’d stuck by him.

But she was beautiful, and he was—even an ocean away from home—famous, and people looked at them, attracted as moths to the flame of recognition and notoriety. The rare few who could tear themselves away from Christian Lavalle were already turning their smartphones on them, daring to take candids and tapping away. He could imagine the tweetstorm.

@somenosyfucker

y’all nicholas madden is in paris and hes not lookin happy about it

@noprivacy

someone dare me i’ll totally ask for a selfie

@celebsenlive

c’est qui elle??? depuis quand il a une copine?

@unautreconnard

Nicholas Madden est à Paris? Il tournerait pas un film?

Pictured: a scowling man, hands stuffed in his pockets, glaring at his prospective costar.

It didn’t matter. He was in Paris for The Throne. The table read was scheduled in less than two days, provided Lavalle could shake off his fans for long enough to make it. Nicholas found the prospect sadly uninspiring. The thrill he’d felt when the script had finally, finally landed in his lap had now all but faded. The Throne was something real, a period piece with modern sensibilities, a project he could back without feeling that he was giving in to mediocrity. He was an ardent lover of the novel. He’d been waiting for that opportunity for...years. Years. He had made damn sure he’d be getting the role.