The lights dimmed and the audience began to cheer excitedly. A guy I didn’t recognize took the stage with a mic in hand. “Good evening. I’m Steve Holder and I’ll be moderating this exciting event. We’re going to jump straight in with the movie and let the film speak for itself first, then we’ll have a Q&A with the director and the star afterward. We hope you enjoy Money Talks.”

Once he exited the room again, the lights fell and the screen illuminated with the opening credits. I knew pretty much nothing about what I was about to see, but from the credits I was assuming it was an action movie. My phone buzzed, so I tried to shield the light it gave off as I glanced at it.

It was a message from Alex that said, The back row, really? I’m insulted my girlfriend doesn’t want to be front and center.

Had to plan for an easy escape in case the movie was terrible.

I looked around in the dimness behind me, but couldn’t see him. Asha must have told him where I was sitting.

I put my phone away and glanced up as Alex appeared onscreen wearing only a pair of underwear, standing in front of a mirror shaving. The entire room reverberated with female cheers. I couldn’t really fault them.

We progressed through a montage of him preparing for his day, and by the time he was wearing a suit and heading out the door, I had concluded that the film must be terrible because they were spending entirely too much time showing off their leading actor.

It turned into a light spy movie in which he gets paired up with the newest female agent who has no patience for his instinct driven, on-the-fly style of doing his job. It was fun and entertaining. Alex was magnetic onscreen, but the audience wouldn’t still be thinking about it in a week. If he was looking for those kind of roles, this wasn’t it, but I didn’t see what was wrong with making films like this that brought people simple joy.

The audience gave a standing ovation as the lights on the stage turned on and a trio of people walked out onto the platform. Alex was easy to immediately spot because he was a head taller than the others.

My stomach flipped in nervous excitement when he looked my direction even though I knew he couldn’t see me sitting in the dark. Then it dropped as I realized who was now perched on the chair next to him, mic in hand. How had I missed that my former client Max was the director?

I felt sick I had enjoyed a film that asshole masterminded. It was unexpectedly confusing to now want to hate it even though nothing had changed. Could I separate the art from the creator?

I was still pissed he would be directing Crown of Swords. Of course a sack of shit with no respect for protocol, consent, or women would be in charge of bringing a book I loved to life.