The world didn't fall for Silas Vale. It surrendered.
He wasn't the man you forgot after a film ended or a magazine was closed. He lingered like perfume on a pillow, like fingerprints on bare skin. A phenomenon in tailored suits and silk whispers, his presence was the kind of beautiful that made people question their choices.
To strangers, he was charm incarnate. A lover boy dipped in gold and secrets. He smiled like he had nothing to hide and kissed like he had nothing to lose. Every woman wanted to be the one he chose. Every man wanted to be the reason others looked twice.
Silas was the kind of man women wanted to be with, and men wanted to be like.
But none of it ever touched the real Silas.
He had perfected the mask long ago. The gentle hands. The low chuckle. The gaze that made you feel like the only one in the room. He made cameras fall in love and tabloids spin fairytales. To the world, Silas Vale was the man who could have anyone.
And yet, no one had him.
He lived like a ghost wrapped in satin. Polished but detached. Nights in his Westbridge loft were silent except for the soft buzz of the espresso machine and the low hum of vintage vinyl. He didn't party. Didn't chase. Didn't trust.
Physical contact? Sure. He'd had his share. Beautiful women with beautiful lies. They wanted the Silas they saw, and he gave it to them, until they wanted more. That's when he left. Always polite. Always clean. No mess, no regrets.
He hadn't fallen for anyone. Not in years. He didn't remember the last time someone's presence lingered on his skin after they'd gone.
Which made his sudden move to Riverton all the more confusing.
It came out of nowhere. His agent mentioned a new director. A private, high-profile project. The paperwork wasn't even finalized when the contract was pushed across his table. There was no audition. No meeting. Just a demand and a deadline. "You're flying out this weekend," they told him.
He didn't argue. That wasn't his style.
Riverton wasn't his city. It was loud in a different way, too glossy, too fast. He hadn't lived there since he was a teenager, and even then, it was only for a visit. His childhood belonged to Ashford. His career, to Westbridge. But he told himself it was just another film, another stage.
Another room to be adored in.
His new apartment was downtown, just above the river line. Floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalistic decor, imported coffee. He arrived with a suitcase and a sigh, still unsure why this project felt so... deliberate.
Maybe the director had a type. Maybe it was fate.
He looked out at the skyline from his living room, drink in hand. City lights danced across the glass and licked at his bare chest. His hair was still wet from the shower, curling at his nape. He wore a black robe, loose, low, revealing just enough to tempt. His skin was smooth, untouched, like everything about him was crafted to be camera-perfect. No marks, no ink, nothing that could hint at who he really was beneath the roles.
He moved like a man who had nothing to prove and everything to hide.
He scrolled through his phone, ignored three messages from his agent, and paused at a tabloid headline: "Is Silas Vale Still Hollywood's Most Eligible Heartbreaker?"
He smirked. The article went on about his exes, none of whom knew anything about him. It listed women he'd kissed in public, not realizing the best ones had never even been touched. It guessed at his preferences, his secrets, his sins.
But not a single word was close.
Silas tossed the phone aside. He leaned back into the couch, drink untouched. Something about this move still itched at him, an unease he couldn't name. It felt like someone was tugging invisible threads in his life.
But he didn't have time for paranoia. The shoot began next week. New city, new crew, same role—handsome, tragic, adored.
He was good at pretending.
And yet… he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. Not by fans. Not by cameras.
Something quieter. Older. Personal.
But he shrugged it off, letting the mask fall back into place. Silas Vale, the charmer. The untouchable. The illusion people begged to believe in.
He smiled, just slightly, and closed his eyes.
Riverton had called him for a reason. He just hadn't figured out whose.