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Chapter - 180
🕑 Added 2025-07-14 17:10:42 +0000 UTC[Title : A Small Time Director?]
…..
Outside Ross Oakley’s space, the noise returned - people who would have held back now approached Regal freely.
Still, he just nodded politely, exchanged brief greetings, shook a few hands, and excused himself.
He moved through the crowd like someone with a destination.
And then, he stopped.
Three men stood in a semi-circle near one of the high tables:
—Two familiar faces.
—One he hadn’t met in person… yet.
Liam Bethell and Henry Bethell, the too-proud uncle and nephew pair.
While Liam is suspected of stirring trouble behind the scenes, the one Regal recently almost confirmed had been behind a few moves aimed at Stephen - his friend.
Regal had no personal grudge with Henry though the other person doesn't have the mutual feelings it seems.
And anchoring the space, drink in hand, was Richard Bethell - Liam’s elder brother and Henry’s father.
The man. The power broker.
A producer whose reach could reshape a slate, push names off awards ballots, or resurrect a failing film in a single lunch meeting.
Regal didn’t approach them for drama.
He wasn’t here to throw warnings or puff his chest, or posture like some new-age godfather.
That would have been stupid.
No, this wasn’t about confrontation.
This was about introduction.
Formally.
And - if nothing else - get a read.
He already knew Liam and Henry were fools, acting far above their weight class, tripping over their own egos. What he didn’t know was why. Were they just naturally idiotic… or was the man standing next to them the one feeding that delusion?
Did the big fish breed the little ones? Or was he just too detached to notice and unaware…
Or the architect behind it all.
He wanted to meet the man who is backing these two.
Regal walked up calmly.
He greeted Henry with a brief nod, barely acknowledged Liam, which was already louder than any insult.
Then turned to the father.
“Mr. Bethell.” Regal said with a small, respectful smile. “We have never officially met. But I figured it’s about time.”
His tone was respectful - perfectly so.
But behind the smile, behind the handshake, his eyes were already watching.
Because tonight wasn’t about drinks, Oscars, or snacks.
It was about finding out who the real players were…
And who just thought they were.
He already knew the nephew and uncle pair was reckless.
Now he just needed to know—
Was the father blind?
Or worse…
Was he proud of them?
….
Finishing the formal handshake, both men arrived at the same uncomfortable realization.
Regal could see it in the other man's eyes, the way they catalogued details, processed information, calculated probabilities.
The same predatory assessment he himself was conducting.
Regal saw it first.
He is doing exactly what I am doing.
We are both hunting.
And he just caught me doing it.
But Richard said nothing, he only smiled like a godfather, then calmly reached for the bottle on the table and poured two glasses.
Caught in the act of psychological reconnaissance, Regal did what any skilled operator would do - he acknowledged the game with a casual gesture, pouring drinks for both of them as if nothing had happened.
Then Richard spoke first, voice light but probing.
"Did your father work in Hollywood or something? You seem quite experienced."
Regal's hand didn't pause as he handed over the glass. "He tried to make it in Hollywood but didn't succeed. As for me, I suppose I have been quite lucky."
"Isn't it difficult, Hollywood? Especially for someone like you - no connections, working as a small director on small movies." The probe came dressed as concern, but Regal felt the sharp edge beneath the words.
A small director?
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Here sat a man who had billion-dollar projects in his portfolio, being categorized as 'small' by someone who clearly knew better.
It had to be intellectual cruelty disguised as conversation.
Regal felt something he hadn't experienced in years - genuine discomfort.
Not from fear or intimidation, but from the unsettling realization that his opponent was doing nothing more than smiling and asking what seemed like innocent, almost paternal questions.
“If we shoot it with a small crew and a tight budget, it’s a small movie.” He said. “If we shoot it with cranes, helicopters, and a full orchestra, it’s a big movie.”
He raised his glass slightly.
“But either way, it’s a movie. I may be lacking a lot, but I treat every one I make like it’s a big one. And this town, this place with all its mess and noise and power games - I have decided to make it my home.”
"So it's not difficult at all."
Then, after a short pause, he offered. “Should I pour you another?”
This time, the man gently reached for the bottle himself. “Let me.” he said.
Regal smiled. “Sure.”
STRONG vs STRONG.
In that crystalline moment, both parties understood something fundamental about each other.
Not everything - that would take time, perhaps years - but enough to recognize the nature of the game they were playing.
They clinked their glasses again, and what followed was - two craftsmen, two minds from different timelines and trajectories, slowly feeling the outlines of each other’s philosophies.
From a distance, the conversation looked like friendly banter.
But the nephew and uncle pair relegated to the sidelines felt something entirely different - the air had turned heavy, oppressive, suffocating despite the room's perfect climate control.
Henry loosened his collar.
Liam rubbed his palms against his jeans.
They didn’t understand it, but they felt it. The tension was… invisible, but unmistakable.
A war of minds, fought with raised eyebrows and half-smiles.
A duel of ambition cloaked in cordiality.
And the drinks kept coming.
Every second that passed made the atmosphere more unbearable, cold sweat in a room full of air conditioners? They felt foolish for not understanding why their bodies were responding to a threat they couldn't identify.
Meanwhile, Regal and his opponent continued their deadly dance, neither showing any sign of backing down.
One drink became two. Two became three. Three became four.
"Another one?"
"Sure... sure."
"You left your glass."
The ritual continued, each pour marking another round as the alcohol flowed, but neither man showed any sign of intoxication.
At the far end of the room, the uncle and nephew sat stiffly on the velvet couch, silently watching the two men continue their verbal chess game, drink after drink. Their glasses were untouched.
Then finally, the older man - tight suit, eyes sharper than his age implied - sighed under his breath.
And every time another drink was poured, they wanted to scream:
“Stop it, you crazy bastards!”
But neither of them said a word.
Henry didn’t quite grasp what was going on - but the brother - Liam, the one who had shared years with him through boardrooms and bad scripts, leaned slightly forward and whispered.
“This... this is the Crazy Bastards Show.”
And they were the audience.
….
Then came the question that changed everything.
"Are you usually like this? Always speaking whatever is in your mind?"
"Not really..." Regal's reply was measured, careful.
"Ah, so... only to me."
The implication hung in the air like smoke. Regal felt the shift, the subtle challenge embedded in the observation.
"I do it on special occasions." He said.
"How?" Another question, simple and direct.
"You should be asking 'when are the special occasions' to be able to hear what you want."
That line hit like an elbow to the ribs. And yet, he didn’t flinch.
There was a brief moment - seconds, really - where his mind spun. Why is he talking like this? And yet, strangely... why do I enjoy it?
The questions died in his throat. Suddenly, he didn't feel like probing anymore. The game had reached a natural pause, a moment of mutual respect for the other's skill.
Finally, Regal stood.
He buttoned his jacket, gave a soft nod of farewell, and turned without dramatics.
He left the room as quietly as he had entered.
And the man - still seated at the bar - watched his back.
To his side, the son and brother muttered darkly about seeing his end, about consequences and retribution, but their words felt hollow, meaningless.
Richard poured himself another drink, but what went down his throat wasn't alcohol.
That kid... he is the real deal.
A real predator.
….
Regal's thoughts mirrored his opponent's as he made his way back to Ross's side. The encounter had left him with more questions than answers, but one thing was crystal clear.
With that man.
A person with a bottomless depth of mind.
I want to see what happens if I get there first.
….
Back in his chair, Richard found himself asking questions that had no easy answers.
He has spent his life deciding who’s worth watching - who is a threat, who is a flash in the pan.
But that one? He is not a comet, he is a storm and he just shook hands with it.
He set the glass down.
And thought quietly to himself:
Does he want to rule Hollywood? Or achieve something through it?
Because that boy…
That boy already was doing both.
He stared at the space where Regal had just stood. Not with fear. Not with envy.
But with certainty.
We are not the same, we are not looking at the same future.
If he steps on something and it doesn’t move, he calls it trash.
And in this world full of trash… he had found his joy.
He smiled faintly.
Then said it, without blinking:
I choose you… as my opponent.
.
….
[To be continued…]
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Comments
Anderson
Thabks fir the chapter
A P
To be honest that whole interaction felt kind of weird to me. I feel like this chapter expected me to care about or be impressed by this Richard Bethel guy without actually giving me a reason to.
