Page 1 of The Sun & Her Burn (Impossible Universe Trilogy #2)

SEBASTIAN

T hey were talking about me before I even entered the room.

It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

I knew this mostly because over the past ten years, my name had become a cornerstone of comparison, like the Mona Lisa or the moon, a cultural icon.

But I knew that everyone was talking about me today because Waking Nightmare had just premiered and was already generating a tidal wave of Oscar buzz.

Despite the glowing early reviews from critics and fans, I had no doubt that I would emerge come March empty-handed yet again.

It seemed my famous luck didn’t extend far enough to secure me the handsome golden trophy I had lusted over since I was a child.

I had received the top accolade as a writer for my screenplay of Blood Oath , but never for acting despite being nominated six times.

Still, over the past decade of my career in Hollywood, I had achieved the seemingly impossible dream I’d harbored since I was a child. I had managed to become a household name. Someone who men and women of all ages could recognize by face and name.

The former liked me for my style, the fast cars, the beautiful women, the irreverent charm that made me seem humble despite it all. An affinity for self-deprecation I’d learned from the Brits during my stint in England.

The latter, well, they liked me for the face and the body God and my parents had given me that I worked hard to maintain.

They liked the romantic films I’d done, the part of Romeo in the modern mafia adaptation I’d starred in after Blood Oath ’s success, Diego Rivera in the adaptation of his life and relationship with Frida Kahlo, and most famously, Matteo Rossi in one of the saddest love stories to hit the silver screen in the last two decades.

I was called to my art form like Picasso with his paints and Mozart with his notes, so the success meant something to me.

It meant I was doing it well. That I could do it for as long as I wanted in an industry where most people floundered after a time, even if they managed to hit it big.

After ten years, I had star power that promised longevity.

It should have been enough.

But I’d always known it wouldn’t be. Couldn’t be.

Not for a soul like mine.

Dozens of romantic roles may have made the world fall in love with me, but no one had touched my own heart since an American expat with pale gold hair and a British aristocrat had taken hold of me like the moon with its tides.

It was this contrast that, ironically, made my fans even more rabid for me.

The elusive bachelor who was not a playboy. Brooding and mysterious , they said.

Untouchable , some wrote.

It made me scoff to know how wrong they were.

It was not that I was untouchable but that I had already been so touched by the presence of two hearts that I seriously doubted there was room for any future romance. My heart was a haunted house, empty but for ghosts I had no hope of exorcizing.

It was, undoubtedly, one of the talking points that Isla Goodspeed had written on the tablet she held in her hand as she stood to greet me in the lobby of Chateau Marmont.

She was an elegant woman in her early forties with curly brown hair and huge eyes the colour of maple syrup.

I liked her haughty beauty and professionalism.

She reminded me of my eldest sister, Elena.

“Sebastian, it is good to see you again,” she greeted me with an extended pale hand and a warm smile. “You look even more handsome than the last time we spoke.”

I flashed her my megawatt smile as I raised her hand to kiss her knuckles. “You know how to flatter a man, Isla. You can tell me the truth. I look haggard as hell.”

She let out a surprised bark of laughter before covering her mouth with her hand. “We both know that’s not true.”

I shrugged, indicating she should sit down at the corner table tucked into the murky shadows of the dimly lit bar. Chateau Marmont was a celebrity haunt in LA because it offered privacy to its guests.

“I jumped immediately from production for my latest project, Black On , to the press circuit for Waking Nightmare . Perhaps I don’t look as haggard as I feel, thanks to the Los Angeles sun,” I allowed as I sat down after her, unbuttoning my black blazer as I did so.

Isla’s gaze dipped briefly to the tight stretch of the white cotton T-shirt across my pectorals before she locked eyes with me again.

I had trained with members of the Navy SEALS in preparation for Black On and was consequently in the best shape of my life.

The edge of my mouth ticked up in a knowing smirk.

She blushed slightly and turned her focus to arranging her recorder and tablet to her liking on the wooden tabletop.

“ Black On is your first war film,” she started, her tone coolly professional. “What made you curious about the script? You’re notorious for only taking projects that speak to your soul, and a war film seems rather…unromantic for you.”

I laughed. “Does it? Certo , there is nothing romantic about war; the gore and violence, the horrifying waste of human life, and the erasure of dignity.

But that is exactly the point of Black On .

It highlights the despair of war, of wondering what exactly one is fighting for beyond trying to protect one's country and loved ones. The title itself references the military term ‘black on’ something, as in lacking a resource. In this case, the characters lack empathy. My character, Stefan, does not realize how mechanical he has been about death until he accidentally kills a child and then secretly helps the family in an attempt to make amends. I suppose I enjoy the idea that there are no ‘good’ or ‘bad’ guys in the film. War makes those concepts impossible.”

“That’s quite a shift from your character, West, in Waking Nightmare , who critics have described as the consummate villain.”

Even now, almost two years after filming, I felt the vestiges of West Lockwood’s character like cobwebs stuck to my flesh.

He was a psychopath who stalked his victims for years, luring them into his traps with diabolical mind games before killing them.

It was all in the name of love , love of a woman who did not give him the time of day but whom West had loved since boyhood.

The marvellous twist at the end of the movie came when the viewers realized she knew West was targeting people who offended her, and she willingly sent the victims to their deaths.

It was shocking how many critics and fans considered him a romantic hero, but then, dark romance was a popular genre in books, and many readers yearned to see it on the big screen.

“Yes, he was a villain, but there is enough empathy within his character to draw audiences in. You would be surprised by how willing people are to forgive actions that are proclaimed to be done in the name of love,” I said, staring at my bare left wrist as my mind inevitably fell back into the past.

I had not worn a watch outside of filming since the one the Meyers had given me. Even when I had been offered a six-figure deal with one of the top watch makers in the world, I hadn’t thought twice about declining it.

“That’s very true,” Isla agreed, studying me with a cocked head like a scientist with a specimen under glass. “Well, given the character was a deviation from your usual roles, it must feel validating to know you might be up for Best Actor again with this role in Waking Nightmare .”

My laughter covered up the pang of insecurity that twanged in my chest. “I have been blessed with a number of nominations, and they never get old, I assure you.”

“But a win would be nice for a change, wouldn’t it?” Isla asked slyly, gauging my response.

I offered her a bland smile. “Winning is always nice. That is never why I take on a project, though.”

“No, I suppose given the movie has already grossed over 200 million dollars domestically in the first three weeks of release, it can be considered a success by any standard. Though I know you are motivated more by your performance than anything else. Does it make you happy to know so many fans are saying it is their favourite movie of the year?”

“Of course,” I said with a slight, humble shrug.

“Some reviews have likened your role to Adam Meyers’s performance in The Devil Cares . What do you think of the comparison?”

I didn’t know why I wasn’t expecting the question.

Even though I didn’t read my own reviews, my agent, Mali Issah, did, and she always sent me a compiled document of all the best critiques. I’d seen the comparisons to Adam’s iconic psychopathic role, the very same one he was filming while I lived with him and Savannah in their London townhome.

Beyond that, I had thought of him when the script first came across my desk.

Freddie Bannerman was an ex-convict who took over London’s criminal underworld without a shred of remorse, his motivation purely power-based.

But the way Adam played his Oscar-winning role spoke of a hidden undercurrent, a desire to be admired because he had never been loved.

It was a similar vein to West Lockwood, who committed atrocities like a cat bringing its master dead mice, as if it would make him worthy of tenderness.

I’d called Mali immediately after reading Waking Nightmare to say I would take the role, and I’d dreamt of Adam the entire shoot even when I was desperate not to.

“It’s an interesting one,” I said with a flippant shrug, stretching my arm across the back of the booth in a way that drew Isla’s gaze once more to my physique.

“It’s not like you to be so ineloquent,” she noted, hardly distracted. “Unless someone brings up Adam Meyers or Savannah Richardson.”

Savannah Richardson .

She had married Tate Richardson, the media mogul, only ten months after divorcing Adam in a lavish, star-studded ceremony in the Hollywood Hills.

Yet, of the two of them, it was Savannah who was still accessible to me.