Tuesday was planning day. Byron knew it would be chaotic—especially since the schedule wasn't his to control—but there were two things he could manage: his car and his love life. The truth was, this whole event had been orchestrated to find him a date. Well, technically, it was the girls' idea. After nearly ten years of being single, the dating pool had become slim. Most women (and men) were already taken, fangirls, or… Burdine.
That last option wasn't as ridiculous as it sounded. If you took into account the odd tension between Byron and Burdine during 2005 and 2006, there was something there. Who could resist teasing her about her dramatic mannerisms and peculiar charm? Certainly not Byron.
At just over 5 feet tall, Byron had learned to hold his own. Even when staring up into Burdine's piercing blue eyes, he maintained his wit. Not many women wanted to date a man under 5'5, especially one with fame-related baggage. Size mattered in a lot of ways, and his ex, Yasmin's mother, had once made it painfully clear. That breakup had stuck with him—proof that even superficial flaws could outweigh deeper connections.
Egos were strong, but the weight of the world was heavier. Everyone needed someone to come home to, even platonically. Byron didn't have that, and it wore on him. The stakes were high, and his morale had never been lower. It explained why he was already near his breaking point when Burdine stormed into his life again.
"Look, I cannot deal with this right now," Byron muttered, stepping out of his car. "I'm busy. Very busy. I need a break."
"We need you on set in five minutes—"
"But—"
Before he could finish, Burdine interrupted with a whirlwind of harsh words.
"You ruined me!" she shouted, her tall frame towering over him as onlookers stared.
Her voice, lower and more controlled than usual, lingered in his mind like a haunting melody. The moment replayed in his head endlessly. For some reason, Burdine was the only person he'd ever felt compelled to apologize to.
Later that evening, Byron sat in his car, lost in thought. His hands gripped the steering wheel as he replayed the darkest moments of his life. The sound of a rough voice snapped him back to reality.
"Byron!"
Kon. Of all people, now was not the time.
"You couldn't have picked a worse moment," Byron muttered, his exhaustion palpable.
"Now, don't be bitter," Kon replied, stepping closer. "I saw you at that singles' event Friday. Someone looked pretty angry—"
"Shut up," Byron cut him off. "You know nothing about me. If you're here to gaslight me, fine. But don't attack me for my reality."
"I'm not here to fight."
"Then what the absolute fuck are you doing here?" Byron's voice cracked with frustration.
Kon sighed, the silence stretching between them. The faint sound of birds chirping in the background was the only thing grounding the moment. Finally, Kon spoke.
"I saw your note."
"My what now?"
Kon hesitated. "Your… suicide note. I found it in your bag. I… I took it. At first, I thought I could use it to blackmail you, but it didn't feel right."
Byron froze, his heart pounding. "Why?"
"Because I wanted to make you seem human," Kon admitted. "For years, the CIA's been on your back about me. I'm done with it—the games, the spying, the weird Batman fetish they have. I don't want to see you get hurt."
"I can handle myself, Konard," Byron replied coldly.
"No, you don't get it. I'm wor—"
Before Kon could finish, Byron rolled up his car window and drove off, his tears barely held back. It wasn't the first time he'd driven home alone in distress, but it still hurt.
As he navigated the quiet streets, his rearview mirror caught a glimpse of flashing lights. Cops. Shit. Byron pulled over, anxiety clawing at him. His car was a mess, the window smeared with dirt. Then, he saw who it was: his manager.
"We've talked about this," the man said, his tone firm. "You can't just take the car and drive off like that. Get out. I'm taking you home."
Byron sighed, defeated. Once again, his plans—what little control he had left—had crumbled.
This was not part of the plan.
