INTERIOR. GLEB'S HOUSE. LIVING ROOM.

The Broken King

Gleb sat in an armchair. He finished the last drops of whiskey, feeling a bitter warmth. The bottle was nearly empty. His fame... the word now sounded like a mockery. It had collapsed, leaving behind only emptiness and the echo of a scandal. He began to act. Not for an audience. For himself. To drown out the silence.

"O, what a shameful fall!" His hoarse, well-trained bass boomed through the room. It was Othello, the furious Moor.

He jumped up, hurled the glass, and, stretching his hand toward the ceiling, shouted lines from Faust: "O, how wretched you are, you earthly worm, who walked through life with a daring dream!"

As if trying to tear off the invisible shackles of his masculinity and broken pride, Gleb approached the mirror. His gaze was empty, but his hands moved with professional precision.

He applied bright scarlet lipstick to his lips. Then, he put on theatrical makeup. He chose a female image. Gleb looked at his reflection, and at that moment, the first words of a monologue trembled on his lips. Not Ophelia, not Lady Macbeth. Juliet. Pure, young, walking towards death.

"...Forgive! Forgive! Be brave, my hand! Now..."

A loud, imperious ring interrupted the monologue. Gleb reluctantly opened the door. Yevgeny Vladimirovich stood on the threshold. His Father. The Father froze. His eyes, usually cold and calculating, widened. He saw his son. Emaciated, devastated, with eyes full of pain and a face clumsily painted with scarlet lipstick and black shadows. Yevgeny Vladimirovich, however, remained silent.

"Looks like things are really bad if you haven't been in touch for months."

The Father, without waiting for an invitation, resolutely walked past his son into the living room, his gaze disgustedly sweeping over the whiskey bottle.

"Why did you come? To laugh at my downfall? As you wanted, now I have neither fame nor the job I love. Is that not enough for your triumph, Father?"

"Gleb, you are wrong. Though our relationship is poor, you are my only son. I regret that this happened, but... you have to move on with your life."

The Father paused, as if gathering his thoughts before the most important announcement.

"I offer you a temporary position as the CEO of our new entertainment complex. Temporary work. Until the scandal dies down. An office, a clean reputation, and most importantly—you will decide for yourself whether you want to pursue business or return to film."

Gleb was silent. CEO. Business. He, a man of art, in the boss's chair. It was unthinkable. But it was... salvation. He looked at the whiskey bottle, the lipstick smeared on his face, the collapsed world. Fighting reality now was impossible. He just had to accept the truth.

"Alright," Gleb agreed to his father's proposal.

The Father nodded, something resembling relief flickering in his stern gaze.

"I expect you in the office tomorrow at ten a.m."

He turned and left just as imperiously, without looking back.

Gleb remained alone in the quiet, empty living room. He ran a hand across his face, wiping off the remnants of the makeup.

Chief Executive Officer

Gleb's life changed drastically. The change of roles was so abrupt that he hadn't fully grasped what had happened. From a star, he turned into a CEO.

He adapted quickly. Heredity or simply good acting talent applied to a business role—Gleb showed unexpected business acumen. He spoke a new language: profitability, investments, target audience.

"You have exceeded my expectations, Gleb," his father praised him. "The shopping complex will open two weeks ahead of schedule. For the first time in many years, I see not an actor in you, but my son."

Gleb raised his head from the papers, and there was no pride in his eyes, only sadness.

"It's just a role, Father. Like any other. I am playing the Chief Executive Officer. And I am playing it well."

"The main thing is that the results are real, son."

INTERIOR. NEWSPAPER EDITORIAL OFFICE.

At the same time, Liza's life was spiraling downwards at the same speed as Gleb's fame. Her screenplay. The one she wrote with such passion, into which she poured so much soul, no one wanted to film.

A monotonous female voice on the phone was cold. "...Unfortunately, your script was not suitable for us. We are looking for something more commercial."

Vyecheslav Sergeevich, her boss, appeared beside her as if from thin air, a newspaper under his arm. He was furious.

"LIZAVETA! Are you going to explain this to me?!"

He threw the sheets in front of her—a printed piece of her screenplay.

"I am not paying you to write screenplays! We have urgent material on the city budget, and you are—flying in the clouds!"

Liza jumped up, feeling tears welling up from indignation.

"Vyecheslav Sergeevich, I'll catch up..."

"Enough! Either you become a normal journalist, or you look for another job. Do you understand me?!"

Liza just nodded silently, looking at the screen where two folders were open: "Article on Transport" and the script "Dance of Love."

EXTERIOR. ENTERTAINMENT COMPLEX. OPENING CEREMONY.

The day was bright, but Gleb felt grey. The entertainment complex they were opening gleamed with new glass and plastic. All around were crowds: investors in expensive suits, journalists, curious onlookers.

Gleb stood in the center. In his hands—large scissors. Beside him—his Father, Yevgeny Vladimirovich, and Alyona, smiling for the cameras. Camera flashes hit his eyes. Gleb professionally forced a smile. He brought the scissors to the red ribbon and sharply snipped. The ribbon fell. Applause broke out.

"My son, Gleb, has done a tremendous job!" he boomed across the square. "With his arrival, the project came to life!"

Alyona clung to Gleb's arm, leaned in, and whispered. "I'm so proud of you! You're doing great!"

Gleb just nodded. He felt like a mannequin in a shop window. The success was obvious, money invested, the ribbon cut. But there was no joy. Not a drop. He was just performing his new, boring, but high-paying role.

INTERIOR. CEO'S OFFICE.

After the entertainment complex opened, Gleb sat in his enormous office. It was quiet and dark now. The only light came from the desk lamp and the laptop screen. He slowly drank whiskey. Without enjoyment, just drinking. An old video was playing on the screen—behind-the-scenes moments from his last successful film. There, on the screen, he was in torn, dirty clothes, with messy hair. He was shouting something at the camera, his eyes burning with a feverish, wild fire. He was alive. He was real. Gleb looked at his reflection in the dark window. The reflection was calm, dressed in an expensive suit, cleanly shaven. Empty. He slightly raised his hand, as if wanting to touch the man on the screen—his former self.

"I miss you..." he whispered, and it was addressed not to anyone specific, but to the life he had lost.

He missed the camera, the smell of movie makeup, the adrenaline before shooting. He missed a world where emotions were not something to hide, but his working tool. Gleb took another sip of whiskey. The "temporary" role of CEO had dragged on. And the longer it lasted, the harder it was to remember who he really was.

INTERIOR. GLEB'S PARENTS' HOUSE. DINING ROOM.

Dinner at his parents' house was quiet, like an official reception. The whole family sat at the large, polished table. Gleb drank wine, trying to relax. Yevgeny Vladimirovich put down his napkin, and this quiet gesture immediately drew all of Gleb's attention.

"It's time," he said, his tone allowing no objection, "it's time to officially announce you as the successor."

Gleb sharply set his glass down on the table.

"I haven't made a decision yet, Father. You promised it was temporary."

The Father looked at him with absolute certainty.

"Sometimes you just have to admit: the old bridges are burned. There is no way back," his gaze was firm. "Take the first step and cross the new bridge. You succeeded. Business is your calling."

Gleb stared for a long time into the darkness of the polished table, where the chandelier's light was reflected. He raised his glass, his hand trembling slightly.

"To my complete defeat," he said, the words bitter.

The chandelier light reflected dimly in the red wine.

"To the fact that I am essentially a loser who traded his dream for reality."

He drank the wine in one gulp. His father only sighed heavily, not lecturing him. He knew his plan had worked.

Gleb realized that night he had lost not just his dream, but his path. He had become a puppet. An expensive, well-dressed puppet who sat in the CEO's office. And this cage was far more humiliating than poverty and failure.

The Unveiling of the Secret

EXTERIOR. NEAR YEVGENY VLADIMIROVICH'S HEAD OFFICE.

It is raining. The Driver's limousine is parked, its wet chrome gleaming. The Driver, scruffy but with an insolent expression, is thrown onto the sidewalk by security.

He had come to Yevgeny Vladimirovich, thinking he held an ace card. He was counting on easy money, threatening to reveal that the old businessman himself had set up his own son, Gleb, to remove him from film and bring him back into the family. But Yevgeny Vladimirovich was not a man to be intimidated. He had already paid enough for his silence.

"The old geezer! Thought I was joking? He won't allow anyone to blackmail him, apparently."

He hobbled over to his old limousine and opened the door. His young, bored companion sat in the passenger seat.

"So, he didn't cough up? I told you, these old men are stingy."

The Driver slammed the door shut with a crash. He was angry, and his face ached from the bruises.

"Got off with a couple of punches, the son of a bitch. He won't give anything. Forgot how he begged me to help."

His companion thoughtfully applied bright pink lipstick, looking in the mirror.

"Well, if the old man won't pay up... why not sell the truth to his son? The Gleb he set up. The son is a CEO now, he's loaded with money."

The Driver froze. He slowly turned his head. A greedy, cunning glint lit up his eyes.

"Damn... You're right."

PARKING LOT AT GLEB'S OFFICE. SAME DAY

Parking lot. Gleb had just left the office and was heading to his car. Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows. The Driver.

"Gleb. We need to talk."

Gleb's blood instantly rushed to his head. He recognized the man. This was the driver whose lie had set his downfall in motion. The rage he had hidden for months behind business reports erupted. He took a sharp step, grabbed the Driver by the collar, and forcefully pinned him against his car.

"My whole life collapsed because of your lying face! All of it! I'm going to..."

Gleb raised his arm to strike.

"Gleb, calm down! Listen! I'll tell you who gave the order to set you up. Who paid me to frame you."

Gleb froze. His hand stopped an inch from the Driver's face. Fury instantly turned into cold curiosity.

"For money, of course," the driver added.

Gleb reluctantly released the Driver. The man slid down the car, rubbing his neck. Gleb stood, breathing heavily. He had to know. Who?

"Speak. How much?"

"The price is small for the truth. But you won't like the truth," the driver answered with a sly smile.