The after-party glittered with the same brilliance as the red carpet—but this time, the weight of scrutiny had lifted.
The grand ballroom had transformed into something warmer, almost intimate despite its grandeur.
Crystal chandeliers poured molten gold over clusters of laughing guests. Music drifted through the air—low, velvety, rhythmic—threading itself beneath conversations and soft bursts of laughter. Champagne glasses chimed against one another in steady celebration, a soundtrack of victory.
At the center of it all stood Wilsmith—the visionary behind the night's sensation.
His suit jacket hung open now, tie loosened just enough to suggest the pressure of the premiere had finally eased.
A champagne flute rested loosely in his hand as his gaze swept across the room—actors glowing under praise, producers exchanging satisfied nods, cinematographers animatedly recounting favorite shots, assistants who looked equal parts exhausted and triumphant.
His army.
His dream.
