Chapter Text
The mirror in Tom Ryder’s triple-slide-out production trailer was a masterpiece of deception. Lined with high-CRI LEDs that promised to show the truth, Tom knew they only showed the product.
It was outfitted with "Golden Hour" LED strips designed to make even a corpse look like a movie star. Tom leaned in until his nose nearly touched the glass, staring into the pupils of his own blue eyes.
He stared at his reflection, tracing the line of his jaw—sculpted by a surgeon’s hand and maintained by a diet of raw eggs, exogenous hormones, and vanity. He was Tom Ryder. He was the "Sexy Billionaire Playboy." He was a global icon. And as he looked into his own blue eyes, he felt absolutely nothing. It was like looking at a high-resolution render of a man who had died in utero.
He was looking for a person. He never found one.
"The hair is too flat," Tom said, his voice a practiced honey-gravel.
"It’s exactly the same as yesterday, Tom," his stylist, a woman whose name he’d forgotten three times this week, whispered. She was terrified of him. Everyone was. Not because he was cruel—though he could be—but because he was an apex predator of the attention economy. To be in his orbit was to be consumed by his Brand.
"Fix it," Tom commanded, turning back to his phone.
His life was a series of curated moments. His parents, the architects of the Ryder Empire, had taught him early: Internality is a liability. If you feel something, it shows on your face, and if it shows on your face, it might not move tickets in China. He had been groomed to be a vessel. A hollow, golden statue that the world could pour its fantasies into.
Tom’s earliest memory wasn't of a toy or a mother’s hug; it was of a camera lens. By the age of six, his parents—his "Management Team"—had already decided that his internality was a waste of space. "Don't think about how you feel, Tommy," his father would whisper behind the monitors of a cereal commercial. "Think about how they need you to feel. You’re a product, and products don’t have bad days."
By twelve, his first crush had been vetted by a PR specialist to ensure the "narrative" of his puberty was profitable. By eighteen, his first sexual encounter had been orchestrated by a studio-appointed "companion" who reported back on his performance metrics.
Now, at thirty-something, Tom Ryder was a skin-suit inhabited by a committee. He was a billionaire, a sex symbol, and an icon, but when he stood alone in a room, he felt like a suit of armor with no knight inside. He was a master of the "Self," yet he possessed no "Self" to master. He compensated for the void with a predatory hunger for stimuli: the burn of top-shelf bourbon, the buzz of a high-grade stimulant, the rush of a fast car, and the transient validation of bodies that wanted to fuck the Brand, not the Man.
He took a hit from a vape pen—something custom, something that tasted like expensive chemicals—and stepped out of the trailer into the blinding Australian sun.
As he stepped out of his trailer, his "Product" face slid into place with the practiced ease of a mask. The Australian heat was a physical weight, but Tom didn't sweat. Movie stars weren't allowed to sweat unless it was "aesthetic perspiration" applied by a makeup artist.
"Ryder! We’re ready for the walk-through on the gantry!" the director shouted.
They were filming the climax of Sky Cowboy 2 on a sprawling set outside Sydney. Colt Seavers, his stunt double and the closest thing Tom had to a physical shadow, was already there, rigged into a harness.
Tom hated looking at Colt. It was like looking at a "Before" photo. Colt was rugged, scarred, and annoyingly earnest. He had the same face, the same build, but Colt’s skin felt real. When Colt got hit, he actually bruised. When Tom got hit, a lawyer filed a motion.
"Ryder! You’re up!" the director shouted.
Tom transitioned into 'The Persona' instantly. He puffed his chest, flashed the million-dollar smirk, and sauntered toward the camera. But as he approached the monitors, he saw a stranger standing next to Colt.
The man was wearing a beige cardigan that looked like it had been washed a thousand times too many and a pair of sensible spectacles perched on a nose that was, coincidentally, identical to Tom’s own. Not like he wears it in public, though: that was only for the comfort of his own home. He always wore contacts when outside.
The man was leaning against a gear crate, holding a paperback book, as if holding a security line in case he got bored by the multi-million dollar explosion being prepped behind him.
Tom stopped in his tracks. The mask glitched.
"Colt," Tom called out, his eyes fixed on the stranger. "Who’s the civilian?"
Colt hopped down from the rig, wiping grease onto his jeans. He grinned, that wide, annoying, genuine smile. "Tom, hey. This is my brother. My twin. Ryland Grace. He’s visiting from the States. Ry, this is the guy who steals my face for a living."
Ryland Grace looked up from his book. He didn't stand up. He didn't straighten his clothes. He didn't even put a bookmark in the page; he just held his place with a thumb. He looked at Tom Ryder—the man on every billboard from Tokyo to New York—and his expression didn't change. No awe. No thirst. Just a mild, clinical curiosity.
Ryland Grace didn't look at Tom the way everyone else did. He didn't look at him with the hungry, parasitic gaze of a fan or the calculated deference of a subordinate. He looked at Tom with the mild, squinting scrutiny of a biologist looking at a particularly dull mold sample.
"Hello," Ryland said. His voice was crisper than Colt’s, more precise. It sounded like a man who spent his time explaining physics to teenagers.
"A pleasure," Tom said, extending a hand, ready to deploy the 'Ryder Charm'—a specific tilt of the head and a softening of the eyes that usually made people trip over their own feet.
Ryland didn't take the hand. He was too busy looking past Tom at the massive hydraulic rig. "You know," Ryland said, his eyes lighting up with a sudden, genuine fire, "the weight distribution on those pistons is fascinating. You're using a closed-loop feedback system for the stabilization? I saw the grip team adjusting the flow rates earlier. It’s a brilliant solution for simulating low-gravity impact without compromising the structural integrity of the set. I’m glad at least safety is taken seriously in this job," Ryland said, momentarily throwing a pointed look at his twin, who looked down sheepishly.
Tom blinked, his hand hanging in the air. "It... it cost six million dollars."
Ryland finally looked back at Tom, the fire in his eyes instantly dying out, replaced by a cold, flat cynicism. "I’m sure it did. A lot of money to spend on a movie that claims sound travels in a vacuum. Colt tells me the script has you 'surfing' on a solar flare in the third act. I hope the craft services have good snacks, because the science is going to give me a migraine."
Tom felt a sudden, sharp spike of irritation—and something else. Curiosity.
Colt coughed artificially to break the tension. "He’s a teacher," Colt added proudly. "A scientist. Real brainiac stuff. Just got back from some big... uh, research thing."
Tom felt a strange, prickly heat behind his ears. He stepped closer, invading Ryland’s personal space, a tactic he used to make fans swoon and co-stars submit. "A scientist? Interesting. You like the set, Ryland? Want a tour? I can show you the cockpit of the ship. It cost more than your house."
Ryland looked at the "ship"—a massive hunk of painted fiberglass and LED screens. "It’s aerodynamically impossible," Ryland said flatly. "The thruster placement would cause a catastrophic roll the moment you broke atmosphere. And the lighting is wrong for a vacuum."
Tom blinked. "It’s a movie, Ryland. It’s about the vibe."
"The vibe is scientifically illiterate," Ryland replied, finally closing his book. He stood up, and for the first time, Tom realized they were exactly the same height. "And honestly? It’s a bit loud. Colt, I’m going to go find some tea. I’ll be at the craft services table if you need me to explain how gravity actually works again."
Ryland turned his back on Tom Ryder. He walked away without a second glance.
Tom stood there, the desert wind whipping his perfectly coiffed hair. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a rhythmic thud he hadn't felt in years. It wasn't the thrill of the chase or the rush of a drug. It was the shock of a 'No.'
Ryland hadn't just insulted the movie; he had looked through Tom as if he were made of glass. He hadn't seen the Brand. He hadn't even seen a man. He’d seen a nuisance.
"Sorry about him," Colt laughed, clapping Tom on the shoulder. "He’s got no filter. Doesn't care much for Hollywood. Or celebrities. Or, well, anyone who isn't a lab rat."
"He’s... refreshing," Tom managed to say, though his throat felt tight.
Throughout the day, Tom couldn't focus. He flubbed his lines. He missed his marks. His eyes kept wandering to the craft services table, where Ryland was sitting alone, scribbling in a notebook, completely oblivious to the "Sexy Billionaire" thirty feet away.
Tom found himself watching the way Ryland’s hand moved across the paper. He watched the way Ryland pushed his glasses up his nose. There was a fire in the man—a temper, a sharp-tongued arrogance that wasn't performed for a camera. It was real. Ryland Grace was a person of substance, a man of 'internality,' and Tom felt a desperate, gnawing hunger to crack him open and see what was inside.
By the time the sun began to set, Tom had made a decision.
He waited until Colt was occupied with a late-night stunt rehearsal. Tom walked over to where Ryland was packing up his bag.
"Ryland," Tom said, dropping the movie star facade. He tried to look vulnerable, a trick he’d used in three different rom-coms. "I wanted to apologize for earlier. I can be a bit... much. The industry does that to you."
Ryland zipped his bag and looked at Tom. He didn't buy the vulnerability for a second. "I’m sure it does. It must be very difficult being paid millions to pretend to be a hero while my brother actually breaks his ribs for you."
Tom flinched. The honesty was like a physical blow. It was intoxicating. "Let me make it up to you. Dinner? There’s a private place in the city. No paparazzi. Just... us."
Ryland squinted at him, as if he were a particularly confusing cell culture. "Why?"
"Because I’d like to talk to someone who doesn't want something from me," Tom lied. Well, partially lied. There is a grain of truth in what he said. But what he truly wanted was to see Ryland’s composure break. He wanted to see that intellectual superiority melt into something else.
"No, thank you," Ryland said. He swung his bag over his shoulder. "I have a lot of grading to do, and frankly, Mr. Ryder, you aren't nearly as interesting as you think you are."
Ryland walked away again.
Tom watched him go, his hands trembling at his sides. The rejection was a jagged blade, cutting through the plastic layers of his soul. He felt a surge of something dark and primal—a need not just to be liked, but to be owned by this man's attention.
He didn't want a one-night stand. He didn't want a fan.
He wanted to be the only thing Ryland Grace ever thought about. He wanted to be the variable that ruined Ryland’s perfect equations.
+
Over the next three days, Tom Ryder became a ghost on his own set. He found himself obsessed with watching Ryland.
He watched as Ryland sat with the low-level PAs during lunch, laughing as he explained the physics of their coffee machines. He watched Ryland help a struggling grip calculate the tension needed for a difficult camera crane move, his voice soft and encouraging, his hands moving with a grace that was entirely unselfconscious. To the "little people," Ryland was a delight—warm, brilliant, and kind.
But the moment Tom approached, the warmth vanished. Ryland would turn into a wall of ice.
He’s being so unfair, Tom thought. He doesn’t even know me yet, but he would take the word of everyone else against me!
He tried softening him up by showering him with gifts. The flower bouquet was disastrously rejected: Tom didn’t know that Ryland was allergic. Colt spent the entire day glaring daggers at Tom’s direction. The box of chocolates was just generously given to his friends among the crew, the romantic note ignored. The package of high-quality school supplies was met with a conflicted expression: It was the only gift not immediately rejected. On the one hand, Ryland seemed to genuinely want to keep it. On the other hand, the sender and the romantic nature of the attached note left him genuinely uncomfortable.
Colt confronted him at the end of the day. “Ryder, I don’t know what your game is, but Ryland is not interested. He’s not gonna be another notch in your bedpost.The gifts are genuinely stressing him out. Just…knock it off, okay?” Colt was obviously holding back some…more colorful words, but he’s sticking to what seems like a rehearsed script. He probably practiced it with Jody.
“Well, if he’s truly uninterested, he should tell me that himself,” Tom smirked. He walked away before it could escalate into a genuine fight.
“You should TAKE A HINT! He’s been REJECTING YOU FROM THE VERY START!” Colt shouted.
+
On the fourth day, Tom decided to play his winning cards. He waited until Ryland was alone near the trailers, watching the sunset with a look of genuine wonder at the atmospheric scattering of light.
"It’s beautiful, isn't it?" Tom said, leaning against his $500,000 custom trailer. "I have a private villa on the coast. Best view in Australia. I’m having a small gathering tonight. Top-shelf everything. I could have a car pick you and Colt up. We could... talk. I’d love to hear more about your 'science' stuff."
Tom leaned in, letting his expensive cologne—scented with sandalwood and ego—drift toward Ryland. He let his leather jacket hang open, wearing nothing underneath, enough to show the sculpted lines of his chest and abdomen. This was the "Wealth and Body" play. It had a 100% success rate.
Ryland didn't even turn his head. "I have three sets of lab reports to grade, and Colt and I are getting pizza and watching bad 80s action movies. But thank you for the... offer."
Tom’s smile tightened. "You know, Ryland, I could make things very easy for you. If you’re tired of the classroom, I’m looking for a technical consultant for my production company. It’s a seven-figure salary. You’d never have to worry about 'grading' again."
Ryland finally turned, and the look in his eyes wasn't greed. It was pity. "Mr. Ryder, do you genuinely think that everyone has a price? Or is that just what you tell yourself to feel less like a mannequin?"
Tom flinched. "I’m trying to be nice to you."
"Why?" Ryland asked, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous hiss. "Colt tells me stories, you know. About how you treat the 'background' people when the cameras aren't rolling. About the tantrums. About the way you treat your 'friends' like accessories. You’re a narcissist, Tom. You’re a man who has been told he’s the center of the universe for so long that you’ve forgotten other people actually have lives that don't involve you."
"That's not—"
"I don't care about your money," Ryland interrupted, stepping closer, his face—Tom’s face—full of a righteous fury that made Tom’s blood sing. "I don't care about your fame. And I certainly don't care about your body. You’re just a very expensive, very loud distraction. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go find my brother. Between the two of you, he’s the one who is actually worth talking to."
Although it was impossible for Ryland to know about Tom’s whole inferiority complex regarding Colt, Tom still took it as an intentionally pointed insult. Ryland walked away, leaving Tom standing in the dirt, trembling.
Tom went back to his trailer and trashed it. He threw a bottle of $2,000 scotch against the mirror, watching the glass spiderweb across his reflection. He felt a frantic, itching need to break Ryland. To make him scream. To make him beg. To make him love him.
"Vicky!" Tom roared.
His head assistant, a harried woman who lived on Xanax and loyalty, scurried in. "Yes, Tom? What’s wrong? Do we need to call the cleaners?"
"The brother. Ryland Grace," Tom spat, pacing like a caged animal. "Why isn't he responding to me? I’ve offered him everything. I’ve been charming. I’ve been generous. Is he not gay? Does he want a different 'type' of person? Tell me what he likes."
Vicky looked at her tablet, her eyes darting nervously. "I, uh... I did some digging into his background after you asked the first time, Tom. It’s... it’s not a 'type' issue. According to some of his old college friends and a few stories from staff... Ryland is aromantic and asexual. He doesn't... he doesn't do romance or sex. At all."
Tom stopped pacing. "Aromantic? Asexual? What the hell does that mean? He’s a monk?"
"It means he doesn't experience sexual or romantic attraction, Tom. To anyone. Men, women, movie stars... it doesn't matter. He’s just... not wired for it."
Tom stared at his shattered reflection. The "Product" was gone. In its place was something dark, ancient, and obsessive. Aromantic. Asexual. A man who couldn't be bought, couldn't be seduced, and couldn't be charmed.
Ryland Grace was a fortress with no doors.
"Is that so?" Tom whispered, a slow, terrifying smirk spreading across his face.
He didn't see a boundary. He saw a challenge. He saw a man who had never felt 'Love,' and Tom decided, right then and there, that he would be the one to force it into him. He would be the one to make Ryland Grace feel the same sickening, soul-consuming hunger that was currently rotting Tom from the inside out.
"Vicky," Tom said, his voice deathly calm. "Find out where Colt and Ryland are going after the shoot wraps in Sydney.”
Tom looked at the shards of glass on the floor. He picked one up, pressing his thumb into the sharp edge until he bled. For the first time in his life, he felt real.
He was going to own Ryland Grace. And he didn't care how much blood it took to close the deal.
That night, back in his cold, sprawling penthouse, Tom didn't reach for the tequila. He reached for his laptop. He began to search for 'Ryland Grace.' He found his thesis. He found his school’s faculty page. He found his address in the States.
He scrolled through the photos—Ryland at a science fair, Ryland in a lab—and he felt a sense of purpose he hadn't felt in a lifetime.
"You'll see me, Ryland," Tom whispered to the empty, luxury-filled room. "I'll make you see me."