Chapter 2 — Shattered Images

Ben Hartley

Ben Hartley leaned against the cold glass of his penthouse’s floor-to-ceiling windows, his piercing blue eyes skimming the glittering cityscape below without truly seeing it. The lights of Los Angeles sparkled like fragments of a dream—one he no longer believed in. His reflection stared back at him, fractured by the glass, a distorted image of the man he used to be.

His phone vibrated on the sleek marble countertop behind him, the screen lighting up with yet another tabloid headline. He didn’t need to pick it up to know the gist—more speculation, more ridicule. Still, his eyes flicked over as the screen flashed a cruel reminder:

*“Ben Hartley: Hollywood’s Fallen Golden Boy—What Went Wrong?”*

The words cut through him, even though he told himself they shouldn’t. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his tousled blond hair, then let it fall to his side with a hint of defeat. The tabloid’s mocking tone felt like a reflection of the millions of strangers who had watched his rise and were now gleefully dissecting his fall. Each headline, each tweet, every viral meme piled onto the crushing weight in his chest.

The phone buzzed again, and his jaw tightened. This time, he snatched it off the counter, tempted—just for a second—to hurl it across the room. Instead, he stared at the new message glaring up at him.

*We need to talk. I’m coming over.*

Mark Reynolds. His manager. His fixer. His unrelenting shadow.

Ben groaned and tossed the phone back onto the counter, where it landed with a sharp clack. These talks always followed the same script: Mark’s pragmatic, business-first approach clashing with Ben’s frustration. They ended with Ben feeling like a reckless child being lectured, but Mark wasn’t wrong. His career was in free fall, the vultures circling closer with every passing day.

The apartment was too quiet, the kind of silence that amplified everything he was trying to drown out. Despite its luxurious trappings—leather sofas, abstract art, floor-to-ceiling windows—it felt more like an exhibit than a home. Impersonal. Lifeless. A place designed to impress others, not to comfort its occupant.

Ben wandered into the open kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. He unscrewed the cap but didn’t drink, instead letting it rest coolly against his palm. His gaze drifted across the space, settling on a half-finished script sitting on the counter, abandoned weeks ago. A reminder of when he’d loved this industry. Before the glitz and glamour, before the paparazzi and the scandals. Before he became... this.

His thoughts strayed to her—his ex. The accusations, the betrayal. He could still hear echoes of their last fight, the way her voice broke when she hurled those accusations at him, the sting of guilt and anger twisting in his gut. Did I do enough? The question haunted him, though he’d long since stopped answering it.

The intercom buzzed, sharp against the quiet. He flinched, then sighed. He didn’t need to check to know it was Mark. He pressed the button to unlock the entrance, then leaned back against the counter to brace himself for the conversation.

When the door opened minutes later, Mark strode in with his usual no-nonsense energy. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, his tailored suit flawless, his leather briefcase giving him the air of a man accustomed to solving problems. Ben almost envied that confidence.

“Good to see you too,” Ben muttered as Mark set the briefcase on the counter with a definitive thunk.

Mark’s sharp eyes swept over him critically. “I’d say the same, but you look like hell. Are you sleeping at all?”

“What for?” Ben replied, crossing his arms. “I close my eyes, and it’s just headlines and hashtags, calling me everything from a cheat to a sociopath. Take your pick.”

Mark sighed, pulling out a folder and spreading its contents across the counter. A collection of printouts—headlines, social media posts, scathing op-eds. Ben caught glimpses of bold phrases like *“career-ending scandal”* and *“irreparable damage.”* Each one felt like a jab to the ribs.

“I know it’s bad,” Mark said, his tone clipped but not unkind. “But this isn’t the end.”

Ben let out a bitter laugh. “You’re a real optimist, Mark. Got a Hallmark card in that briefcase too?”

Mark ignored the jab. “Careers can survive worse than this. You just need to take control of the narrative. Right now, the media’s running wild with half-truths, and if we don’t step in, they’ll run you into the ground.”

Ben bristled. “Control the narrative? You mean spin the truth. Lie. Again.”

“It’s not about lying,” Mark shot back, his tone firm. “It’s about presenting the truth in a way the public can accept.”

“And who decides what version of the truth they’ll buy?” Ben asked, his voice rising. “The PR firm you’re about to push on me?”

Mark’s jaw tightened, but there was a flicker of something softer in his expression—concern, maybe? “Yes, I reached out to a PR firm. Hart Co. They specialize in high-profile clients like you. They’ve handled scandals worse than this and turned things around.”

Ben straightened, his shoulders stiff. “I’m supposed to let strangers tell me how to live my life?”

“They’re not here to dictate your life,” Mark said, his voice softer now. “They’re here to help you salvage it. Right now, studios are pulling out of deals, endorsement offers are dead, and your name is toxic. If we don’t act, there won’t be much left to salvage.”

Ben turned away, staring out at the city again. The sparkling skyline felt more like a taunt than a comfort. He hated feeling cornered, hated the idea of playing along with a system that chewed people up and spat them out. But Mark’s words bit deeper than he wanted to admit. Was there anything left to save?

“It’s always the same,” Ben muttered. “Smile for the cameras, say the right words, hope no one notices the cracks. And when they do? Start over.”

“Maybe,” Mark said, stepping closer. “But what’s the alternative? You let this define you? Walk away from everything you’ve built?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswerable. Ben clenched his jaw, the weight of it pressing down on him. He thought of the roles he’d poured himself into, the passion he’d once felt on set. He thought of the fans—the ones who still believed in him, who wanted to see him rise again. Did he owe it to them? To himself?

“Fine,” he said at last, his voice low. “I’ll meet with them. But I’m not promising anything.”

Mark’s shoulders eased slightly, relief flickering across his face. “That’s all I’m asking. Just meet with them. Hear them out.”

Ben didn’t reply, his gaze fixed on the reflection in the glass. The man staring back looked strong, composed—but he could feel the cracks beneath the surface, threatening to shatter.

Mark packed up his briefcase, his movements brisk but careful. “You won’t regret this,” he said as he headed for the door. Ben wasn’t so sure.

The door clicked shut, and Ben’s phone buzzed again. He didn’t look. He already knew what it would say. Another headline, another reminder of how far he’d fallen.

He turned back to the window, the city stretching endlessly before him. For the first time in weeks, a flicker of something stirred in him—not hope, exactly, but something close. Maybe this meeting with Hart Co. wouldn’t change anything. Or maybe, just maybe, it would be the first step toward something real.