Sugar, Secrets and Upheaval

Chapter 181 - Semi Retirement

As if a switch had been flipped, I woke up. I was jolted back to the hotel room, my body clammy, drenched in a cold sweat, every nerve ending screaming from the horror. The metallic scent of blood still clung to the air around me, and the image of Levi’s face, pale and defiant with that blade at his throat, was seared behind my eyelids, refusing to fade.My teeth ached in my jaw from how tightly I’d been clenching it. My stomach churned, threatening to revolt. I wanted Levi here. But he wasn’t.

I grabbed my phone, my fingers fumbling, and looked at the clock. It was… five AM.

I shot him a text, my fingers trembling as I typed, urging him to come back as soon as possible. Then, I pressed the phone to my forehead, trying to take deep, shaky breaths. Fuck. It was worse than Villain Levi cracking my ribs. My whole body felt like it had been put through a wringer; I’d nearly wet this hotel bed.

I forced myself to sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. I focused on the mundane details of the hotel room: the hum of the air conditioning, the light filtering through the curtains, the texture of the carpet beneath my bare feet.

I walked to the windows. I gazed out over the island country, Yaskaona. Below me, the city was a tapestry of opulent buildings mixed with old architecture, their stone facades glowing faintly in the pre-dawn light. The neon glow of casinos and bars flickered to life. Beyond the city, the vast, dark expanse of the ocean stretched to the horizon. Even with the breathtaking view, I was still trying to calm myself down, my breath hitching in my chest with every lingering tremor of the nightmare.

The door clicked open, and Levi entered the room, his voice a distinct slurry. “Are you alright… did something happen?” he asked, his eyes, slightly unfocused, attempting to gauge my state. Gods, he was drunk. As I turned to face him fully, my gaze snagged on his collar — a few flakes of white powder clung to the navy fabric.

Fuck no.

“Did you snort cocaine with your ministers, Levi?” I shot back, my voice hard, laced with disbelief and a fresh wave of disgust.

“I would never… do that to my septum. I prefer mine without a hole,” he replied, a smirk playing on his lips despite his inebriation. He walked closer to me, his steps unsteady, then tapped his pointer finger on his big, straight nose. I would laugh if I weren’t still shaking from the dream.

I need to tell him. But how do I even begin to explain the horrors I just witnessed, when he’s like this, trying to joke about his nose?

“What about that powder then?” I asked, my voice still edged with suspicion.

“I closed my nostril,” he slurred, a disarming smile playing on his lips, as if it were the most logical explanation in the world. He swayed slightly, then leaned his head heavily onto my shoulder, his black hair brushing my cheek.

“Tell me, dear… what happened?”

“I…” I slowly raised my arms, wrapping them around his back and pulling him closer, needing his warmth. “I saw a really bad nightmare… You were hurt.”

“Hm,” he hummed softly, and brushed his nose against my shoulder, a gesture that was both affectionate and incredibly clumsy. “I am alright… Just very… hot.”

Yeah. Drunk Levi equals stripping. I guess I was glad he hadn’t decided to shed his clothes in front of the ministers and their spouses, or worse, in the hotel lobby. It’s hard to connect the man leaning on me, smelling of liquor and warmth, with the boy who just put a blade to his own throat to escape a tyrant. This is the Levi I know, the one I love, who can be so endearing in his oddities.

“So you have become a furnace again?” I said and chuckled, burying my face into his shoulder, the warmth radiating from him almost stifling but comforting. “Are you sure you did not try to take off your clothes? You are really… warm.”

“I took off my… tie, belt…” he listed, his voice gaining a touch more precision as he thought. “But not clothes… I was going to take my shoes off, but you texted.”

“I suppose that’s one way to make an impression on ministers.”

“Am I supposed to… impress neurotypicals?” he said, his voice slurry, yet imbued with a note of disdain.

I pulled him closer, a soft laugh escaping me. “No, you’re just supposed to impress me. And you’re doing a fine job of that right now, even if you are a snob.”

He pulled back and looked at me. “I do not… think I did something to impress you; it was you being charmed,” he said before he blinked slowly, as if processing the nuance of his own statement.

“Liar,” I retorted, a hint of playful exasperation in my tone. “You said you would burn the world for me. Was that not to impress with your villainy?”

He thought for a while, his brow furrowed. “It was a… promise?” he offered, his voice slurred, but with a questioning inflection. “My cognitive abilities are… slightly diminished with inebriation.”

“Okay, you big, slow guy, let’s get you to the bed,” I said, pulling him by his arms. The moment my hands made contact with his left arm, a jolt went through me. My legs started to tremble, threatening to give out beneath me. The image of the Conqueror, tearing that soldier’s shoulder apart, all while calmly describing the gruesome process, flashed before my eyes. I was fixed on the spot, paralyzed by the memory.

Levi was flailing slightly. His chest made contact with mine as I looked at my hands; they were shaking. Before I could react, Levi threw himself towards the bed, his considerable weight pushing me with him.

“Levi, you’re crushing me,” I gasped, my limbs still feeling weak and unreliable. “Get off, you giant, drunken idiot.”

He shook his head, burying his face deeper into my shoulder, a low, discontented rumble vibrating against my ear. Gods, he was turning into a petulant toddler again.

“Get off,” I said again, my voice firmer this time, pushing against his chest. He groaned with disappointment. He crawled on all fours right above me, his frame suspended over mine, before flopping onto the other side of the bed.

What a bizarre thing to witness.

It’s so jarringly, wonderfully, infuriatingly Levi. In this moment, bizarre is safe. Bizarre means he’s here, warm, alive, and not bleeding out in a forest. And for that, I am grateful, even if he is a heavy, dramatic drunk.

I reached out to him, my hand settling on his shoulder. This time… it did not feel wrong.

I lay down, pressing my body against his back, and whispered playfully into his ear, “Levi, are you cross with me, hm? Because I did not let you crush me?”

“No,” he grumbled, but the way he shifted, leaning into my touch, made it evident that he wanted to cuddle.

“I will be the big spoon, alright?” I said, grinning against his back, already anticipating his typical resistance. Levi stayed still for a second. Then his strong arm swooped under my waist, and he lifted me, pulling me onto his chest.

So. I was not the big spoon. I was just a blanket now.

“Big spoon is a conceptual fallacy when one possesses superior mass,” Levi said. Then, as if to prove his point, he pulled me even tighter against him.

“Superior mass, my ass, you manhandle me anytime you want.”

“Yes?”

“I mean, I’m not protesting; I’m quite satisfied,” I replied, nuzzling deeper into his chest.

“Me too,” he said, a contented sigh escaping him as he closed his eyes, his breathing evening out.

“You need to change your clothes, though,” I said, remembering the earlier detail. “There’s still cocaine on your collar.”

“I would like to see Ascarian law enforcement attempting to arrest me.”

“Your arrogance is truly boundless, even when you’re half-asleep and smelling like a distillery,” I quipped, shaking my head slightly.

“Arrogant? No. I am simply competent.”

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

He is going to outlive everyone, trying to explain himself. As I felt more comfortable, safer, and warmer enveloped in his embrace, the last vestiges of the nightmare finally began to recede.

“Levi… Can we return a day later to our house? Can we stay here for another day?” I asked, needing more time in this safe cocoon.

“Presidential votes will be finished counting this morning, dear. I need to be in the country. But, surely, after that, we can visit any place you want.”

…

Hours later, the ordeal of being frisked by bodyguards began again. As we passed them, those two particular bodyguards, the ones who had witnessed Levi casually knocking that racist minister unconscious, offered us silent nods. We were then escorted to the private jet, the very one Levi had labeled ‘cheap.’

The moment he sank into the seat, he drifted back to sleep again, his breathing evening out instantly. Levi had once told me he did not dream, a fact that always struck me as strange. He, the one who lived through a waking nightmare, remembered nothing of his sleep, while I, who only witnessed a fraction of it, was tormented by its echoes.

At the hangar in Ascaria, the morning air bit at my cheeks. Levi and I parted ways there. He left to meet our first president. After that, he would proceed directly to his company, likely diving into a mountain of concerns. I, however, headed straight for our house, desperate for the solace of home after the harrowing night.

I sank onto our living room couch. The house felt vast and silent after the intensity of the morning. No… I need to do something to clear my head. The metallic scent of the dream still clung to me, demanding an exorcism. I pushed myself up and walked to my recording studio. The microphone on its stand, the soundproofing panels, the screen displaying my lesson scripts offered a welcome distraction.

I began with vocal warm-ups, running through scales and tongue twisters, forcing my focus onto the physical act of producing sound. Then, I moved to some of the scripts Madame Evanthe had given me — character monologues, dialogue snippets, even a few advertisements. I tried on different voices, different emotions, letting the words fill the space.

At my break time, a knock echoed through the quiet house, startling me. I… I was not expecting a visitor, especially not here. Puzzled, I walked over and opened the door. It was Jax. My agent? What the hell? I hadn’t seen him in months.

“Hello, baby, it has been a while.”

I forgot how insufferable he was. Gods, I missed my other agent; she was firm but respected boundaries. Jax was an opportunist piece of shit, cloying and manipulative. He was the one who had strong-armed me into giving that interview about refugees, reducing my real struggle, my people’s struggle, to nothing but a headline and public appeal.

“Hi,” I said, my voice a little strained, both from the hours of vocal practice and the sudden rush of mixed feelings. I stepped back, gesturing inside. “Come on in.”

“Mind if I do, sweetcheeks? Always a pleasure to see the golden boy in his natural habitat,” Jax said, sweeping into the living room without waiting for a full invitation, his eyes already assessing the space. “You are married to the Saint of Ascaria, and this is where you live? This modest place? Tch. Tch. Tch.”

What the fuck is people’s problem with our house? I mean, I was pampered at Levi’s ancestral mansion and wanted to move out, but… Levi also owned the woods around this villa, not just the house itself! It was a sprawling property, secluded and beautiful, with more land than most people could ever dream of. Gods, this piece of shit.

I took a step back, widening the distance between us. “It’s our house. We like it. Now, what do you want, Jax? Because I was actually working.”

“Working?” Jax turned his face to me. His eyes raked over me. “With what? Certainly not the movie scripts I sent you.”

“I am getting voice acting lessons.”

“Why? You do not like money or something?” Jax retorted.

“Funny, I thought my income was none of your business as long as you’re getting your cut,” I replied, my voice sharp.

“You certainly grew a bite,” he replied, an approving smirk playing on his lips. Without invitation, he sauntered over and sat down on the living room couch, his gaze sweeping over the space once more, a silent judgment lingering in his eyes.

I suppose he means I’m not the docile little star he remembers. And of course, he’d find that amusing.

“Remind me why I am stuck up with you, again, Jax?” I said, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, leaning against the wall.

“Ah, yes, yes,” he replied, a dismissive wave of his hand. He placed a heavy leather bag onto our glass coffee table with a thud that made me wince. The bag, overflowing, looked as if it contained a small arsenal of documents. “These are all good scripts, offers. Ads, movies, gigs, even reality shows. So,” he said, rising from the couch, “Time to shine.”

My stomach clenched at the sight of that bag.

Reality shows? Is he serious?

“What reality show? Like some more of that interview that you made me do? Going on the TV, maybe cleaning some debris in front of a green screen, while my people are tearing each other apart in a civil war in Cyrusia?” I roared, the question ripping from my throat.

“Baby, no need for dramatics,” Jax said, holding up a placating hand, his smirk not faltering in the slightest. “It’s called publicity. Keeps you relevant.”

“Oh,” I said, the single syllable sharp with a cold, cutting edge. I took a deep, shaky breath, trying to compose myself, to rein in the anger that threatened to consume me. “You despicable excuse of a human… Were you really planning a reality show over a civil war?”

“It’s entertainment. And you’re an entertainer. You think people care about geopolitics when they can watch someone beautiful struggle? It’s just smart business.”

Gods… I’d taken all those anger management therapy sessions, put in the hours, learned to control my impulses. But someone tell me one goddamn reason why I shouldn’t punch this prick.

“The fuck has gotten into you?” I yelled with a fresh wave of outrage. “If this is a joke, it’s not even funny; it’s just disgusting.”

Jax slowly rose from the couch and walked towards me, his gaze never leaving mine. He placed both of his hands on my cheeks, his touch firm. “Baby, it is business. It is always business. You disappeared for months, did not return to our gigs, did you? You took that award. Then? You just did some small gigs. When you are an actor who is married to the Saint, a twenty-six-year-old gay man… You need publicity. Let me tell you this, next year? You would pray to the gods for a bag filled with scripts. Every day you are losing money, capital, fame, and even talent.”

Every single word he uttered was a blow, precise and aimed to hit where it hurt the most. He wasn’t wrong about the visibility I was losing. But the way he framed it — as if my entire existence, my marriage, my identity, was just an asset to be leveraged for ‘publicity’ — it was repulsive.

“Do not call me that, and do not even dare to speak to me that way ever again,” I said, pulling my head away from his grasp with a sharp jerk. But this slime did not let me go.

“Raphael, the agency harbors hundreds of talented people. Every single day, you are occupying a spot that belongs to new individuals. The company did everything for you. When you arrived in this country, they provided you with a home, they taught you the language, and you even obtained citizenship and a work permit thanks to their efforts. And you repay that by simply disappearing on them? I am just a tool, like you. When a tool runs its course, it gets replaced.”

A tool. A replaceable commodity.

“I did not disappear, you piece of shit! I got married to the man who abolished the monarchy. I was busy,” I said, my voice rising with every word, and placed my hands on his wrists, my fists clenching, restraining myself from doing something I’d regret. “And you do not get to talk about my status! You weren’t even in the company back then, you idiot. I don’t know who told it to you, nor do I care.”

“Look, I get it. You’ve been through a lot. But hiding away, even with him, won’t solve anything. These scripts — they’re your escape, your platform. A strong role, a high-profile appearance, that solidifies your position, not just as Saint’s husband, but as the actor. Don’t you want to define yourself, rather than letting others do it for you?” Jax said, gesturing at the leather bag.

Damn it, manipulative asshole.

“Jax,” I began, but he cut me off, his voice softening, attempting a tone of genuine concern.

“This is not about my cut; I have many other clients. This is about you. Everyone in the company knows your story. You are singular. You are one of the only people in this country who is a Cyrusian, who has a public career in Ascaria. That alone means… everything.”

He thinks he’s appealing to my pride, my sense of responsibility, but it just feels… exploitative. Like he’s trying to sell my pain, package it for consumption.

“You want to talk about my origins, Jax? Fine. I bled to get here, not to be a marketable novelty for your agency. Don’t you dare use my past to manipulate me into your little reality show,” I snapped, my voice sharp with fury.

“Fine,” he said, pulling his hands away from my face. “Don’t do the reality show. What about other gigs? Winter is coming, Raphael; people need heartwarming love stories. Do you know how many offers I get in your name in a week? You are like a chum-covered golden boy in a tank of sharks. They all want you. They saw your latest movie, and they want more.”

“The offers come and can go, Jax,” I said, my voice firm. “The difference is, now I have the luxury of choice, a luxury I earned by bleeding, not by being ‘chum.’ I’ve earned the right to say no.”

Jax reached into the bag and started pulling out blue-covered scripts one by one, scattering them across our coffee table. “Look at this, Raphael, we’ve got everything here: a gritty noir, a high-octane thriller-action piece, even a quick, one-day sitcom cameo. And for the love of the gods, there’s an ad campaign for a major telecommunication company! Do you know how many people pray to the gods for just a fraction of these opportunities?”

He’s right about the opportunities. Most actors would kill for this. All these scripts, all this potential fame and money, it feels… meaningless.

“Jax, I… I want peace. I do not want to be in the public eye anymore; it is relentless. I am tired,” I said, sinking onto the couch and looking up at the ceiling.

“I understand a break, I do,” Jax said, standing behind the coffee table, his voice softening slightly as he tried a more empathetic approach. “But are you truly contemplating retirement at the mere age of twenty-six? Twenty-six!” His voice rose with disbelief. “You are so young. You have not even experienced half of your life’s potential, let alone your professional trajectory.”

I’ve experienced more life, more raw, brutal truth, in my twenty-six years than he ever will in his cushy, manufactured existence.

“You really picked the wrong day, Jax. Just leave me alone,” I said, my voice heavy with a weariness that went beyond mere fatigue.

Jax took a deep breath, struggling to compose himself. “I am leaving today. But I will call you tomorrow,” he said, his voice clipped. He turned and left the house, the front door closing with a click behind him.