Le Corbeau: Falling for the lead

TAKE TWO

Ronan Blake woke up to the unmistakable sensation of his brain trying to throb its way out of his skull. It was the kind of hangover that felt like punishment for a crime he didn't remember committing. Last night was a blur of too many whiskeys, way too much self-pity, and some questionable decisions he would spend the rest of the week trying desperately to undo.

He cracked one eye open and was immediately assaulted by sunlight slanting through massive floor-to-ceiling windows. White sheer curtains fluttered gently in the breeze, and somewhere in the distance, someone was playing jazz on a saxophone. It would've been charming if his mouth didn't taste like the very vice he had been trying to beat.

The couch beneath him was obscenely plush, with a lilac velvet throw blanket on top of him and a single pink feather boa tangled around his right arm like fluffy cuffs from a zesty Saturday night. He tried to sit up, instantly realizing it was a bad idea when the world tilted like a sinking yacht.

"Oh, good. You're alive."

The voice was crisp, British, and unfamiliar. Standing at the edge of the room was a woman in her twenties, dressed in all black, her hair scraped into a tight ponytail. She held out a tablet and a triple espresso.

"As opposed to what...being dead?" he rasped.

"Well, not yet. But if you miss today's call, your agent might murder you in cold blood." She shoved the espresso into his hand. "Drink."

"Who are you?"

"I'm your temporary PA. Clara. We met last night. You asked if I could get you a live swan for your bath."

"Did you?"

"No. There are no live swans in this part of France," she said, staring with a look of pure incredulity. Unaware of her silent judgement, Ronan took a sip and immediately coughed. It was like molten battery acid, but it jolted his brain into semi-consciousness.

"I'm sorry, but I don't remember hiring you," he muttered.

"That's because you didn't." Clara didn't look up from her tablet. "Your agency covered the logistics. Here is your schedule for today: at 2:00 p.m., you have a Zoom interview with Variety. At 3:30, a styling session with Thierry to make you look the part for the Audition. Then, finally, at 5:00, you're expected to drop in on a virtual conference call with the production team for Le Corbeau."

"I'm sorry, Le, what?"

"How many drinks did you have last night?" she chided like a mother to an unhinged teenager. "You have an audition later today for the English-language remake of the 1943 French noir. It's the literal reason you flew all the way from L.A. to Paris."

"But I thought it hadn't been greenlit yet?"

"Well, a whole lot can happen in one night." She responded, checking something off in her notepad. "Plus, finding a stellar cast would really cement the faith of donors in the project, hence the audition." Ronan leaned his head back against the couch and let out a primal groan. Clara on the other hand just kept going.

"You also have an urgent call scheduled with your agent. I assume it has something to do with the fact that you were trending on X last night. Something about karaoke, being drunk in a cabaret drag show, and getting hit by a motorcyclist."

"Hit or hit on?"

"Both," Clara answered without laughing.

"Oh, God." Ronan ran a hand down his face. "Tell me I wasn't singing Nickelback again at the Karaoke."

"I'd love to lie to you, but I don't get paid enough."

"s**t!" He stomached a rising migraine. "And did anyone else see this?"

"The nightlife in Paris has never really lacked patronage," she noted. "There were a couple of paparazzi at the scene, but your agent took care of that, or so I've heard." Ronan huffed and groaned, pulling a pillow over his face. But before he could sink further into shame, he felt a sudden tug at his foot.

.

"What the hell?" he whispered, trying to get a good look at what it was. Latched onto his sock like a tenacious little barnacle was a French bulldog.

"That's Pierre," Clara said. "Belongs to the owner of this suite. You tried to teach him how to salsa last night. I have a video."

"Where is this place even?"

"The penthouse suite of the Hôtel Ciel Bleu. You insisted on staying here because—and I quote—a man cannot find his soul in a budget room."

Taking it all in for the first time, Ronan squinted at the opulence around him. Gilded furniture. Art-deco lighting. A crystal chandelier that probably cost more than an average indie paycheck. Then, through the haze, he spotted the Eiffel Tower rising like a steel mirage in the distance. Right. He picked this room for the view, the perfect backdrop for his virtual audition.

Yes! The pieces began to click together. He had chosen the role of Doctor Remy Germain because it was considered a serious role, something with depth, grit, and an actual soul. Something he desperately needed right now. All through his lengthy career, he was accustomed to playing more level-headed characters in explosive action films or blockbuster comic-book sequels. However, being in an indie film like this one was unfamiliar territory, presenting a real opportunity for reinventing his image after his messy divorce and the Rio scandal. And now he was already screwing it up.

"God, I had totally forgotten about that," he muttered. "I haven't even read the script yet."

"Well, get yourself together, and I will meet you here by 2 sharp." Clara walked out, her flurry of schedules fading like the tail end of a bad dream.

Feeling free for the first time that morning, Ronan drained half a bottle of overpriced hotel water in a single gulp. He pulled his phone from the couch cushion. A few swipes through his camera roll told the story of the night before: too many champagne flutes and him pouting in a mirror like a sad, sexy ghost.

He opened i********: and winced at the flood of fan accounts tagging him in shirtless edits. One had superimposed angel wings on him with the caption: 'Jack Cross, Altitude Daddy #beekeepingage.' He rolled his eyes, liked a couple of the thirst traps out of habit, and closed the app.

Then, he remembered his escapades on Raya from the night before. He tapped open the app unsure where he was with his little fling or how the conversation had gone. Last night, he had set up a profile out of pure boredom, uploading a few old Getty Images from a Death Altitude premiere. His bio was simple: "New to Paris from New York. Just looking to hang."

Surprisingly, someone had actually matched with him: Léa. French-American, film industry adjacent, and an aspiring producer. Her profile read: "If you order a macaron and pronounce it like a macaroon, I will ghost you mid-date."

He liked that.

From what he could see, her messages had been warm but no-nonsense, completely unimpressed by his celebrity status. She had offered to take him to a quiet little patisserie in Le Marais with no paparazzi. Just coffee, pastries, and a shot at feeling like a real person again.

The date was scheduled for 12:00 p.m.

Ronan checked the current time on his phone: 12:39 p.m.

"s**t!" He dropped the phone so hard it flew from his hands and almost landed in a fatal position. He was definitely late.

Jolting off the couch, he sprinted toward the shower, yanking off his shirt mid-run and barely missing a decorative lamp that probably cost more than his first car. He was in damage-control mode: mouthwash, under-eye patches, and a frantic Google search of "how to not look hungover in ten minutes". Still dripping from the world's fastest shower, Ronan rifled through his suitcase. Everything was, unfortunately, designer-branded and over the top, with only his Calvin Klein Tighty-Whities giving a casual, ready-for-a-date vibe. In a fit of frustration, he threw on the least flashy combo—a white tee, a navy coat, and sunglasses, hoping it would do.

Then he rechecked his watch: 12:59 p.m.

As he rushed for the door, the bulldog whom he had mentally named "Jean-Luc" because he looked like he hated Americans clamped its jaws onto his denim hem.

"Off! OFF!" he pleaded, waving a sofa pillow like a sword. The dog gave him a look of pure disdain, released the fabric, and trotted off on its own terms.

With that diplomatic standoff resolved, Ronan caught his reflection in the entryway mirror. He tried to summon the built-in smolder of Jack Cross, America's favorite adrenaline junkie. But today, the smile cracked. His eyes looked tired, carrying a heavy weight of loneliness that no gym session could fix.

He tilted his head, forced the flash of the right grin, and watched the persona snap back into place.

"Okay, Cross. Get it together, bro, at least for today," he muttered to his reflection.

He rolled his shoulders back, set his jaw, grabbed his keys, and bolted out the door into the wide Parisian light, running full speed to salvage his only shot at something real.