Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Grace
The moment I stepped onto the production set, I knew something was wrong.
I had expected extravagance, a massive, high-budget spectacle designed to showcase DreamCrest at their best. I expected sleek efficiency, everything running on schedule with military precision. Instead, I walked into chaos.
Crew members rushed around frantically, voices raised over the blaring music playing through the speakers.
A massive LED backdrop flickered, cutting out for a brief second before resetting.
Costume racks were being wheeled across the floor, designers arguing over last-minute adjustments.
Cameras were set up in different angles, directors shouting instructions that no one seemed to be listening to.
And in the middle of it all stood Theo and Jaden—one looking like he was about to snap, the other looking like he was one breath away from walking out.
I moved closer, standing just outside the main production area, watching.
Theo was locked in a heated conversation with one of the executives, his voice low but firm, his posture rigid with tension.
Jaden, on the other hand, was pacing near the monitors, arms crossed, his jaw tight as he listened to a crew member explain something about "marketability" and "brand synergy. "
Dominic had told me to check in on security arrangements for the shoot, but it was clear that wasn’t the real problem here.
I didn’t have to wait long to find out why.
"That’s another twenty thousand we don’t have," Theo snapped, rubbing his temple as he stared at a revised budget sheet. "We already exceeded the initial cap, and now you want custom-built props at the last minute?"
"We need them for the aesthetic," one of the creative directors argued.
Theo’s expression didn’t change. "You needed them three weeks ago. Not today."
"We can’t compromise the vision."
Theo’s voice was calm, but it had an edge of finality. "We also can’t throw money into a fire pit because the director suddenly wants a different vision."
Across the set, Jaden was having his own battle.
"The transitions need to match the original cut," he said, voice clipped as he gestured toward the screen displaying the playback. "The edit you’re pushing ruins the timing of the chorus drop."
The director, a sleek-looking man in a headset, sighed like he was dealing with a stubborn child. "Jaden, I get it. You’re passionate about this. But the label wants a flashier edit. More mainstream appeal."
Jaden’s eyes darkened. "So they want a completely different song?"
"Not different. Just adjusted."
Jaden let out a slow breath, like he was physically restraining himself. "You’re gutting the entire meaning of the video. You don’t even understand the song?—"
"I understand the business," the director interrupted. "And this version is what sells."
Jaden’s expression didn’t change, but I saw the shift—the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his fingers curled slightly like he was physically holding himself back.
I had seen Jaden in the studio, had seen the quiet intensity he brought to his work. This wasn’t just a song to him. It wasn’t just a video. It was his art. And they were tearing it apart for profit.
I turned back toward Theo, who was still arguing over finances. "We can’t keep burning through cash at this rate. Do you realize how much we’re already spending just to fix your mistakes?"
The creative director huffed. "We’re investing in the brand."
Theo’s jaw clenched. "No. We are investing. You are wasting."
I had heard enough.
I stepped forward, speaking before I could stop myself. "All of this for one music video?"
Theo turned to me, acknowledging my presence for the first time. His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. "It’s never just one."
I glanced around at the chaos, the sheer insanity of what was happening. The costs, the stress, the pressure to get it right. "Why?" I asked, genuinely trying to understand. "Why throw this much money into something that people will watch on their phones and forget about in a week?"
Theo didn’t answer.
But Dominic did.
He stepped up beside me, arms crossed, watching the production unfold with an unreadable expression. His voice was calm, but there was something sharp underneath.
"Because if we don’t, we disappear."
I turned to him. "You really think that?"
He met my gaze, unflinching. "That’s how this world works, Dauntless. It doesn’t matter how good we are. It doesn’t matter how much we’ve already done. The moment we stop being a spectacle, the moment we stop giving them more—we become irrelevant."
I wanted to argue.
I wanted to say it shouldn’t be that way. That talent should be enough. That their work should speak for itself.
But I had spent enough time around them to know the truth.
Fame wasn’t security.
Success wasn’t permanent.
And the industry would never let them slow down.
As the night dragged on, the toll of it all became more and more obvious.
Jaden barely spoke after his argument, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. Theo went through dozens of budget revisions, trying to salvage what he could. Dominic stayed until the early morning hours, overseeing every last detail, making sure it all stayed on track.
And no one went home.
They worked through exhaustion, through stress, through the endless push to make it perfect.
Not because they wanted to.
But because they had to.
I watched them, watched the way they kept pushing, kept sacrificing, kept giving pieces of themselves away for something that might not even be worth it in the end.
And as the sun started to rise over the set, I realized something I hadn’t before.
Success wasn’t about talent. It was about how much you were willing to sacrifice.