Page 39 of The Devil's Canvas

Demons love the show, though. All the lounges play it, and we get it on our personal devices. So I turn on the picture frame above the fireplace. I never use this stupid thing. I'd rather read. But my mother insisted it was all the rage on Earth. Aunt Selene told her.

The show comes on, and there he is—Ashton Pierce, draped in confidence like it’s tailored to him.

Everything about him is polished, deliberate. Sharp suit, styled hair, an easy smirk that says he already knows how this will play out. He leans back in his chair, perfectly at ease, like he’s the only one in the room who matters.

The show starts, and the intro music begins.

"Good evening, everyone!" he exclaims. "Welcome to Uncensored. I'm Ashton Pierce. I don’t ask the questions you want. I ask the questions you need. So let's get going with tonight's show!"

"Wow. So invigorating," I mutter.

"Tonight we have Oscar-winning actor Dominic Arden-Forsythe and Melanie Arden-Forsythe with us! They’re here to tell us about their upcoming movie, The Sun Will Forget Us, releasing in just two weeks!” Ashton continues.

The screen flickers, the lights in the studio dim, and the murmurs in the audience settle into silence.

"Let’s take a look," Ashton says smoothly.

The screen flickers, the studio lights dimming as the audience leans in.

Dominic and Melanie fill the screen, bathed in cinematic lighting, their voices hushed, aching, meant to pull the audience into something raw and real. The score swells beneath their words, subtle but deliberate, designed to make people feel something.

I don’t care.

Something flickers. A brief shift in Melanie, in the way she moves, in the way she looks at Dominic. There’s something familiar there.

I recognize it instantly.

Ophelia.

It’s diluted, watered down, barely there—but I feel it. And yet, even with that stolen spark, she still manages to just be mediocre.

I exhale, slow, amused. To take Ophelia’s gift and still suck? That’s laughable.

The clip ends. The audience erupts into applause.

"Now let's welcome Dominic and Melanie to the stage!" Ashton announces, his voice smooth, practiced.

The applause swells as they step out.

Dominic walks first, moving easily, naturally—polished, but not obnoxious. The suit fits well, the posture is effortless, and if he’s tired of the cameras, he hides it well. He looks like what he’s supposed to be: an Oscar-winning actor at the peak of his career.

A vision in something over-the-top, every detail meticulously planned. The dress clings just right, sequins catching the light like she’s trying to blind everyone in the first row. Her makeup is too perfect, her smile too poised, her wave too rehearsed.

Dominic looks like himself. Melanie looks like a performance.

I lean back, unimpressed. She was already unbearable on-screen—this is just worse.

The screen flickers, the studio lights dimming as the audience leans in.

Ashton’s smirk widens, like he’s been waiting for this. “Now, I can’t have you both here without asking about the wedding.”

The audience erupts into applause, cheers rolling through the studio. Ridiculous.

On-screen, Melanie lights up instantly. She tilts her head just enough to catch the best angle, smile dazzling, effortless, so perfectly staged it’s almost impressive.

"Oh, it was perfect. Absolutely perfect."

I barely look at her. I’m watching Dominic.

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