….
“Angelina Jolie,” she said simply, offering her name without any posturing.
She gestured with her chin toward an inner circle of high-profile guests in the center of the terrace.
“My father brought me here.
He thinks I need to ‘learn how to fit in.’ But look at this room…”
She scanned the laughing studio execs, her disgust completely undisguised.
“They don’t want talent.
They want an accessory…
or a pet.
And you don’t look like pet material.”
“Are you saying I look more like a gladiator?”
Alex raised an eyebrow, a flash of razor-sharp intensity flickering in his eyes before vanishing smoothly back behind his calm, composed expression.
“I’m still looking for my arena,” Alex added smoothly, tapping his cheek.
“Different arenas require different tools.
A professional smile is one of them, though mine clearly isn’t sharp enough to cut through this crowd tonight.”
“Or maybe you haven’t found a reason to drop the mask,” Julie replied, her dark eyes flashing with a hint of provocation.
“I wonder what Mr.
Shawn looks like when he stops playing polite.”
Alex kept his tone even.
“Different battlefields, different rules.
If you show your teeth too early in a room like this, security escorts you to the curb, and then you’ve wasted your car rental money.”
Julie stared at him.
The irritation in her eyes gave way to genuine curiosity.
Here was a guy in a tailored suit navigating a room that was actively ignoring him—yet he admitted it with total, unbothered transparency.
“Smart,” she murmured, a quiet, raspy laugh escaping her lips.
“Free champagne, a front-row seat to the hyena show…”
She paused, looking back toward the center of the room.
“…and a free lesson in staying sober.”
Alex raised his glass, his smile softening into something real.
“To staying clear-headed.”
The word sober seemed to strike a chord.
The sharp, defensive posture Julie had maintained all evening began to loosen, revealing a weary, restless intensity underneath.
She raised her untouched glass in a quiet, symbolic toast, watching the dark liquid swirl against the crystal.
“Clear-headed?” she repeated softly.
“In a place like this, that’s harder to find than a good script.”
She finally took a small sip of her drink, wincing slightly at the taste before swallowing it down.
Alex relaxed his stance, leaning back against the cool marble pillar beside her.
“It looks like getting through the front door came with a steep price tag.”
His gaze drifted subtly toward her dark, conservative dress—a piece that clearly looked chosen by someone else to make her look ‘presentable.’
Julie followed his look, tugging at her sleeve with a quiet, self-deprecating snort.
“The price?” She looked up, her eyes sharp.
“The price is standing here in a ridiculous outfit like a display mannequin, listening to a bunch of vultures talk about how much meat they can strip off their next project.”
“Your father?” Alex asked gently, looking over at the distinguished, Oscar-winning actor holding court in the center of the terrace.
“Jon Voight?”
“Who else?” Julie’s voice was nonchalant, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable.
“The great Jon Voight decided to perform a rare act of fatherly duty, remembering he has a daughter who needs to ‘see how the real world works.'”
“A movie star father,” Alex remarked, keeping his tone carefully balanced.
“Door-opener?”
The word seemed to hit a raw nerve.
Julie turned her head sharply, her eyes burning with instant rebellion.
“Who needs him to pave anything?
Who gives a damn about his ‘guidance’?
I don’t need his name, and I don’t need his favors to make a life for myself!”
Her words came out like a sudden burst from a long-suppressed valve.
Alex didn’t interrupt or offer cheap advice; he simply listened with a calm, non-judgmental quiet that let her vent without feeling evaluated.
Sensable of his steady presence, her breathing gradually evened out.
She looked past his shoulder toward her father, her expression a turbulent mix of anger, distance, and old resentment.
“My parents split when I was young,” she said quietly, her voice dropping an octave.
“It was messy.
My brother James and I grew up with my mother.
I went to Beverly Hills High—surrounded by rich kids who made sure I knew I didn’t fit in.
I wore second-hand clothes and took modeling gigs just to help cover rent.”
Alex listened silently.
He understood that dynamic completely—the contrast of carrying a famous surname while living through financial instability and social isolation.
It explained her prickliness, her defensive edge, and her absolute refusal to let anyone define her as “Jon Voight’s daughter.”
Seeing that Alex wasn’t judging her or fishing for gossip, Julie opened up further, talking about her teenage years, her garage band, and the chaotic, anti-establishment phase she had plunged into to carve out an identity of her own.
In a later decade of endless tabloid media, those raw, unfiltered admissions would have been headline fodder.
But standing in the shadows of a Bel-Air terrace, it was just a young, fiercely independent woman laying out her truths to someone who actually listened.
Alex knew how Hollywood worked.
Stars had chaotic pasts, but in this town, talent and camera authority ultimately dictated who survived the long haul.
Then, looking out over the flickering lights of the estate, Julie dropped her gaze and quietly admitted something that caught Alex entirely off guard…
….
-Krazybro