TABLOID INTRO
TMZ
KHALID'S MYSTERY MISSION: IS THE PRINCE STALKING ROMAN HELTON?
We're hearing whispers that the Saudi royal has been asking around about the actress. He's trying to get into screenings she's attending. He's asking mutual acquaintances about her schedule. The question is: does Roman Helton know she's being hunted?
---
PAGE SIX
A PRINCE'S OBSESSION: HAS KHALID AL-RASHID BECOME ROMAN HELTON'S UNWANTED ADMIRER?
Sources say the prince is "absolutely fixated" on finding the actress after their gala encounter. Should we be concerned, or is this just romantic pursuit gone slightly unhinged?
---
NARRATIVE
Khalid bribes Roman's assistant.
Not directly. He's not an idiot. He has his business partner reach out to her agent's office with a "consulting opportunity"—real money, real work, nothing suspicious. During that meeting, the assistant mentions that Roman will be at a private screening Monday night. Los Feliz. Small crowd. Invitation only.
He gets himself on the list by Friday.
By Sunday night he's at his penthouse staring at his ceiling wondering what the fuck he's doing. He's 31 years old. He runs a multi-billion dollar portfolio. He's negotiated with heads of state. And here he is, engineering a "chance encounter" with a woman who eviscerated him at a party.
He goes anyway.
The theater is small, intimate, the kind of place where industry people pretend to appreciate "art." He arrives early, sits in the back, tries to look casual.
She walks in ten minutes before the film starts.
Jeans. Sweater. Hair in a bun. No makeup. She looks completely different from the gala—younger, softer, almost vulnerable. She sits three rows ahead, pulls out her phone, checks something. He can see the tension in her shoulders.
The film starts.
It's brutal. She plays a woman whose life is systematically destroyed by choices she made years ago. No strategy, no performance—just raw, exposed devastation. He forgets to breathe watching her.
When it ends, people filter out slowly, offering compliments. She smiles, deflects, performs gratitude. He watches her do it—the same calculation from the gala, just gentler.
After everyone leaves, he's waiting in the lobby.
She sees him immediately. Stops. Her expression shifts from neutral to something sharper.
"You're fucking kidding me."
"I wanted to see the film."
"Bullshit." She walks toward him, and even in flat shoes she moves like she owns the space. "You bribed someone to get on this list. Don't lie."
He doesn't.
"How much?" she asks.
"Does it matter?"
"How. Much."
"Five thousand. Consulting fee to your agent's office."
She laughs. Actually laughs. "You paid five grand to watch me cry on screen for ninety minutes?"
"I paid five grand to see you when you're not performing."
"I'm always performing."
"Not in that film you weren't."
Her smile drops. "You don't know shit about me."
"I know you're terrified right now. I know you weren't expecting me here. I know you're calculating whether to leave or stay." He stays where he is, doesn't move closer. "And I know you're going to stay because you want to know why I came."
She sits on one of the velvet benches. He sits on the opposite end—close enough to talk, far enough to give her space.
"Why did you come?" she asks.
"Because I can't stop thinking about you."
"That's your problem, not mine."
"I know."
She studies him, and he can see her trying to figure out his angle. "You want to fuck me."
"Eventually. But not tonight."
"Then what do you want?"
"To know if that woman at the gala is the same woman in the film. Or if you're someone else entirely."
"What if I'm both?"
"Then I want to know both."
She leans back against the bench, crosses her arms. "Most men can't handle both."
"I'm not most men."
"Everyone says that. And then they meet the version of me that isn't convenient and they leave."
"Try me."
She stands up abruptly, walks to the window. He doesn't follow—just watches her think.
"I don't do relationships," she says without turning around.
"Okay."
"I don't do the thing where someone decides they're in love with me and then gets mad when I don't become the girl they imagined."
"Noted."
"And I definitely don't do the thing where some guy who barely knows me decides he's entitled to my time because he paid five grand to stalk me."
"Fair."
She turns around. "So what the fuck are we doing?"
"Getting coffee," he says. "And talking. Like adults."
"And then what?"
"And then I go home. And you go home. And we both decide if we want to do this again."
She's quiet for a long moment. He can see the calculation happening—weighing risk versus curiosity.
"One coffee," she says finally. "And if you're boring, I'm leaving."
"Deal."
---
The café is small, open late, empty except for one other person reading in the corner. They sit across from each other at a table by the window.
She orders black coffee. He orders the same. She raises an eyebrow.
"What, you don't actually drink black coffee?"
"I do."
"Or you're copying me to seem relatable."
"I'm copying you because I like watching you react when I do."
She smiles despite herself. "You're annoying."
"You're testing me."
"Obviously."
The coffee arrives. She drinks hers too fast, probably burns her tongue. He waits.
"So," she says. "Tell me why a Saudi prince is obsessed with an actress who called him out at a party."
"Because you were right."
"About?"
"Everything. I was judging you. I was keeping score. I was standing in the corner like I was too good for the game." He leans forward slightly. "And then you saw me. Actually saw me. Not the title or the money—just the guy who was being an asshole."
"And that turned you on?"
"Honestly? Yes."
She laughs. "You're either incredibly honest or incredibly stupid."
"Both, probably."
"So what do you want from me? A project? A relationship? Arm candy for your next gala?"
"I want to know if you're as interesting as I think you are."
"And if I'm not?"
"Then I'll go away."
She drinks more coffee, studies him over the rim of the cup. "You won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because you've already decided I'm interesting. You've already convinced yourself I'm worth chasing. Men like you don't give up once you've fixated on something."
"Men like me?"
"Rich. Powerful. Used to getting what you want." She sets down her cup. "You see me as a challenge. Something to win."
"Is that what you think this is?"
"Isn't it?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "You want me to be that guy. Because that guy is predictable. That guy you know how to handle."
"And you're not that guy?"
"I'm worse." He leans back. "I'm the guy who actually wants to know you. Not the version you perform, not the strategy—you. And that's more dangerous than wanting to win you."
She goes very still. "You don't know what you're asking for."
"Then show me."
"I'll hurt you."
"Probably."
"I'll test whether you mean what you say."
"I expect you to."
"And when you fail—because you will fail—I'll leave."
"If I fail," he says, "you should leave."
She stands up. Walks to the door. He thinks she's leaving. Instead, she turns around.
"Next Friday. There's a party in the Hills. Bettie's throwing it—she's a producer, friend of mine. Come if you want."
"Will you be there?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. That's part of the test."
She leaves before he can respond.
He sits in the empty café for another twenty minutes, staring at his cold coffee, knowing with absolute certainty that he's fucked.
---
Friday comes.
He goes to the party. She's not there.
He stays for two hours, makes polite conversation with industry people who assume he's there for business. He's about to leave when his phone buzzes.
Unknown number: Wrong party. I'm at The Edison. Downtown.
He's there in twenty-five minutes.
The bar is crowded, loud, the kind of place where people go to not be seen. He finds her in a back booth, alone, drinking something dark.
"You came," she says when he slides in across from her.
"You texted."
"I didn't think you'd actually show up."
"Why not?"
"Because this place is a shithole and you're a prince."
"I'm a person who wants to see you."
She drinks. Sets down her glass. "You're kind of intense, you know that?"
"You're the one who sent me to the wrong party."
"I wanted to see if you'd chase me."
"And?"
"And you did. Which means you're either serious or insane."
"Both."
She smiles, and this time it's real—not performed, not strategic. Just genuine amusement.
"You're going to regret this," she says.
"Why?"
"Because I'm not the girl you think I am."
"Good," he says. "I don't want the girl I think you are. I want the actual person sitting across from me."
She's quiet for a long time. Studies her glass. "I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?"
"The thing where someone actually wants to know me. Not the actress. Not the wildchild. Just me." She looks up at him. "I don't know how to be that person with someone watching."
"Then don't be anything. Just exist."
"That's terrifying."
"I know."
She drains her glass. "I'm going to fuck this up. I'm going to disappear and cancel plans and make you wonder if I'm even interested. That's what I do."
"Okay."
"Okay? That's it?"
"You're warning me that you're difficult. I'm saying I heard you." He leans forward slightly. "But I'm still not leaving."
She stares at him like she's trying to see through him. Like she's searching for the moment he'll break.
She won't find it. Because he's already decided—whatever she is, whoever she is, he's staying.
"This is a bad idea," she says finally.
"Probably."
"I'm going to test you. Constantly."
"I know."
"And when you fail—"
"If I fail," he corrects.
She laughs, sharp and bitter. "Okay. If you fail, I'm gone."
"Deal."
They sit in the shitty bar until 2 AM, talking about nothing and everything. She tells him about her childhood in fragments—moving around, learning to read people, becoming whatever version of herself kept her safe. He tells her about duty, family, the weight of being someone before he was anyone.
By the time they leave, he knows three things:
One: She's more broken than he thought.
Two: She's more brilliant than he imagined.
Three: He's completely, irrevocably fucked.
And he doesn't care.
---
Over the next two weeks, she tests him.
She cancels plans last minute. He shows up anyway, waits at the restaurant until she texts that she's not coming.
She flirts with other men in front of him. He watches, unbothered, because he knows she's performing.
She goes cold for days—doesn't answer texts, doesn't explain where she's been. When she finally resurfaces, he doesn't ask questions.
She disappears for three days. When she finally texts, it's 3 AM. He answers immediately.
Each test is designed to make him leave. Each time, he stays.
By the end of the second week, she stops testing quite so hard.
They're at her apartment—she invited him over, not for sex, just to exist in the same space. They're on her couch, talking about films, and at some point she leans against him. Just slightly. Just enough that he feels her warmth.
"You're still here," she says quietly.
"I told you I would be."
"Most men leave by now."
"I'm not most men."
She looks up at him, and her expression is something he hasn't seen before—not strategic, not performed. Just vulnerable.
"I don't know how to do this," she admits.
"Do what?"
"Whatever this is. I don't know how to let someone see me and not perform."
"Then don't perform. Just be."
"That's terrifying."
"I know." He doesn't touch her, doesn't push. Just sits with her in the quiet. "But I'm not going anywhere."
She doesn't say anything. Just stays leaning against him, breathing, existing.
It's the most honest moment they've had.
And he knows, sitting there in her apartment at 2 AM, that he's already too far gone to turn back.
---
TABLOID OUTRO
PAGE SIX
KHALID AND ROMAN SPOTTED AT DOWNTOWN BAR—LOOKING VERY COZY
The prince and the actress were photographed leaving The Edison together past midnight. Their body language? Intimate. Charged. Are they finally together??
---
HOLLYWOOD REPORTER
KHALID'S PURSUIT CONTINUES: IS ROMAN HELTON FINALLY GIVING IN?
Multiple sources confirm the two have been seeing each other regularly over the past two weeks. While they haven't confirmed anything, insiders say "the chemistry is undeniable" and "he's completely smitten."
---
TMZ
Video: Khalid waiting outside a restaurant for 45 minutes. Roman never shows. He leaves looking... unbothered?
Caption: "THIS MAN IS EITHER IN LOVE OR NEEDS THERAPY. MAYBE BOTH." 😭
---
DAILY MAIL
IS ROMAN HELTON TESTING THE PRINCE? SOURCES SAY SHE'S "PUTTING HIM THROUGH IT"
Friends of the actress reveal she's been deliberately difficult—canceling plans, disappearing, making him work for it. The question is: will he pass her tests, or will she finally push him away?