Best Man Wins [Episode]

INT. HOTEL SUITE, LOS ANGELES, EVENING

The room was sprawling, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a full bar, a living area with big windows overlooking Sunset Boulevard. Dorian Cass, 42, actor, comedy legend turned dramatic darling, stood in front of a full length mirror adjusting the cuffs of his suit. Navy tuxedo, perfectly tailored. Hair just messy enough to seem effortless. He looked good and he knew it.

Behind him, sprawled across the couch in a crisp but slightly wrinkled white shirt and undone bowtie, was Owen Vance, 43. His best friend. Movie star. The kind of good looking that got called "classic" in articles. They'd met in acting school in the '00s, did off Broadway together, sitcoms, indie movies. Their paths split, Dorian veered sharp into prestige roles, Owen went blockbuster. Now, here they were again. Full circle. Nominated against each other for Best Actor at the Monarch Awards.

Owen yawned."If I win, I'm gonna thank that acting coach you hated in '04. What was her name? Janine?"

"She told me I had the 'emotional range of a thumb,'" Dorian muttered, adjusting his collar.

Owen laughed."Well, your thumb made it all the way to the Monarchs. Good job, buddy."

Dorian gave a thin smile."Likewise."

"Seriously, though," Owen said, sitting up, rubbing his face. "It's weird, right? Us being here. Nominated. I mean, I don't even care if I lose. I just want one of us to take it."

Dorian nodded."Same."

He didn't mean it.

⸻

INT. CAR, NIGHT

They rode in a black Escalade, Dorian by the window, Owen cracking jokes to the driver, flashing smiles, radiating charisma. Dorian scrolled his phone. Texts from his publicist. His manager. A reminder that they were seated at Table 3, near the front. Close enough to see every twitch in the winner's face.

Owen nudged him."Nervous?"

"No."

"Liar."

"I'm just thinking."

"About what?"

Dorian didn't answer. He stared out the window. Red carpet ahead.

⸻

INT. AWARDS HALL, LATER

It was packed. Glittering. Loud. They walked the carpet together, Dorian answering questions dryly while Owen turned on the charm. Cameras loved them, "longtime friends, friendly rivals," headlines would say. The internet would love it.

Inside, champagne was poured. The show dragged. The air conditioning didn't work right. Dorian dabbed his forehead with a napkin.

Then, the category.

"...and the Monarch for Best Actor in a Leading Role goes to..."

A pause.

"Owen Vance!"

Owen hugged Dorian first. A long, tight hug. Clutching the back of his neck. He whispered something that didn't register, and then jogged up the steps.

Dorian clapped. Smiled. On cue. He watched Owen take the statue. Saw him tear up. He gave his speech, thanked Dorian third, after his agent and mother.

The cameras caught Dorian's grin. It looked genuine.

⸻

INT. HOTEL SUITE, LATER THAT NIGHT

Owen dropped the award on the bar counter like it was nothing."It's heavier than it looks."

Dorian poured two glasses of whiskey."You looked good up there."

"Yeah?"

"You sold it."

"Thanks, man."

Owen looked genuinely happy. He kicked off his shoes, sank onto the couch, stared at the award like it was surreal.

"I feel like I should be more excited," he said. "Is that weird?"

Dorian handed him a glass."It's probably the adrenaline. Or the alcohol."

They drank.

Owen went on:"I mean, it's a nice moment. But... I don't know. What now? Just do more press? More work?"

Dorian took a long sip."You could take a break."

"Yeah. Maybe. Go to the lake house. You still have yours?"

"No. Sold it. Taxes."

Owen nodded."Come with me, though. I'll be there all week. Quiet. No press. You could use a breather too."

Dorian stared at him."Sure," he said.

⸻

EXT. LAKE HOUSE, THREE DAYS LATER

The place was remote. Upstate. Trees. A long gravel driveway. Cabin style, expensive but not flashy. Inside: open concept, stone fireplace, wide windows looking out over the water.

They cooked steaks the first night. Sat on the deck, drinking wine. Dorian smoked. Owen didn't.

By night three, the weather turned. Cold rain all day. Owen watched movies on the projector while Dorian scrolled through news articles about the award show. Every picture of them together, Owen was smiling. Dorian looked neutral.

Neutral. Always neutral.

⸻

INT. LAKE HOUSE, KITCHEN, NIGHT

Owen was in the living room, half asleep on the couch, while Dorian was in the kitchen. He opened a drawer. Pulled out a bottle of Owen's medication. Antidepressants. Read the label. He unscrewed the cap. Tipped half of the pills into a paper towel. Crushed them slowly with the flat of a spoon.

He moved carefully. Deliberately. No rush.

He poured Owen a fresh whiskey. Mixed the powder in. Stirred until the grit disappeared. Walked it to the couch.

Owen looked up, eyes red."Thanks, man."

Dorian nodded. Sat down. Waited.

⸻

INT. LAKE HOUSE, LIVING ROOM, NIGHT

The lights were low. Outside, rain tapped at the windows, steady and dull. The wood creaked when the wind hit the siding. Owen had one arm slung over the back of the couch, head tilted slightly as he watched the end credits of a movie crawl across the screen. He looked tired. Comfortable.

Dorian sat beside him, a few inches away. He held his own drink untouched, eyes watching the way Owen swirled the last of the whiskey in his glass before knocking it back.

Owen exhaled."God. That hit hard."

"Long day," Dorian said quietly.

"Yeah." Owen let his head fall back. "You remember when we used to get blackout on boxed wine? In that apartment over the laundromat."

"The radiator didn't work. You used to sleep in your coat."

"I was broke," Owen said, smiling. "You used to pretend to be broke too. Thought it was funny. You always had money."

Dorian didn't smile."It wasn't that much."

"Still more than me." Owen sat up a little, adjusting the blanket over his lap. "You know, I thought I was gonna win that thing. For real."

"You did win."

"I mean before. I thought I'd won before they said my name."

Dorian looked over."You saying you didn't expect it?"

"I don't know. I wanted it. Not for the statue. Just, because it meant something."

Dorian's voice was even."To beat me?"

"No," Owen said quickly. "Not like that. Just... yeah, maybe. We've always had this thing. You were always better, though. You never gave a shit what people thought."

"I gave a shit."

"Not the same way." Owen rubbed his eyes. "You didn't need people to love you. I did. Still do, probably."

Dorian looked straight ahead."You never said that before."

"Well. You never lost before." Owen chuckled. "Shit. I'm rambling."

"You're drunk," Dorian said.

"Not really," Owen muttered. "Just tired. Feels heavy. Like my head's full of cement."

He shifted to stand but staggered, his knees giving a bit under him. He caught the arm of the couch.

"You okay?" Dorian asked.

"Yeah. Dizzy."

Dorian didn't move to help.

Owen sat back down slowly. His hands were shaking.

"I think I need to lie down," Owen said. "I, I don't feel right."

"You should."

"Jesus. My chest..."

Dorian didn't blink.

Owen's breathing went ragged. His fingers twitched. He looked over, panic crawling into his expression.

"What the fuck is-Dorian?"

Dorian set his own glass down on the table.

Owen leaned forward, gripping his ribs."What, did you put something in that? Did you, ?"

He never finished. His body tensed, arms jerking slightly. Then he collapsed to his side, legs curling. Dorian stayed still, hands in his lap. It took seven minutes for Owen to stop moving.

⸻

INT. LAKE HOUSE, LIVING ROOM, LATER THAT NIGHT

The body lay still on the couch. The TV flickered with a paused screen. Dorian stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to the elbows, gloves on. He moved calmly, opening the under sink cabinet, pulling out a large contractor's tarp, duct tape, heavy duty garbage bags.

No tremble in his hands. No hesitation.

He dragged the tarp out across the floor. It rustled against the hardwood. He returned to the couch. Looked down.

Owen's mouth was slightly open. The statue he'd won sat beside him on the coffee table.

Dorian crouched. His voice was quiet.

"You didn't earn that."

He reached out and closed Owen's mouth. Then he began wrapping the body. First in the tarp. Then with tape. He was methodical. Every fold flattened, every seam sealed.

When it was done, he stood over the shape and cracked his knuckles.

⸻

EXT. LAKE, 3AM

Rain still fell. The lake was black under the moonlight. A small aluminum boat creaked against the dock, already half filled with weight: two cinder blocks, a length of chain, a shovel.

Dorian dragged the wrapped body down the slope. It took effort, but he didn't grunt or curse. Just dragged, boots grinding into wet earth.

He heaved the body into the boat.

⸻

MIDDLE OF THE LAKE, LATER

The boat rocked slightly as he pushed the cinder blocks into position. He looped the chain. Tightened it. Then, without ceremony, rolled the wrapped mass over the side.

It sank fast.

Dorian watched the surface settle. Then he sat, hands resting on his knees.

He said nothing. Didn't cry. Didn't frown.

Then he muttered,"Should've been mine. Everyone knew it."

He turned the boat back toward shore.

⸻

Dorian stood at the edge of the lake for a full minute, watching the ripples settle around the weighted body. Cold, black water sealed its surface like nothing had happened. He checked his watch, 2:43 AM. A deep breath came slow, like he was inhaling the calm.

He walked back up the path, wiping sweat off his neck with the sleeve of his tuxedo shirt. He bent to gather Owen's phone, belt, and cufflinks, everything he'd stripped off him before dragging the body down to the waterline. The phone went into his jacket pocket. The belt he flung deep into the brush. The cufflinks he crushed under his heel and kicked into a ditch.

Next: the award.

It sat in the backseat of Owen's Tesla, untouched. Dorian stared at it through the window for a moment before unlocking the car and slipping inside. He ran his fingers over the nameplate,"Owen Vance, Best Actor In A Leading Role, Monarch Awards,"and sighed. He didn't take it, not yet. He just needed to know it was there. That it existed.

He reset the seat settings to default, wiped the steering wheel and door handles with a microfiber cloth from the trunk. He left the car unlocked in the gravel lot beside the venue. To anyone else, it'd just seem like Owen got drunk and wandered off from the afterparty. Probably off with someone.

At the cottage, Dorian opened the fire pit out back. He burned Owen's tie, dress socks, and the monogrammed gift bag he'd ripped from Owen's dressing table. He poured whiskey over the flames to keep it hot. The heat licked up in a whoosh, eating through everything quickly.

Inside, he bagged the clothes he'd worn earlier, the ones from before the wardrobe change, and stuffed them into a trash bag. Those would go in a bin off the highway tomorrow. He'd already set an alarm.

His face stayed blank through all of it. He didn't pace, didn't mutter. Just moved with steady, methodical calm. The only time he hesitated was back at the sink, looking at his reflection as he washed his hands. He tilted his head like he was trying to read something in his own eyes.

Then he said it out loud. Not to anyone. Just to the silence.

"That should've been mine."

No anger. No grief. Just a low murmur...