Urban System in America-Chapter 257 - 256: Monica’s Confession

Monica’s elbow nudged his arm, snapping Rex out of his thoughts.

"What’s got you thinking so hard?" she asked, tilting her head, her sharp eyes scanning his expression.

Rex blinked and shook his head with a small smirk. "Nothing. Just... people-watching."

She didn’t press, but the knowing look she gave him said she didn’t buy it.

The old man on stage finally wrapped up his speech and stepped down, leaving the ballroom with a handful of other wrinkled titans of Hollywood. Instantly, the atmosphere loosened, like someone had just removed an invisible chokehold from the room. Laughter and chatter swelled back to life, glasses clinked, and the air felt lighter.

And then, like sharks scenting blood, a flock of people closed in on them.

From that moment on, Rex was sucked straight into Monica’s orbit. It was chaotic, overwhelming even, but Monica handled it with that perfectly rehearsed diva grace, smiling, laughing, exchanging polite greetings like she was born for this.

Several industry bigwigs: producers with fake tans, studio execs with fake smiles, and shadowy finance types who looked like they ate struggling actors for breakfast, approached them one after another with raised glasses and forced cheer.

"To Monica, the new queen of Hollywood!" someone toasted, and Monica raised her glass with a practiced, almost mechanical smile.

She couldn’t refuse these people, not all of them. This was the kind of circle where a wrong move or a cold shoulder could cost you an entire career.

Rex, however, had no such restraints. He had somehow taken it upon himself to be her shield for the night, intercepting drinks with a casual grin.

"Ah, thank you, but she’s at her limit," he’d say smoothly, before downing the glass himself like it was no big deal.

Monica shot him a look that was half amused, half grateful, but didn’t say anything.

They moved from group to group, meeting more of these "big names." Monica introduced him when needed but kept her answers vague whenever someone probed too much about Rex. Questions like "So, are you two...?" were met with a polite laugh and a deflection.

Meanwhile, Rex was quickly realizing just how fake this world was. Every other handshake came with a slimy smile and veiled interest. He received business cards left and right: cards with names of producers, directors, and even shady investors who made their money in "unmentionable" ways.

Some signals weren’t even subtle. A few women, and even one overly bold man (I don’t know if he can even be called man), slipped him their hotel room numbers with a wink that left no room for misinterpretation.

Rex almost choked on his drink when one brazen producer whispered, "If you get tired of the diva, come find me. I like fresh faces."

Monica caught his expression and snorted softly, leaning close enough for only him to hear. "Welcome to Hollywood," she teased, her tone dry but hiding a trace of bitterness

...

"Cheers," one of the execs slurred.

Rex clinked glasses out of politeness, swallowed, and turned toward Monica with a grimace. "I swear, your protection plan is killing my liver."

"And saving mine," Monica whispered without missing a beat. "Don’t be such a diva."

The drinks kept coming, one after another, and Rex, usually proud of his strong tolerance, was starting to feel it. Not drunk, but that slow, warm fuzz creeping in, thanks to the sheer volume he’d downed just to keep the vultures at bay.

When the crowd shifted and another group came barreling toward them with raised glasses, Monica grabbed Rex’s hand and muttered, "Balcony. Now."

They slipped away like fugitives and stepped out into the quiet balcony, a world apart from the suffocating warmth and clamor of the ballroom.

The cool night air was a blessing. It brushed against their skin like a reset button, clearing the noise and fake smiles that still echoed faintly from inside. The city stretched below, glittering under the moonlight like spilled diamonds.

For a while, neither spoke.

Monica leaned on the stone railing, her dress catching the pale glow of the moon, while Rex stood beside her, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of all those fake toasts.

Then Monica exhaled, slow and tired. "God, I hate this part," she muttered. Her voice was low, like a confession, and she set her untouched glass on the railing, staring at the swirling liquid as though it had personally insulted her.

Rex arched an eyebrow. "The part where half the room pretends they adore you but are really just sniffing around for a piece of whatever they think you can give them?"

Monica smirked faintly. "Bingo."

She glanced back at the glowing ballroom, her gaze sharp and cold. "It’s always the same, smiles that never reach the eyes, fake congratulations, people who suddenly ’remember’ your name the moment your first movie hits big. And the ones who don’t just want to use you... want to own you."

Her voice dropped, softer, heavier. "You know, it’s not easy... being the ’new hot thing.’ Everyone wants to touch you, claim you. Every smile hides a price tag. Every offer has strings." She laughed, bitter and quiet. "Sometimes I wonder if this industry is really about acting, or if it’s just about surviving long enough until they can’t touch you anymore."

Rex tilted his head, studying her face with a gaze that softened into something almost protective. "Sounds exhausting."

"You have no idea," Monica said softly, like she was speaking more to the night than to him.

She paused, her fingers tracing the cool edge of the railing. "The looks. The invitations. The unspoken expectations. And God help you if you say no. Then you’re ’difficult.’ ’Unprofessional.’ ’Ungrateful.’"

Rex scoffed. "Disgusting creeps. I’d love to drag them across the floor by their overpriced silk ties."

Monica’s lips twitched into a laugh, surprised and genuine. "Aren’t you one of them? You’re rich too."

Rex blinked, half-drunk, and threw a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Oops. Excluding me. I’m a different breed. I’m the hot, broke type."

Monica laughed for real this time, shaking her head. For a moment, the tension eased.

"Sorry," she said after a beat, her voice softer. "Guess I’m not supposed to complain to my ’boyfriend,’ huh?"

Rex smirked. "Hey, you’re allowed to vent. And I’m contractually obligated to listen since I’m apparently your stand-in prince tonight."

"Prince, huh? With those terrible dance moves?" she teased, her tone playful now.

"Hey, I got better by the second song!" Rex shot back, feigning indignation. "You’d be lucky to find a more charming disaster than me."

(End of Chapter)