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Stephen wasn’t supposed to be there. Not in the strict sense. His dad’s studio wasn’t off-limits, and Ben had never once forbidden him from sitting at the big desk, flipping through books, or even borrowing the computer. But there was an unspoken agreement in the house, a code of respect: you didn’t touch someone else’s projects, their drafts, their mail, unless you asked. Especially not Ben’s.
And Stephen knew, crystal clear, that sneaking into his father’s email account to peek at a script he’d overheard him, Martin, and Ricardo discussing was exactly the kind of thing that fell on the “don’t even think about it” list.
But curiosity had burned through him all week, and tonight he’d finally caved. His heart raced as the file opened, lines of text coming alive on the screen. He skimmed, greedy for a glimpse of the story that had been deemed too “inappropriate” or “ill-timed” for him. Maybe they were right, maybe it wasn’t his project. Still—it was his career, wasn’t it? Didn’t he deserve a say?
“Got it,” he whispered, a triumphant little grin spreading as he snatched up the laptop. He turned toward the window, standing in that pool of pale light, holding it like treasure.
Which is why he didn’t hear the door open behind him.
“...What are you doing, son?”
The voice froze him mid-breath. He turned, laptop clutched tight, to find Ben standing in the doorway. His father’s tone was steady, maddeningly unreadable, no sharp edge of anger, no softness either. Just quiet authority, watching.
Stephen’s brain went blank. Then, instinct snapping into place, he clicked the laptop shut with a too-casual flick and plastered on the kind of smile that usually got him out of trouble at school.
“Uh… hi, Dad. Not what it seems.”
Ben didn’t move. His expression didn’t change. He just stared, arms loosely crossed, eyes fixed on his son in a way that said he had all the time in the world.
“Okay,” Ben said finally, voice low and calm. “Then what is it?”
That steady patience made Stephen’s skin prickle. His mouth went dry. For a second he considered telling the truth—blurting out that he’d just wanted to see the script, to prove he could handle it. But the thought of admitting he’d hacked into his father’s inbox? That would land him in deep, deep trouble.
So, panicked, his mouth moved faster than his brain.
“I was, you know…” he set the laptop back down on the desk with exaggerated casualness, avoiding Ben’s gaze. “Watching… dirty… mo-vies.”
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Stephen risked a glance up. His father’s eyebrows had inched upward, just slightly. Not fury. Not shock. Just… processing.
“You…” Ben’s tone was level, each word slow, as though testing them in his mouth. His expression stayed unreadable, which only made the air in the room heavier. “You were watching porn. On my computer.”
Stephen’s heart stuttered. He swallowed, his palms clammy, his brain screaming abort, abort, abort.
“I—” he started, but his voice cracked halfway, betraying him before the sentence even formed.
It was laughable, really. Out there in the world, Stephen Alleck was earning praise for performances that had critics calling him the next big star. He could disappear into a role, deliver lines with layered nuance, and bring entire rooms to their feet. But here, under his father’s steady gaze, he couldn’t sell a single lie. His face gave everything away. Always had.
And porn? That was the best he’d come up with? His dad wasn’t prudish; he’d always been frank about those things, practical even. The idea that this flimsy excuse could pass was absurd…and yet, Stephen had blurted it out, too deep into the pit to climb out clean.
So he doubled down. He shifted on his feet, forcing his eyes toward the floor, away from that steady stare.
“I thought you had some… here,” he mumbled, gesturing vaguely toward the laptop like it held incriminating files. His voice was barely above a whisper.
Ben exhaled slowly, the kind of sigh that filled the room more than words could. His son was lying—badly—and he knew it. The boy’s evasive shuffle, the way he gnawed at his bottom lip, the heat rising in his cheeks, it all screamed guilt. But not about porn. No, this had the flavor of something more deliberate.
Stephen had either done something colossally dumb or stepped into territory he knew was forbidden.
Ben’s jaw tightened. He stayed calm, but there was a new weight in his tone when he spoke again.
“Stephen.”
The single word made the boy’s head snap up despite himself.
“What,” Ben continued, each syllable firm, “were you doing in my computer?”
Silence stretched.
Stephen’s throat felt tight. His first instinct was to crack a joke, to smirk his way through it like he might with his friends. But this wasn’t Christopher or Brook or Jason he was dealing with, it was his father. And jokes slid off Ben like water.
The pressure in the room grew. Ben didn’t move, didn’t repeat himself. He simply stood there, steady as stone, leaving Stephen to stew in the weight of his own half-baked excuse.
And for a boy who had memorized entire scripts, improvised before directors, and nailed live interviews? He suddenly couldn’t think of a single line to get him out of this one.
Stephen shifted from one foot to the other, eyes darting between the laptop and his father like he could will the situation into dissolving. He opened his mouth once, then closed it. Then again…words tumbling out faster than thought.
“I mean—it’s not like—uh—everyone looks at stuff sometimes, right? I just figured maybe you, um, had… files or something—”
“Stephen.”
The word sliced clean through his ramble. Ben’s voice wasn’t raised, but it was sharp enough to halt him in his tracks. The steady tone left no cracks to slip a lie through, no wiggle room for performance.
“No need to dig deeper, kid,” Ben said, gaze fixed and unwavering. “Just tell me the truth.”
Stephen’s face heated. He bit the inside of his cheek, shoulders hunching like a boy half his age caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The silence was unbearable, and against his better judgment, he caved.
“…I wanted to see the script.”
The words tumbled out in a rush. He winced as though hearing them aloud made the crime all the more obvious. His eyes lifted, wide and pleading, trying to soften the admission with a kind of practiced innocence.
“I wasn’t going to do anything bad with it,” he hurried to add, as if that could erase the fact that he had broken into his dad’s email like a thief. “I just wanted to read it. Just to know what it was about.”
He shrugged helplessly, letting his expression tilt toward guileless, almost cherubic, as though if he looked small enough, harmless enough, it might dull the sharp edges of his guilt. The rising star, the kid who had been dazzling producers and critics alike, stood there in his father’s studio pulling the oldest trick in the book: if I look sweet enough, maybe this won’t seem so wrong.
The problem was: it was wrong, and he knew it.
Ben’s brow furrowed, his sigh heavy with equal parts exasperation and concern.
Stephen’s attempt at innocence, wide eyes, small shrug, a soft-voiced “I just wanted to see” hung in the air like smoke. He knew it was weak, but it was all he had.
Ben didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Didn’t even let out the sigh Stephen was waiting for, the one that usually came before forgiveness. Instead, his eyes narrowed just slightly, the calm edge of disappointment far heavier than any flare of anger.
“Cut the act, Stephen.” His voice was steady, clipped. “You think batting your eyes at me is going to erase what you just did?”
Stephen’s throat tightened. He tried to hold his father’s gaze, but it was like staring into a mirror that knew too much.
“Let’s break this down,” Ben continued, stepping further into the room, his tone carrying the weight of command. “First, you knew about this script. How?”
Stephen hesitated. Then muttered, “I… overheard.”
“Overheard,” Ben repeated, brow furrowing. “A private conversation between me, Martin, and Ricardo.” His words were precise, deliberate. “Which you then took and decided gave you the right to… what? Sneak into my studio? Open my email? Read my mail?”
Stephen’s shoulders curled in, his mouth opening—then shutting again. He had no defense that didn’t sound worse when spoken aloud.
Ben pressed on. “And instead of coming to me, your father, and saying, ‘hey, can I see the script, can I have a say?’ you thought it would be smarter to lie, sneak, and break trust?” His voice sharpened at the last two words.
Stephen flinched, his cheeks burning. He wanted to explain, to say it wasn’t about malice, just curiosity. But the look in his father’s eyes told him clearly: that wasn’t the point.
“And don’t even get me started on that dumb, silly lie you spat out a minute ago.” Ben’s tone dropped lower, unimpressed. “Porn? On my computer? You honestly thought that was a better option than telling me the truth?”
Stephen’s face went crimson. “I panicked,” he admitted, barely audible.
“Panicked because you knew you were doing something wrong.” Ben’s words landed like stones, not shouted, but heavy enough to crush the flimsy excuses Stephen had tried to stack around himself.
Stephen stood rooted to the spot, caught between shame and stubbornness. His father’s words had already stripped away the flimsy layers of excuse, but Ben didn’t pounce. He didn’t raise his voice or lay down instant punishment. He just… waited.
“Alright,” Ben said after a long silence, his voice calmer now, but no less firm. “Explain. Tell me why you thought this was the right move.”
Stephen shifted, his eyes falling to the floor. “I just… I wanted to see it. That’s all. You guys talk about my career like I’m not even there sometimes. And if it was a no, fine, but I should at least know why it’s a no.”
Ben studied him for a moment, then nodded once. “Fair. Wanting to have a say in your own career, that’s not wrong.” His voice softened for a brief moment before hardening again. “But the way you went about it? That is wrong.”
Stephen looked up quickly, as if that distinction mattered more than anything, as if it might save him. But Ben didn’t let the spark of hope linger.
“Let’s make this clear,” Ben continued, folding his arms. “Number one: you overheard a conversation that wasn’t meant for you. That already means you’re missing context. We weren’t excluding you to be cruel, we were weighing things you’re not supposed to carry yet. That’s part of my job. My responsibility.”
Stephen swallowed hard, his jaw tensing.
“Number two,” Ben went on, his tone sharpening. “You broke into my email. Do you realize how serious that is? That’s not just snooping, Stephen. That’s trust. That’s me not knowing if I can leave you alone with my work without worrying you’ll cross that line again. That’s not a mistake, that’s a choice.”
Stephen flinched, the sting of those words more cutting than if his father had shouted.
“And number three.” Ben’s eyes held his son’s, steady and unyielding. “You didn’t ask. You didn’t come to me, or Martin, or Ricardo, and say, ‘hey, I’d like to see it, can you show me?’ You assumed you wouldn’t get a fair shot, so you snuck around instead. That’s not how this works. Not in this house. Not in this business. Not in life.”
Stephen’s lips pressed into a thin line. His heart pounded in his ears, but there was no fighting back. His father was right, and he knew it.
Ben let the silence stretch before finishing, quieter now but no less pointed. “You want to be treated like you have a say? Then act like someone I can trust to handle that say. You don’t get respect by cheating your way into it. You get it by asking, by showing you can handle the answer, even if it’s no.”
Stephen’s throat tightened. The shame that had burned hot at first cooled into something heavier, a weight in his chest, pressing down.
“I get it,” he whispered, voice small.
Ben raised a brow. “Do you?”
Stephen hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I… I shouldn’t’ve done it.”
Ben let the silence stretch, then sat down on the edge of his desk, arms folded. His tone shifted, less lecture now and more explanation, but still sharp around the edges.
“You want to know why the answer was no?” he asked. “Fine. I’ll tell you.”
Stephen’s eyes lifted, cautious.
“That script?” Ben shook his head. “It’s not right for you. Not at this stage of your career, and not at your age. It’s heavy material, it’s messy scheduling, and it would pull you into waters you’re not ready to swim in yet. That’s not me doubting your talent baby, I know what you can do. But part of my job is protecting you from projects that will chew you up and spit you out. You don’t have to like that. But you do have to trust that I see a bigger picture.”
Stephen’s shoulders slumped. He wanted to argue, he always wanted to argue, but the conviction in Ben’s tone left little room. It wasn’t about keeping him small. It was about keeping him safe.
Ben exhaled and straightened. “Now. Consequences.”
Stephen’s head snapped up. “Dad—”
“No.” Ben’s tone cut through before the protest could form. “You lied. You invaded my privacy. You broke trust. That’s not a shrug-it-off mistake. So, you’re grounded. Until I decide you’ve earned back enough trust.”
Stephen groaned, flopping into the nearest chair like the weight of the world had been dropped on his seventeen-year-old shoulders. “Grounded? Come on, Dad, I didn’t sneak out, I didn’t do anything dangerous—”
“You hacked into my email,” Ben reminded him, unimpressed. “That’s dangerous enough.”
Stephen’s mouth opened, then shut again. He sank lower in the chair, arms crossed, a pout blooming on his face. When that didn’t earn sympathy, he went further—tilting his head just so, letting his eyes go wide, soft, almost glassy. His best “doe-eyed” look, the one that usually melted Nana or even Martin.
Ben stared, stone-faced. “Don’t waste those eyes on me, son. Not today.”
Stephen groaned louder, slumping dramatically. “This is cruel”
“It’s called accountability,” Ben said evenly. “You’ll live.”
Stephen huffed, muttering under his breath, “Barely.”
But beneath the sulk and the pouting, a part of him knew he’d gotten off lighter than he deserved.