“The pronunciation thing earlier? Brutal.” I drone playfully. “Are you always so merciless with your scene partners, or should I feel special?”
She turns, a sweet smile crossing her face. “I only sharpen my claws for the ones who can’t be bothered to learn their lines.” My blood sings at her bite. “Though most gentlemen have the decency to fake it better than you did.”
“Straight for the kill.” I laugh. “Fair enough. But watching you take me apart? That was something else.”
“Have you read page fourteen, section KD-33 of your contract?” She pauses, and I track the careful shape of each word on her lips. “No need to admit you haven’t. There’s a strict no-fraternization clause, so why don’t you be a dear and keep your energy focused on your lines instead of attempting to hide the fact that you don’t care for this project?”
I know the section. Todd made me recite it to him over the phone. These clauses appear in contracts when someone looks like Reese—beautiful in a dangerous way that makes men forget themselves.
I find myself wanting to impress her, to make up for my earlier shortcomings.
Perhaps showering her with praise will get her to warm up to me. “Maybe you’d prefer me admitting that your take on Robyn is revolutionary. It’s refreshing, new. I mean, compared to your other great roles, what you brought back there? It was impressive.”
“I take my craft seriously, and I don’t plan on letting anything get in the way of this movie’s success,” she says, sidestepping me.
“It shows, and if you ever want to take your sword fighting to the next level, I’d be more than happy to help. I’m working with the head of stunts and leading a team through some fight choreography each morning before shooting.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hastings, but Felix procured a qualified trainer for me. Nick Valentine has trained all of the best male action heroes of our time. I don’t need any additional lessons.”
“Well, I’ll be here should you change your mind. I do have a gold medal,” I remind her, noting how she unconsciously mirrors my posture—a dance of symmetry neither of us acknowledges.
“Yes, you’ve already mentioned. But it’s curious how you keep leaving out the details of your fall from grace.”
“Careful, Reese, you keep bringing up my career this much, and I might think you’re interested,” I say, leaning in closer.
“Definitely not,” she snaps, looking flustered. “What I’m trying to say is that people work hard on films; they dedicate their lives to thankless tasks to make magic happen—”
“Undoubtedly.”
“They work years for these opportunities. They don’t land them because of who they are or who their family may be.”
Her implication hangs there, tedious and predictable. The Hastings name is all anyone sees when they look at me. My father with his tech empire, Viggle, my mother coaching champions, my siblings stockpiling accolades for the family trophy room.
Everyone assumes my success came without any struggle or effort.
Yes, I have money. Yes, I know the right people. I won’t pretend otherwise. But there’s something reductive about assuming privilege eliminates all obstacles. The world sees the Hastings name, not the pressure that comes with it—the constant expectation to be exceptional.
Society runs on connections and capital—that’s just reality. I’ve learned to navigate it, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t earned my place. Doors may have opened for me, but I still had to walk through them and prove I belonged there.
“And you didn’t get cast as Robyn Hood because of who you are?”
“I’ve been in this industry since I was a child. I know what hard work means.” Her voice is steel. “Meticulous, calculated, exhausting work. Just last month I did an entire PR circuit for my latest film, started an intense workout regimen for this role, and shot a national commercial where I had to execute a perfectly timed dive into a pool of yogurt.”
I remember the commercial. The way she emerged from a sea of dairy like Venus rising from seafoam, except it was vanilla yogurt, and she was selling processed food to the masses. “Right. The ’Gurt ad.” My laugh comes out hollow. “Quite the cultural touchstone.”
“I’ve done what needed to be done, and I will continue to excel at whatever challenge is placed before me,” she says, and something in her determination makes me want to reach across the space between us. Instead, I watch her shoulders square, her posture as perfect as a prima ballerina. “I have earned every single role through dedication and sacrifice. And I will ensure this film receives the critical acclaim it deserves, with or without your contributions.”
The little crease around her eyes as she narrows her gaze at me sends blood below my belt. There she goes with the glaring again.
“And all I’m suggesting is we might understand each other better than you think.” I hold her gaze, watching her pupils dilate in the afternoon light. “And I’d like to prove it. Over lunch, perhaps? We could discuss…technique.”
“I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
“Who said anything about pleasure?” I counter. “I’d call it tactical planning. Two fighters comparing notes. I have plenty of knowledge to share with you, and you seem like the kind of person who likes to get intimate with their characters.”
“Right. Thank you for that impossible-to-refuse offer, Mr. Hastings. But I have a packed schedule with costumes for the rest of the day.”
She turns on her heel, walking away. Those damn blue jeans are a masterclass in temptation.
