“No,” I groan, fighting the urge to step back, to put space between us, “the line is, ‘Oh, how delightful, the common folk—’”
“I saw your form during training,” he cuts in, as if I hadn’t even spoken. “And when Marcus and I were talking to the props team this morning, I told him—”
“You talked to the head stunt coordinator about me?” My bruised jaw throbs. Thank heavens for industrial-strength concealer.
“Part of my job,” he reminds me.Of course it is, Reese. “The distribution on this sword is all wrong for your weight and—”
“There’s nothing wrong with my weight,” I snap. Though the lightweight steel blade I expected to use today is a lot heavier than the waster I used for practice.
“Trust me. You’re perfect exactly as you are.” He pauses. “But each weapon needs to suit its wielder. That one’s fighting you because it wasn’t made for someone so…” Another pause; his pupils expand. “Elegant.”
I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or something else entirely.
Focus on the set, Reese.
The cameras. The scene.
Anything but him.
“Let me see that sword,” he insists.
“No,” I say, hiding it behind my back. “This is the weapon props gave me. I can do my choreography with it.” There’s nothing wrong with my sword. There’s nothing wrong with my technique. I can do this. I don’t need to be fussed over. I don’t need to be saved.
“Take it from the top,” Felix’s bark interrupts us. “Dante and Reese. Try to remember your damn lines. And, doll?” He turns to me. “For the love of god, strive to look like you know what you’re doing with that fucking sword.”
My shoulders instinctively curl inward before I catch myself and force them back. The weight of everyone’s stares presses against my skin as I reset.
“Oh, of course, Felix!” I chirp, bouncing on my toes. “I’ll do my very best to get it right this time!”
I still can’t land my lines with the choreography. It’s as if my body and brain are in open rebellion against me. During the first three days of shooting, I hit every one of my dialogue cues, but something about this sword renders me speechless.
This time, I’ll get it right. I have to.
Felix sighs at my response. Dozens of crew members scurry about, adjusting lights, checking equipment, and fussing over every detail. It’s a far cry from the rom-com sets I’m used to, where the biggest concern was whether my blush looked right. Here, everything is bigger, louder, more intense. The barrage of criticism isn’t helping either.
Is this what it means to be pushed to my limit? To grow?
Or am I simply out of my depth?
Maybe I’m nothing but an impostor in heavy armor, fumbling both my lines and my footing.
Still, I square my shoulders. Serious actresses don’t crumble. They command the screen.
From behind the grimy window of Robyn’s home, I watch the sheriff’s men terrorize our village set—their boots kick up dust on the weathered cobblestones. The props master spent hours arranging those knocked-over market stalls.
My heart races as I wait for my cue, trying to channel Robyn’s righteous anger. I spot Jeremy Vaughn, who plays our priest, taking his practiced fall as Dante looms over him. That’s my moment.
“Action, still rolling!” calls the assistant director.
I burst through the door.
“Hey,” I shout, charging forward toward the sword lying in the dirt. I reach for the weapon, but the grip still feels awkward.Wait, that wasn’t my whole line.“Sheriff.”
“CUT!”
Felix’s megaphone pierces through the air, and I flinch.
“For the tenth time,” he groans, “the line is ‘Hey, Sheriff,’ not ‘Hey,’ pause, ‘Sheriff.’ This isn’t working.” He paces through the crowd for a breath, then snaps his fingers. “Also, it’ll be better if you say it with some of the feminine vulnerability you’re known for?”
