My cheeks burn.
Robyn is attacking the sheriff. Why should she be vulnerable right now?
“I can try it that way, but it may take away from Robyn’s momentum.”
He exchanges glances with one of the studio executives hovering nearby, his jaw working as if chewing on words he can’t say in front of witnesses. “Look, I get the whole female empowerment angle. I do, trust me—I have a daughter, okay? But maybe having you deliver the line naturally, instead of forcing a tough-lady persona, will help you nail it.”
Well, that’s one way to tell me my acting is atrocious.
“Sure, let’s try it that way.” I can’t let him make me feel small.
The costume department descends on me again. I struggle with the chest plate, fingers clawing at the pinching metal. “Ouch, these leather straps are driving me mad,” I hiss, my words barely audible over the set noise.
“Not your best wardrobe.” Dante’s voice slides in from behind, hot breath tickling my ear. My stomach lurches as he materializes beside me, too close for comfort.
I backpedal. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it, I—”
“My sisters would kill me if they saw this scene.” He cuts me off with a casual shrug, leaning against a nearby set piece.
“Your sisters?” I spin toward him. “I didn’t know about them.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, revealing I’d memorized—I mean, happened to read about—the three brothers he’s mentioned in countless interviews.
“They’re huge fans of yours.” His eyes spark with amusement. “Been begging me for your autograph since I got on set.”
“Oh.”Eloquent, Reese. I’m absolutely crushing this conversation. I cross my arms, skepticism dripping from my voice. “Is that why you’re such a sudden feminist now?” I immediately want to dissolve into the floor.
“Fuck yeah,” he fires back without hesitation, “but in no way am I claiming to be a perfect ally. I know fighters, though, and whatever suggestions Felix has aren’t true for a warrior like you.”
“I—” The words catch in my throat as Dante moves with lightning speed. Suddenly, he’s in front of me again, his blade glinting under the set lights.
He drops his voice to a commanding whisper. “Since you won’t let me inspect the weight of your sword, try holding it with two hands. Keep your shoulders squared and your knees bent.”
I wind my fingers over the hilt. “Like this?”
“Weapon hand near the guard, the other on the pommel when you pick it up.” His lips curl into a seductive, megawatt smile, and—against all odds—something inside me loosens.
I walk back to my starting position, feeling the heat of his gaze on the back of my neck.
“Rolling!” Felix shouts.
We run through the scene again. When I charge forward, I snatch up the weapon. I pray the movement looks more graceful than it feels as I follow Dante’s suggestion and hold it with both hands.
“Hey, Sheriff!” I shout.
Dante hesitates for a heartbeat until I give him a subtle signal, my eyes widening. His own flash with recognition as he delivers the line.
“Oh, how delightful,” he drawls, circling me like a predator. “The common folk show such spirit. But surely you understand, taxes are the crown’s divine right.”
I go to strike, but the sword betrays me and falls out of both my hands with a cramp. The blade clatters to the ground, the metallic ring echoing across the silent set.
“Cut!” Felix stalks toward me, the crew parting before him like sheep fleeing from a hungry wolf. “This is pathetic. You won’t infuse sex appeal into the role; you can’t manage your weapon.” His voice slices through the air. “Your agent promised me an actress who could handle both the physical and emotional demands of this role.”
“The stumbling matches Robyn’s character at this point in the story,” I blurt out, my voice trembling with desperation. The excuse tastes like ash in my mouth as Felix’s eyes narrow.
“Oh darling,” he drones, “you’re supposed to act uncertain, not embody it.” He wheels toward the crew, his voice deliberately loud enough for everyone to hear. “The studio specifically wanted someone who could do their own stuntsfor this role—no doubles, no CGI tricks. We’re paying triple-A action movie rates for someone who claimed they could handle fight choreography. Instead, we got…” He gestures vaguely at me, leaving the insult unspoken.
“What we got,” he continues, yanking off his glasses, “is a pretty face who can’t deliver a single line without stumbling. Sure, you’ll look great on the poster, but at what cost?” He massages his temples. “Each reshoot day burns through a quarter million dollars, and the investors are breathing down my neck.”
My eyes drop to my boots, the lump in my throat threatening to choke me.
