What he wore to training today was pure torture—the loose tank did nothing to hide the broad stretch of his shoulders, the ink snaking down his arms like an invitation. And those shorts. Too fitted, too unfair, clinging to every muscle like he’d gotten them personally tailored to ruin me.
I caught myself staring more than once, heat crawling up my neck as my gaze dipped to where it shouldn’t go. Not that I could help it. Not when there is something there…a very large something that jerked in his sweats when we sat on the hood of his Range Rover.
My fingers work faster; a moan slips out of me.
Would it be so bad to sample him just once?
Water sloshes with my quickening movements, my free hand gripping the tub’s edge, knuckles white. French techno pulses through the bathroom. My breath grows ragged, syncing to its beat.
“Please, Dante. More,” I whisper, picturing his demanding hands guiding me, coaxing me to the edge. It’s enough. My legs shake, sending small waves splashing against the porcelain.
When was the last time I let myself lose control like that?
Afterward, I sink back against the cool tile, letting the water settle around me as reality seeps back in.
It’s frustrating, because I know this game—his low, sincere tone, the perfectly timed sweet nothings. I’m probably another chapter in Dante Hastings’s playbook. Yet that thought doesn’t stop the effect he has on me.
I hurry out of the bath, carefully removing my shower cap and running a brush through my waves. My eyes drift to the sticky notes framing my mirror—Be a leading lady. Trust your instincts.Mixed between them are Dante’s handwritten choreography notes.Stay groundedandLead with intention. Reading them makes my cheeks flush with a mixture of pride and lingering embarrassment from what unfolded in the bath.
After patting on my nighttime serums, I head to the living room. There’s a knock at the door.
Oh no, it can’t be him.
Oh no, what if he knows what I did?
My third regret is that I didn’t meet you sooner.Dante’s words fill my thoughts.
Inhale for four, hold for seven, exhale for eight. I open the door.
“Now what are you doing here?” I say flirtatiously, trying to mask my nervous anticipation—only to find a PA standing in the doorway with a large box.
“Hello, Miss Sinclair.”
“Hi, Casey.”
Without meeting my gaze, they hand me the box. “Mr. Hastings asked me to drop this off as I was on my way to my cabin.”
“Oh,” I stutter. “It must be, uh, more stunt notes. He likes to package them this way.” I laugh, trying to act natural, though nothing about this feels natural. The old Reese would never accept a mysterious package from her costar.
“Right. Well, good night.”
I shut the door, my heart racing, and take the box to my bedroom, pulling the curtains closed like I’m hiding evidence. I lift the lid and peel back layers of delicate tissue paper with trembling fingers.
Inside, the most gorgeous red gown I’ve ever seen pools like liquid fire—nothing like the pastels and florals that fill my closet. I run my fingers over the fabric, heavy and soft against my skin.
The dress is nothing like my usual red-carpet choices, the ethereal Elie Saab gowns, delicate Chanel pieces, or the romantic Carolina Herrera designs I’m known for. This one whispers of danger and desire. It’s beautiful, seductive—something my version of Robyn would wear without hesitation. Beneath it lie a pair of heels and a matching red mask, elegant and mysterious, like something from a masquerade ball.
I grab it out and hold it up to the mirror.Then I pull out my phone and open our text thread.
Reese
I’m certain I said no to the party.
Dante
What do you think of the dress?
Reese
