“Felix, if we could—”
“Save it.” He steps toward me, invading my space. The crew falls silent. “Everything went sideways when Lawrence pulled out. I should have walked when they couldn’t recast with someone who understands the physicality required.” His finger jabs the air inches from my face. “Someone who can sell the action.” Several crew members avert their eyes, uncomfortable with his aggressive stance.
“The sequence follows exactly what we’ve been practicing for weeks,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “If you could give me specific direction on what’s not working—”
“What exactly is your role here?” His words drip with condescension.
“Excuse me?”
“Your job title. What is it?”
“I’m the lead actress.” Each word tastes bitter.
“Then start acting like one!” He yanks at his hair like a mad scientist. “I shouldn’t have to spell it out. We have one shot at tomorrow’s underwater sequence, and you can’t even nail the setup.”
Weeks of biting my tongue, of maintaining professionalism, of working within his vague parameters. My eyes burn with tears that I refuse to let fall. Not here. Not for him.
“I’m trying my best, but your feedback isn’t actionable.”
These ambiguous criticisms are infuriating.
All bluster, no substance.
What concrete direction am I supposed to extract from that? Does he communicate differently with his male leads, some unspoken shorthand I’m not privy to? The thought makes my jaw clench.
I want to throw something. Preferably at his head.
“Trying?” His sneer twists his face into something ugly and cruel. “Where’s the raw sex appeal? The money shots?” Behind me, the wooden dock creaks beneath us as Dante shifts closer, his familiar presence solid at my back. “The studio pays for eye candy and explosions, sweetheart, not some PBS special!”
Each insult hits like a slap. So much worse than a wooden sword to the jaw.
This wasn’t part of the dream. Not during that first audition, not during training, not during those late-night script readings where I discovered who Robyn Hood really was. This isn’t how I imagined proving myself.
“I think we should take five,” I say, keeping my voice level despite my racing heart. “Give everyone a chance to reset—”
“Oh, now you’re directing too? These divas nowadays.” His gaze sweeps the crew like a searchlight, hunting for allies, but he finds only averted eyes. “Tell me, Sinclair, who exactly did you have to sleep with to land this role?”
There it is—the ugly truth. A familiar burn spreads through my chest, radiating outward until it reaches my fingertips. No matter how much I prepare, how hard I work, how deeply I understand my craft, to men like Felix, I’ll always be just a body to be desired or dismissed.
I taste blood where I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” Dante growls, and I’ve never heard that edge in his voice before, not even during that mess with Nick. The hair on my arms stands up as the rest of the stunt team silently forms ranks behind me.
Felix takes a step back, his shoe scuffing against the wooden dock. I watch as realization dawns on his face—he’s alone against a wall of people who make their living taking controlled falls from buildings.
But wounded egos are dangerous things.
“Listen here, pretty boy,” he snarls, compensating. “Go white knight on your own time, not the studio’s dime. We all know you’re just trying to get in her pants. She’s nothing but another—”
“Finish that sentence,” Dante says through gritted teeth. “I dare you.” He draws himself up to his full height. The entire crew holds its breath, and the birds seem to go quiet.
My heart stops, then restarts with a vengeance. My hands start to shake as the frustration I’ve been suppressing all morning finally surfaces, burning in my throat.
“This isn’t about the scene, is it?” I struggle with the clasps on my costume, the impractical metal breastplate and exposed midriff that make stealth scenes laughable. “This is about me refusing to film soft-core porn disguised as an action sequence. Because that’s not in my contract, Mr. Langford.”
“I was making blockbusters while you were still playing with dolls. Your artistic integrity means jack shit when you can’t grasp what sells tickets. But please, enlighten me about how your little romance movies trump my Oscar wins.”
“Enough.” I finally wrench off the chest plate with a satisfying click, followed by the heavy chain mail belt—the physical embodiment of how he’s trying to transform this character—and drop them at Felix’s feet. I pull out the extensions that have been causing me a headache all day and wipe at the excessive makeup.
