The production-wide email arrived like a death sentence: shooting cancelled for today.
I spent years climbing Hollywood’s ladder, and I’ve never had a director cancel shooting out of the blue, unless they came down with the flu. Even that’s a rarity.
What if this isn’t just for the day? What if this is a permanent termination of the project?
This is all my fault.
I messed up. I got a little too confident.
My mind races through the milestones, from that lucky break onClubhouseto becoming America’s sweetheart, churning out hit rom-coms like clockwork.
My career could be over. Who knows what Felix will tell the media. I thought I was okay with this, but with the possibility of messing up my image so close, I want to run.
“His team says he’s ‘regrouping,’” Heather says. My stomach lurches, knowing the studio’s gamble on me might have gone up in flames.
“Regrouping?” I grip the phone tighter, my other hand unconsciously touching where Dante’s fingers gripped my thighs yesterday. “I know I shouldn’t have lost it, but if you’d heard how he spoke to me—”
“Darling, that man’s ego needed deflating. You don’t snap without cause.” Heather’s tone softens. “Let me handle the suits. Meanwhile, those scripts I sent over…give them a look just in case.”
“This has to work,” I whisper, pressing cool fingers to my temples. All those hours of training, pushing my body to its limits, learning to be someone new—I can’t let it slip away.
“The jet’s fueled if you need an escape to LA.”
“No. He might return. I need to be here.”
After hanging up, I stare at my phone’s dark screen. The weight of responsibility crushes my chest—my career and hundreds of jobs hanging by a thread because I couldn’t swallow my pride.
Three sharp knocks break my spiral. Dante. My pulse jumps. My fingers absently trace my lips, which are still sore after yesterday’s adrenaline-filled angry kiss. One reckless moment. I can’t do it again. I got distracted, and that’s exactly what I said would happen.
My moral compass has completely lost its true north.
Felix will be back tomorrow. My racing pulse betrays my doubt.
Yet when I see Dante, it’s like coming up for air.
“Come with me?” He leans against the doorframe, all leonine grace.
“No. I should stay here, just in case—”
“Reese.” My name comes out of his mouth like a verdict. “You’re sitting here letting that prick’s ego trip eat you alive. The agents can handle this shit.” He looks at me then, and there’s this raw honesty in his face that makes my stomach clench.“Back in elementary school, I broke some kid’s nose. He’d been harassing my sister. I got suspended for it. Sometimes you do the right thing, and it costs you. That’s how it works.”
One month of working together, and he reads me like a well-worn script. Following him now feels like striking matches in a room full of dynamite.
“But what if he calls—”
“Phones stay on. But I’m not letting you spiral alone in here.” He extends his hand. Rationality wages war with want. This is such a terrible idea.
“Come on, what would Rob—”
“Don’t finish your sentence,” I scold. As if he knows the thing that would get me out of this cabin better than I do. But, against my better judgment, I take his hand anyway.
The early autumn air hits my face as we step outside. The set thrums with nervous energy, crew members trading worried glances. They greet Dante with easy familiarity, inside jokes, and casual touches, while giving me a wide berth. Untouchable.
“Miss Sinclair.” Marcus and two other stunt team members approach, their presence a welcome distraction.
“Marcus,” I smile.
He turns to Dante, eyes lighting up mischievously. “Regardless of whether or not we have a job tomorrow, our offer for today’s session still stands.”
