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“Sunrise Battle, take one,” the clap loader called out the scene name before the familiar snap of the clapperboard indicated the start of filming.
Despite an unyielding headache and increasing nausea—maybe she should have had a bite to eat—Michaela fell into the dynamic character like she was born to it.
And she was. Nothing gave her a thrill like delving inside the skin of a new character. Learning who they were and adopting their personality for a period of time. Especially a character like this one, a warrior who clawed her way to the top for everything she’d earned in life. Though not the commander of a post-apocalyptic army, Michaela understood the struggle and perseverance to be the best.
To be more accurate, nothing had given her a thrill like learning a new role. Lately, everything in her life had become muddled. A day-to-day rush of promos, interviews, meetings, stress, and drama.
“Charge!” Michaela shouted an hour and a half later, thrusting her golden sword in the air as she commanded her troops to attack the warring faction of Armageddon survivors. The small army of extras charged around her. Later, in post-production, thousands of additional soldiers would be added via CGI.
“Hold steady!” the director hollered, springing from his chair. He followed next to the camera panning her face, then shouted an irritated, “Cut!”
Michaela’s arm dropped to her side. Damn, that blade was heavier than it looked. What the hell was Francola’s problem now? This director wasn’t satisfied with her scenes if she didn’t shoot and reshoot them seventy times.
“Scarlett!” he bellowed as he waved her over. His gaze was fixed on the camera viewer, probably reviewing what she’d just performed.
“What’s up?” she asked as she took her time, strolling to him. No way would she hustle just because he snapped his fingers. She hadn’t been that actress since she’d made her first ten million. This director needed her, and she’d make sure he remembered it. “What has your panties in a twist this morning?”
“You. I’m unhappy with you.” He stepped aside and indicated the camera with a snort. “You even bother looking in a mirror this morning, Scarlett?”
Michaela’s spine snapped straight. “Excuse me?” Without bothering to peer at the screen, she rounded on the director. His disrespectful question pinged around in her head, dredging up one of the lowest moments in her life.
Francola scoffed. “Scarlett, you look like shit. You’re so fucking skinny, you’re like a bag of bones. Your hair is limp, and your skin is waxy and pale even with fifty layers of makeup. It’s coming across like garbage on camera. You’re losing the thing that made you a star, Scarlett.”
Her blood ran cold.
Hell fucking no. No one spoke to her that way. Not anymore and especially not a man. Men dove in front of her to lay their bodies over puddles so she wouldn’t get her designer shoes wet. They jumped to do her bidding with one sultry glance. They showered her with affection and tripped over their tongues to tell her how stunning she was.
And here was this nothing of a man daring to lecture her in the manner she’d been spoken to ten years ago. Back when she’d dumped a nine-dollar box of bleach in her hair and thought drug store makeup would make her magnificent.
Fuck him.
She’d spent fifteen hundred dollars at the spa yesterday on her hair, a facial, and body treatments. And this little elf had the nerve to comment on her vibe?
She squared her shoulders and advanced. “How dare you speak to me like that?” With the five-inch heels on her thigh-high boots, she topped out at six feet tall and towered over the little man.
Little in both stature and character. She may have been small once when she was a nobody living in a mining town in West Virginia without two nickels to rub together, but she wasn’t now. She’d worked her ass off for a decade to make sure no one would ever look down their nose at her again.
He rolled his eyes.
“Have you forgotten who I am?” Michaela asked with venom dripping from her voice.
They’d drawn a crowd. It seemed the entire cast and crew stopped what they’d been doing to gawk at the escalating argument. Good, it’d be great to have witnesses to Francola’s downfall.
No one could accuse her of not appreciating the value of a good audience.
Nostrils flaring and eyes narrowed to deadly slits, he met her head-on. The six inches she had on him forced his head back to meet her gaze, but he wasn’t intimidated. “I know exactly who you are, Scarlett. A spoiled fucking diva who snorts her meals instead of eating them.”
“Be careful, Charles. I’ll walk.” She smiled the kind of smile victors wore right before delivering the kill shot. The same one she during the last scene they film when her character led her arm to defeat a warring faction. “I’ll walk, and this movie will swirl down the toilet where it belongs. The studio probably won’t even fine me once they hear how you treated their favorite actress.” She tossed the end of her braid over her shoulder for good measure, then took a few steps back to enhance the visual of her walking away from his shitty movie.
