Chapter 20

The crew bustles around, breaking down cameras, extras slipping out of costume. The director calls final notes, voice fading into the background hum.

Celeste shrugs back into her coat, gathering her script. Her body is bone-tired, but her nerves still hum with electricity from the day.

Across the room, Rowan is laughing lightly with a wardrobe assistant, returning her jewelry, her gown draped carefully over one arm. Then her eyes flick across the room — straight to Celeste.

For a moment, neither looks away.

Rowan walks over, easy, unhurried, though her gaze is steady. She stops just close enough that no one else can hear.

ROWAN
(quiet, almost teasing)
Good first day.

CELESTE
(smiling faintly)
Good job, yourself.

Rowan tilts her head, lips quirking.
ROWAN
You keep saying that like you’re surprised.

CELESTE
Maybe I am.

The makeup artist interrupts, blotting powder from Celeste’s face. Rowan steps back, but her eyes never leave hers in the mirror.

ROWAN
(soft, low)
Tomorrow will be harder.

CELESTE
I know.

The silence between them stretches, dangerous in its simplicity. Finally, Rowan gives her a slow smile — not her smirk, not her mask, just real.

ROWAN
See you tomorrow, Vega.

She turns and heads toward the exit, the crew parting unconsciously as she passes.

By the time they called wrap, I felt like I’d been living in Elena Vega’s skin for a lifetime, not just a single day. The suit clung to me, sharp lines and heavy fabric, as if the weight of the role refused to let go.

I slipped into my dressing room, shutting the door on the noise of the soundstage. The sudden silence pressed against me like a hand.

My reflection stared back in the mirror—smudged eyeliner, flushed cheeks, a jaw tight from hours of keeping control. Slowly, deliberately, I began peeling the day away. The jacket first, hung neatly over the chair. Then the vest, the crisp white shirt, the fitted trousers. Piece by piece, Elena Vega fell away, leaving just me, Celeste, standing barefoot on the cold linoleum floor.

I tugged on jeans and a worn sweatshirt, comfort swallowing me whole. Sneakers replaced polished shoes, the ache in my feet easing immediately. Still, the buzz of the day remained, humming under my skin like static.

On the vanity, my script lay open, its margins crowded with scribbled notes. I shut it hard, as if that would silence the echoes of Rowan’s voice. But it didn’t. Not even close.

Her gaze still burned in my head—the way she lingered too long in a line, the way her laugh slipped out unscripted, the way Izzy Marquez and Rowan Hart blurred into one and made it impossible to tell where the scene ended.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and paused at the door. Professional, I reminded myself. That was the rule. The only rule. Forty-one days to go.

Outside, the lot was winding down. Crew packed up, extras disappeared into the night, trailers dimmed one by one. I walked toward my car, the cool evening air washing over me.

For the first time all day, I was alone. But it didn’t feel like it. Rowan was still there, in every line, every look, every breath that hadn’t been part of the script.

I slid into the driver’s seat, rested my head back, and let out a slow breath. The day was over. But the reel in my mind kept playing, scene after scene, as if the cameras hadn’t stopped rolling.

And God help me, I didn’t want it to.

By the time I got home, the exhaustion finally caught up to me. I kicked my sneakers off at the door, dropped my bag on the counter, and went straight for the shower.

The hot water scalded my skin, rinsing away layers of makeup and the last traces of Elena Vega’s armor. But it didn’t wash away the day. Not the way Rowan’s voice had dipped lower than the script. Not the way she’d looked at me like she could see right through me.

I wrapped myself in an oversized hoodie, poured a glass of wine, and curled into the couch. The apartment was dim and quiet, the kind of quiet I usually craved after a long shoot. But tonight it didn’t feel peaceful—it felt loud, filled with echoes of her.

I told myself to relax, to shut my mind off, to just watch the candlelight flicker on the table. But then my phone buzzed against the armrest.

Rowan: I see why you’re a big star.

I froze, staring at the screen.

Another bubble popped up before I could breathe.

Rowan: Your presence on set is strong. Anyone who’s worked with you is lucky.

The wine glass hovered halfway to my lips. My throat tightened, a dozen replies scrambling in my head. Professional thank yous. A teasing retort. Or the truth—that hearing it from her meant more than every award, every headline I’d ever earned.

I set the glass down, thumbs hovering over the keys.

Celeste: Careful. You’ll make me believe you mean that.

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

Rowan: Oh, I mean it.

My pulse skipped. I chewed my lip, then typed before I could stop myself.

Celeste: Are you trying to butter me up or something?

The three dots appeared immediately, blinking, pausing, disappearing, reappearing—like she was choosing her words carefully.

Rowan: If I was, you’d already know it. This isn’t flattery. It’s truth.

I let out a slow breath, thumbs hovering again. Finally, I typed the only thing that felt safe.

Celeste: Thank you.

A pause. Then:

Rowan: You don’t have to thank me for noticing what everyone else should already see.

I shifted on the couch, curling deeper into the cushions, the hoodie pulled tight around me.

Celeste: Not everyone says it. Not like that.

Rowan: Then maybe they’re not looking close enough.

Heat crept up my neck. My fingers hovered over the keyboard again, unsure what to do with the spark that was suddenly burning too bright.

Celeste: You’ve got a way with words, you know that?

Rowan: I’ve got a way with you.

I froze, staring at the screen. She didn’t delete it. She didn’t backtrack. She just left it there, steady and certain. My pulse kicked hard, my hand tightening around the phone.

I typed slowly, choosing each word with care.

Celeste: Be careful what you say. We may not make it to the end of filming if you keep talking like that.

The dots appeared instantly, Rowan’s reply arriving before I could catch my breath.

Rowan: And would that really be a bad thing?

I swallowed hard, the wine on the table long forgotten.

Celeste: Yes. It would. Our careers… this film… it matters.

Rowan: I know. And I respect that. But I also know what I felt today wasn’t just the script. And I don’t think you can tell me it was, either.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard, nerves sparking down my arms. She wasn’t wrong. And that was the problem.

Celeste: I told you—I want to wait until it’s over.

A pause. Then Rowan’s reply, softer, but somehow heavier:

Rowan: Then I’ll wait. But I won’t pretend I don’t want more. Not with you.

I stared at it until the words blurred. My thumb hovered, tempted to reply, tempted to say something reckless, something I couldn’t take back.

Instead, I set the phone down face-first on the coffee table and reached for my glass of wine. I finished it in two long swallows, the burn cutting through the tight knot in my chest.

The apartment was still, but it didn’t feel empty. Rowan was everywhere—in the shadows of the room, in the hum of silence, in the echo of her voice still buzzing under my skin.

I stretched out on the couch, tugged the blanket over myself, and closed my eyes.

Tomorrow, we’d be back under the lights, cameras rolling, crew watching. Back in control. Back to the script.

At least, that’s what I told myself as sleep finally dragged me under.