Chapter 1

The first time I saw Rowan Hart, she was sitting in a folding chair in the corner of the audition room, chewing absently on the end of a pen like it was the only thing tethering her to earth. She looked careless — sneakers scuffed, jacket a size too big — but not clumsy. She carried herself with a loose kind of confidence, as if the world would bend to make room for her whether it wanted to or not.

Everyone else who had walked in that day had worn ambition like perfume: too heavy, too obvious. They clicked across the tile in heels, smiled too brightly, clutched their scripts like lifelines. They looked at me the way tourists look at monuments, hungry for proof they’d been close enough to touch.

Rowan didn’t do any of that. She leaned back in her chair, unbothered. When her gaze finally landed on me, it didn’t slide away. It stayed.

If I’d known then she’d be the one to ruin my rules and rewrite my life, I might’ve walked out. I should have walked out.

But I didn’t.

I stayed. I read the scene.

And that’s where everything started to go wrong.

______

The audition room was merciless: humming fluorescent lights, white walls that made every shadow look sharp, the sour tang of burnt coffee lingering in the air. The producers whispered behind their hands like jurors deliberating. The director leaned against the wall, arms crossed, trying to look casual but watching me too closely.

He’d insisted I be there. “This isn’t just another romance, Celeste. The movie will live or die on the chemistry. You have to feel it,” he’d said.

I had rolled my eyes at that. I’ve built a career on making people believe what I feel. Wanting, needing, loving — they’re just costumes I slip into and out of on command. Nothing in this town is real.

And then Rowan Hart stood when her name was called.

She didn’t straighten her clothes, didn’t flash a nervous smile at the panel, didn’t adjust herself for approval. She just walked to the taped X on the floor like it had been waiting for her all along.

When her eyes found mine, something tightened in the air.

“Scene twenty-seven,” the casting director prompted. “Kitchen. After midnight. She’s trying to push her away. She doesn’t let her.”

I lifted my script. My character’s first line was meant to cut, to close doors.
“You can’t be here.”

Rowan tilted her head, lips curving into the barest smirk.
“And yet here I am.”

My grip on the pages tightened. “This isn’t part of the plan.”

Her gaze flicked over me, steady, deliberate. “Maybe it should be.”

I drew in a sharp breath. “You’re making this harder than it has to be.”

“That’s the point,” she said smoothly, stepping closer.

The room stilled; even the producers’ pens froze mid-scratch.

“You should leave,” I pressed, sharper now, but my voice wavered.

Rowan’s smile deepened. “If you really wanted me gone, you’d have said it by now.”

I forced my jaw tight. “You need to leave.”

Her hand lifted, brushing against mine with deliberate slowness. Heat flared before instinct snapped me back — I pulled away, quick and sharp.

Rowan’s brow arched, not surprised. “You felt that.”

I steadied myself, words clipped. “Stay professional.”

She leaned in, her whisper brushing my cheek like a secret.
“What if I don’t want to go?”

My chest constricted. “Then you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I think I do.” Her gaze held mine, unflinching. “I think you want me here more than you want me gone.”

The silence stretched taut, daring me to deny it. My voice slipped out softer than I intended.
“Then tell me what you want.”

Her eyes burned, steady and certain.
“I want you. And everything that comes with it.”

The words cut through me like a blade. I shook my head, breath ragged. “We can’t. And you know that already.”

She laughed under her breath, low and sure of herself. Then her voice lowered, velvet and sharp.
“Then tell me to stop. Tell me you don’t want me. Tell me you don’t love it when I touch you. Tell me your heart doesn’t skip a beat when I come closer to you.”

She stepped forward, erasing the final sliver of distance between us. My lips parted, my pulse crashing through me.

“I can’t,” I whispered.

And then I kissed her.

It wasn’t careful, wasn’t staged. Rowan pressed back immediately, her lips hot and demanding, a low moan slipping into the kiss exactly as scripted — but nothing about the way it vibrated against my mouth felt rehearsed. It was too raw. Too real.

For a suspended heartbeat, the world fell away. No cameras. No producers. No director. Just her. Just us.

Then—

“Cut!”

The director’s voice cracked like a whip.

We broke apart, startled, breathless, lips tingling. The producers leaned forward in their seats, wide-eyed. The casting director’s pen dangled useless in his fingers. An assistant clutched her clipboard like it might hold her steady.

The silence buzzed, electric, alive with what they’d just seen — with what they couldn’t unsee.

And in that moment, I knew nothing about this film — or about Rowan Hart — was ever going to stay professional.