Chapter 2

The silence after “cut” stretched longer than it should have. No one moved, no one spoke, as if the air itself had been caught in the undertow of what just happened.

The director was the first to break it. He clapped his hands together, sharp, too loud in the stillness. “That—” his grin spread wide, boyish, hungry— “that’s what I’ve been waiting for. That was it.”

A nervous ripple of laughter spilled from one of the producers. Another scribbled furiously into her notebook, though her hand trembled slightly. The casting director set his pen down entirely, as though words had failed him.

I stood frozen, script limp in my hands, still tasting Rowan on my lips. My body hummed with aftershocks I didn’t want anyone to see. I swallowed hard, forcing my face into neutrality. Professional. Detached.

Rowan was the opposite. Calm, composed, her expression open, almost casual. She didn’t look ruffled in the slightest — until her eyes flicked back to me.

For a moment she didn’t move. Then, with a quiet confidence, Rowan reached out and straightened the collar of my shirt, her fingers grazing the fabric near my throat. It was a fleeting touch, but intimate in a way that made my chest clench.

She leaned in just enough for only me to hear.
“I felt it too.”

My breath stilled.

Before I could answer, Rowan turned smoothly toward the director, her face breaking into an easy, professional smile. Like she hadn’t just carved those words into me.

“Let’s take five,” the director said, already pacing, animated. “I need to make some calls. If this doesn’t convince the studio, nothing will. We’ve found her.” He pointed at Rowan like she was a revelation. “Rowan Hart, welcome to the project.”

The room erupted—producers murmuring their approval, the casting director congratulating himself, an assistant scribbling notes for contracts. Rowan’s name was already being etched into the film’s future.

I forced a polite smile, nodding once toward Rowan, like it was nothing more than professional acknowledgment. Like my pulse wasn’t still erratic.

She caught my eye again, and there it was — the flicker, soft and knowing. The look that said she wasn’t bluffing.

I looked away first.

The rest of the break blurred. The director gushed to the producers, Rowan shook hands, assistants buzzed in and out. I sank into a chair near the wall, staring at the floor, replaying the moment again and again in my head like a scene on loop.

The kiss had been scripted. Her moan had been scripted. All of it was written. But the fire that seared through me hadn’t been. That had been something else.

My manager’s text buzzed across my phone screen: Do not let this get messy.

I turned it face down, unreadable.

Rowan laughed at something one of the producers said, her voice carrying across the room. My chest tightened. The sound was bright, unguarded, nothing like the whispers she’d given me moments earlier. And yet, it still hooked into me.

The director turned toward me suddenly, clapping his hands once more. “Celeste? Thoughts? You’ve read opposite more actors than anyone here. Is the chemistry real or am I imagining it?”

The room’s eyes pivoted to me, waiting.

My mask slid into place. I let out a cool, practiced laugh, low enough to sound modest. “You’re not imagining it.” I glanced briefly at Rowan, then back to the director. “She holds her ground. That’s rare.”

Rowan smiled at me, small, grateful. But beneath it lingered that spark. The one only I had seen up close.

Everyone else returned to their chatter, satisfied.

But inside, I knew the truth: the chemistry wasn’t just rare. It was dangerous. And I had no idea how I was going to survive it.