The moment the director called “Cut!” you turned away, gripping a makeup brush so tightly your knuckles turned white. You had no right to be mad—it was his job. But that didn’t mean it didn’t sting watching him kiss someone else.

“Damn, that was hot,” one of the crew members chuckled, clapping him on the back. “You and her have crazy chemistry.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, pretending to focus on organizing your kit.

“Take five,” the director called out.

You felt him approaching before you even saw him. The scent of his cologne, the heat radiating off his body. Then, his voice—low, just for you.

“You’re mad.”

You scoffed, not looking at him. “Why would I be mad? It’s just acting, right?”

His fingers brushed against your wrist. A small touch, but enough to send a shiver up your spine.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

You hesitated, then finally met his gaze. His eyes weren’t filled with excitement from the scene. No pride, no satisfaction—just hunger.

“You know it’s not real,” he whispered, leaning in, his breath warm against your ear. “But you? You are.”

Your breath hitched.

His fingers trailed up your arm, slow, deliberate. “Meet me in my trailer.”

Your heart pounded.

“Why?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He smirked. “So I can remind you who I really belong to.”