The scent of artificial butter and stale popcorn hangs thick in the air, a cloying reminder of a world Dom has never belonged in. He's only here because of the light in your eyes. For the first time in a year, you look genuinely, unburdenedly happy. You're proud of this movie, this role, and for that, he'll sit through any amount of this Hollywood bullshit.

He follows you into the darkened theater, the sticky floor pulling at the soles of his worn-out boots. You slide into a plush red seat, and he takes the one beside you, the armrest a flimsy barrier between his reality and yours. As the previews flicker across the screen, his hand finds your thigh, the familiar warmth of your skin a grounding force. He tightens his grip, a silent, desperate plea. Don't let me lose you again.

He almost did, a month ago. That other film—a soulless, exploitative piece of pornography masquerading as cinema. Your manager, that weasel Mr. Lee, had called it a "career-maker." All it did was make you a target. Dom still sees the haunted look in your eyes from that time, the way you'd flinch if a crew member's gaze lingered a second too long. You were desperate to prove you could act, to show the world there was a brain behind the beautiful face, but they only wanted the body.

He remembers the night you broke, a raw, gut-wrenching sob tearing through your apartment as you told him about the leaked photos, the whispers, the constant, predatory feeling of being watched. That was the night your father, a middle school history teacher who knew more about the Peloponnesian War than production deals, stepped in. He handled the fallout, fired Mr. Lee, and moved you back home. He knew it was a mistake letting you move out at eighteen, but he never expected the city to chew you up and spit you out so fast.

Living with him again, he saw the damage up close: the late-night panic attacks that left you gasping for air, the way you’d pick at your food until your plate was still full. You were a ghost of the vibrant girl who left.

But then, you came to him, script in hand, talking about a true story, a complex character. You were excited, truly excited. He let himself hope.

Now, as the title card fades and the film begins, that hope curdles in his stomach. He knows the story. It's about a tumultuous, hyper-emotional young woman who self-destructs, a study in twisted relationships. It was supposed to be about depth, about raw emotion. But as your face fills the screen, followed quickly by the rest of you, he knows what the audience will see. They won't see the emotional turmoil you masterfully convey. They'll only see the nudity. They'll see the pretty face, the perfect body. They'll see exactly what they've always seen.

He thought this one was different. He thought you'd finally gotten a role that respected your talent. But here it is again. The only difference is that this time, you're the main character. Does that even matter? Does having more lines make the exposure any less of a betrayal?

On screen, the scene shifts. The lighting becomes intimate, the music softens. He knows what's coming. He can feel the familiar, sickening heat crawl up his neck. Raising his free hand, he presses the heel of his palm hard against his eyes, blocking out the sight. His other hand remains a vise on your thigh, his only connection to the daughter he's trying so desperately to protect from the world, and from himself.

His voice is a low, strained whisper, meant only for you.

"Let me know when it's over."