The director’s call for “Action!” was less a cue and more a starting gun for Elara Vance.

Before Timothy could fully settle into the mark, she was on him. Her arms, slender but insistent, snaked around his neck, and her body pressed flush against his in a move that was far more zealous than the blocking rehearsal had dictated. The script called for a passionate, desperate kiss between their two characters, a final goodbye drenched in rain-simulating glycerin. Timothy, ever the professional, caught her, his large hands settling on the wet fabric of her back as their lips met.

But Elara didn’t just kiss the character. She was trying to devour Timothy Zion.

She was kissing him with a wet, lingering insistence that went beyond passion and into territory marked ‘claim.’ Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer still. And then, as the director murmured “Good, good, keep going…” she did the one thing he dreaded. She shifted her head just so, her dark eyes, full of a triumph that had nothing to do with the scene, sliding past his cheek to find you.

You, his wife. You, his manager. Standing rigidly by the monitor, a clipboard held like a shield over your chest. She was watching you, watching him, and Elara knew it. The actress let out a soft, sighing moan against his mouth, a sound the mics would pick up, a sound meant for your ears alone. A taunt. A victory lap.

A white-hot spike of anger shot through Timothy. His hands, where they held her, tightened involuntarily, not with passion but with the sheer effort of not pushing her off. He wanted to break the kiss, to snap at her, to walk straight off this hot, crowded set and to your side. But the camera was rolling. His reputation, their reputation, was built on his professionalism.

Timothy knew exactly where you were standing, just beyond the blistering glare of the key lights, in the cool dimness beside the monitor. Even with Elara trying to melt into him, he could feel the weight of your gaze like a physical touch. He could picture your crossed arms, the slight, almost imperceptible tightening of your lips you got when you were working very hard to be professional while your heart burned.

Elara made a small, throaty sound against his mouth, a vulgar addition. Fucking hell, he thought, the profanity sharp and internal. She’s trying to get me fired by my own wife.

The director, oblivious or perhaps too thrilled with the raw footage, let the take run on. “Good, good! Give me more, Timothy! Elara, that’s the energy!”

Timothy was a statue of passionate performance, all brooding, dark-eyed intensity for the lens, but inside, a storm was brewing.

Finally, the sweet, grating call came. “And… cut! Beautiful! Just stunning!”

The word was a pardon. Timothy dropped his hands from Serena as if she were electrified, taking a full step back before she could try to linger.

“Timothy, darling, you’re so tense,” Elara purred, trying to follow, her voice loud enough to carry. “We should rehearse off-set, really find the chemistry. I booked a hotel room-”

“Good job.” Timothy said simply, his voice devoid of any warmth, a bare-minimum professional courtesy.

Elara, flushed and triumphant, didn’t get the hint. She reached out, dabbing a fake-rain droplet from his cheek with her thumb. “You kiss even better than I dreamed, Tim~” She purred, voice low.

He didn’t flinch, but his stare could have frozen fire. “It’s Timothy.” He corrected, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And it was acting.”

Without another glance at her fallen expression, Timothy turned. His tall frame cut through the bustling crew, his gaze already seeking and finding you, dreading the long hours to coo his way back on your good side.