Chapter 47: FORTY SEVEN

HUNTER

“Cut!” My voice blasts through the megaphone, the bell sounding right after. The set erupts into movement—actors resetting, crew shuffling equipment, grips rushiqng to fix whatever just broke.

I’m off my game today. Completely. The scene feels dead, the leads have zero chemistry, a couple of extras are trying way too hard for their two seconds of screen time, and the tech issues just keep rolling in like clockwork.

Maybe I really am cursed.

It’s one of those days where if something can go wrong, it’s already happened twice. I’m half a breath from calling it quits and sending everyone home, but in this industry, quitting isn’t in the vocabulary.

No matter how high my stress spikes or how fast my hair goes gray, the show keeps moving.

“Here you go, Mr. Vane,” Renee says, handing me a coffee from craft services. “Black, just like you like it.”

I take it, eyeing her. She’s dressed and styled in a way that’s… unsettling. It’s Eve’s look—down to the way her hair falls. Every time she drifts past, hanging around video village, I get this jolt in my chest thinking it’s actually her.

“What are you even doing here?” I mutter. “Don’t you have your own work?”

Her smile is sweet, practiced. “I’m all caught up. Thought I’d help out since your… personal assistant isn’t around anymore.”

I know exactly what she’s implying. Truth is, I could use the help.

Eve was the best at what she did—keeping my life on rails, handling my schedule, clearing my inbox before I even saw it. Without her, everything’s backed up. Feels like I’m stuck in a never-ending traffic jam of my own making.

“She wasn’t fired,” I say sharply.

“Administrative leave then.” She steps closer, hands landing on my shoulders. “You’re tense, Mr. Vane. Let me work that out for you.”

I shift away, painfully aware of all the eyes on me. Since those photos leaked, the crew can’t look at me the same way. Some smirk like they’re impressed, others glare like I’m the kind of director who preys on younger women.

They couldn’t be more wrong.

Whatever Eve and I have—it’s not that.

Renee laughs lightly, trying again to knead my shoulders. I swat her hands away. “Don’t touch me, Ms. Thatch.”

“As you wish. Is there anything I can do? Maybe I call El Blanco and have your favorite lunch sent over, so you don’t have to eat that coconut curry from crafty?”

My jaw tightens. “They work hard making that food. If it’s beneath you, buy your own lunch somewhere else.” I stand from my chair. “I need to speak with my actors. You’re dismissed.”

She lingers, shifting her weight, twirling a strand of her too-dark hair. “Sure you don’t want a snack? Eve used to put in orders from that Thai place—”

“You’re not Eve,” I snap. “And you’re in my way. Off my set.”

I swear I catch her bottom lip quiver before she spins on her heel and hurries off, but I couldn’t care less.

Who does she think she is—parading around dressed like Eve, sliding into her role, acting like she could ever replace her? The desperation rolling off Renee is suffocating, and it turns my stomach.

I cross the set to where Annabeth is waiting, notes in hand. Before I can even open my mouth, she’s already giving me excuses.

“There was a car alarm going off outside,” she says quickly. “Totally threw me off.”

“Annabeth,” I sigh, “we can scrub that in post. The sound team’s got two booms and a lav on you—they wouldn’t have picked it up.”

She exhales, nodding. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.” Then she tilts her head, giving me that soft, searching look. “Any word from her?”

“No.” My voice is flat. “You?”

Her gaze drops to her shoes. “No. I think she blocked me. Her roommate still hasn’t heard anything?”

I shake my head.

Guilt claws at me. I hate that I wasn’t there for her, that I let my temper get the best of me. I’d give anything just to know she’s alright.

My lawyers are already pushing TMZ to cough up their source, but even if we nail the person who fed them those pictures, the damage is irreversible.

Scandals like this don’t fade—they spread like a virus. Tweets, shares, whispers—it snowballs until it’s a monster neither of us can control, and the whole damn world lines up to pass judgment without ever knowing the truth.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, a headache blooming behind my eyes. I’ve got a film to make, but right now I feel like I’m being torn in ten different directions.

“Let’s roll from the top,” I tell her. “Keep your head in the game. We’re almost there.”

“Hey!” a PA shouts from somewhere off to my left. “This is a closed set. You can’t just walk in!”

I turn just in time to see a man storming toward me, eyes bloodshot, nostrils flaring, fists balled like he’s seconds away from swinging.

“You son of a bitch!” he bellows. “You touched my daughter?”

And just like that, my already bad day takes a nosedive straight into hell.