Chapter 96
[Rose's POV]
The studio floor buzzed with anxious energy as three PM approached. Crew members glanced at their watches with increasing frequency. The makeup artist assigned to me—a woman with elaborate sleeve tattoos—kept checking her phone while pretending to organize brushes.
"Would you like to start with foundation while we wait?" she asked, her voice overly bright. "We could at least get the base done."
I nodded and settled into the chair. Through the mirror, I watched the director John pace near the elevator bank, phone pressed to his ear. His expression cycled between professional calm and poorly concealed panic.
The elevator chimed.
Every head in the studio swiveled toward the sound. A young man emerged, flanked by three assistants carrying garment bags and equipment cases. Colton Rivera was perhaps twenty-five, impossibly tall, with the kind of sculpted features that photographed well from any angle. Designer sunglasses obscured half his face despite being indoors.
He didn't apologize.
"Logan Airport is a disaster," he announced to no one in particular, pulling off his sunglasses with theatrical frustration. "Three-hour delay because some idiot forgot how fog works." His gaze swept the studio and landed on me for approximately half a second. "This is the new girl? Hope she doesn't waste my time."
My fingers tightened on the armrest of the makeup chair.
"Colton, welcome." John rushed forward, hand extended. "We're so grateful you could make it. We know how demanding your schedule is—"
"Yeah, about that." Colton waved off the handshake. "I've got a live fan meet-and-greet at eight. My manager already confirmed to your people—we need to wrap this fast. Like, really fast."
John's smile remained fixed, but I saw the tension creep into his shoulders. "Of course. We've already adjusted the shot list to prioritize the key frames. If we move efficiently, we can absolutely—"
"Great. Where's wardrobe?" Colton was already walking away, his assistant team trailing behind him like satellites. "And someone get me a green juice. The organic kind, not that Whole Foods crap."
The studio atmosphere shifted. Everyone moved faster, spoke quieter, adjusted their behavior around this one person's presence. The lighting director immediately began repositioning equipment. The wardrobe supervisor practically jogged toward the racks. Even the makeup artist beside me worked more quickly, her movements tight with stress.
I watched it all through the mirror.
My reflection stared back at me, expression carefully neutral. But underneath, something cold and hard was crystallizing in my chest.
Twenty minutes later, I stood on set in an elegant cream dress that moved like water when I walked. The Tiffany concept was "literary romance"—we were supposed to be strangers meeting in an upscale bookstore, drawn together by shared taste in classic literature. Bookshelves lined the backdrop, artfully arranged with leather-bound volumes. A vintage reading lamp cast warm light across a velvet armchair.
Colton emerged from wardrobe in charcoal slacks and a black cashmere sweater. He looked perfect. Camera-ready. Professionally gorgeous.
He took his mark without glancing at the blocking notes.
"Okay, let's run through the first exchange," John called out, positioning himself beside the main camera. "Colton, you're browsing the fiction section. Rose, you notice him holding a copy of The Great Gatsby. Your line is about whether he enjoys Fitzgerald's examination of the American Dream's corruption. Make it feel natural, like genuine curiosity."
I nodded, centering myself. This was just acting. Just playing a role.
"Rolling in three, two—" John pointed silently at Colton.
Colton picked up the prop book, ran his finger along the spine with practiced elegance, then looked up as I approached. His expression shifted into something warm and inviting—pure professional charm.
"You like this... that... thing?" he said, gesturing vaguely at the book.
I stopped mid-step. Stared at him.
"Cut," I said quietly.
The word dropped into the studio like a stone into still water. Crew members froze. John's head snapped toward me, confusion flickering across his face.
"I'm sorry?" John stepped closer. "Rose, is there a problem with the blocking?"
I didn't take my eyes off Colton. "The line is: 'You like The Great Gatsby? Do you enjoy Fitzgerald's exploration of how the American Dream crumbles under the weight of wealth and obsession?' It's not complicated."
Colton lowered the book slowly, his charming expression evaporating. "Excuse me?"
"You didn't learn your lines."
The silence that followed felt dense enough to touch. Someone near the lighting rig coughed.
Colton's jaw tightened. "Look, sweetheart, I don't know how things work in whatever amateur hour you came from, but in professional productions—"
"In professional productions," I interrupted, my voice level and cold, "actors know their lines before they arrive on set. They don't show up late, make excuses, and then phone in their performance with improvised nonsense."
I crossed to the prop table and picked up the copy of The Great Gatsby. The book was a beautiful edition—gilt edges, embossed cover, the kind of volume meant to be treasured. I walked back and placed it deliberately on the arm of Colton's chair.
"When you can recite your lines correctly, we'll continue shooting." I met his eyes. "Until then, I'll be in my dressing room."
I turned and walked toward the exit.
"Are you serious right now?" Colton's voice rose behind me. "Do you have any idea who I am? I'm ranked in the top five most influential young actors in America. I'm filming three movies and two variety shows simultaneously. I don't have time to memorize every single word of—"
I stopped but didn't turn around. "Then you should decline projects you can't properly prepare for."
The door to the dressing room closed behind me with a soft click.
I'd been sitting in the small dressing room for perhaps five minutes when the door burst open. John rushed in, expression somewhere between desperate and furious.
"Rose, I need you to understand the situation." He remained standing, probably hoping to maintain some psychological advantage. "Colton Rivera is one of the most sought-after young talents in the country. His Instagram following alone is worth millions in brand exposure. Do you know how difficult it was to book him for this shoot?"
"I don't care."
"His schedule is insane. He's literally flying between three different projects. Nobody expects him to memorize—"
"I expect it." I looked up at him. "If this is how Sullivan Entertainment defines 'professional standards,' then perhaps Christopher needs to reconsider his company's values."
John's face flushed. He set the tablet down on the vanity with more force than necessary. "You're new to this industry, so let me explain how it actually works. Talent like Colton gets accommodations because they bring value that outweighs minor inconveniences. That's business."
"No." I stood, smoothing my dress. "That's compromise masquerading as pragmatism."
"This is a Tiffany campaign, Rose. Do you understand what that means? The exposure, the doors this could open for you?"
"I understand perfectly." I walked to the window. "I also understand that I didn't agree to be photographed alongside someone who treats his work with contempt."
John dragged his hand through his hair, destroying its careful styling. "What do you want me to do? We can't just replace him. The entire creative concept was built around his image and yours together."
I turned to face him. "I want him to learn his lines. All of them. Correctly."
"That's not realistic. He doesn't work that way."
"Then we have a problem." I checked the watch. "It's three twenty now. I'm giving him until four thirty. If he can demonstrate that he's memorized the script by then, we continue. If not..." I met John's eyes steadily. "I suggest you start making calls to find a replacement."
John's mouth opened, closed, opened again. "You can't be serious."
"I'm completely serious."
"Colton will never agree to this. He'll walk. And then—do you understand what you'll be doing to your career? To Sullivan Entertainment's relationship with Tiffany? To—"
"Then he walks." My voice remained calm, but something in my tone must have conveyed finality, because John stopped mid-sentence. "I won't compromise on this. Not for exposure, not for business relationships, not for convenience."
John stared at me for a long moment. I could see the calculations happening behind his eyes—weighing costs, measuring risks, trying to determine if I would actually follow through.
"You're making a mistake," he said finally.
"Perhaps. But it will be my mistake to make."
He left without another word, the door closing with a sharp click.