The studio smelled like nerves and coffee.
Everywhere I looked, someone was pacing, flipping through lines, pretending not to care. I wasn't fooling myself. My palms were damp, my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest, and the jean jacket I'd smoothed for the hundredth time suddenly felt two sizes too tight.
This was it. The callback for Paper Heat. The kind of audition that could change a career or end one.
A young assistant poked her head out of the casting room. "Venny Loundel?"
My name sounded too loud in the hallway.
I exhaled, squared my shoulders, and stepped forward. "That's me."
The door shut behind me with a soft click, trapping me inside a world of blinding white lights, cameras on tripods, and three faces at a long table: producers, director, casting lead. They looked up like judges at a trial.
"Glad you could stay, Miss Loundel," the director said, smiling without really smiling. "We'll run the contract scene first."
My throat went dry. I nodded and turned toward the stage mark.
Then the other door opened.
Sluggish, weighed bootsteps. A pause like the air itself knew it had to hold still.
I didn't have to look up to know who it was.
Andre Alhale.
I'd recognize that silence anywhere. The way a room shifted when he entered.
He walked in wearing black, sleeves rolled, expression laboured. His hair fell slightly over his forehead, but his eyes—those distant, calculating eyes—were all sharp gold. He looked the same as he did the last time I saw him at the academy, the day he'd told me I was "forgettable."
And now my character was supposed to fall in love with him—on cue.
"Miss Loundel, Mr. Alhale, we'll be reading scene twenty-three," the director said. "Let's see the chemistry."
Chemistry. Right. With a man who once didn't even remember my name.
He took his mark opposite me, unfolding the script lazily, as if he didn't need to read a single word.
"Ready?" the casting director asked.
I nodded. "Ready."
Andre didn't respond.
Action.
The lines left my lips before I could think.
"I don't sign contracts with people I can't trust," I said, voice wholehearted.
He stepped closer, closing the space between us. "Then maybe you should stop pretending you can read me."
It wasn't the words that rattled me. It was how his tone hit the back of my neck like a hard-line. He wasn't acting. Not entirely.
"You don't even believe in love," I shot back, almost forgetting the script. "So why agree to a contract built on it?"
He smirked. His habitual slow, cruel and annoyingly beautiful one. "Because sometimes lies feel better than the truth."
The words burned. The camera whirred softly.
He moved again, close enough that I could see the faint scar along his jaw, the pulse under his skin. My body reacted before my brain did—heart racing, lungs tight, heat climbing up my throat.
He lowered his head just slightly, eyes flicking down to my lips.
The line came out of me raw: "Then maybe we both have lies of our own."
Silence.
Not the awkward kind. The kind that steals air.
The director didn't yell "Cut." Nobody moved. For a second, there was nothing—just the space between us, crackling like something insidious.
Then Andre stepped back. Just like that, the wall was up again.
"Cut!" the director finally called, breaking the spell. "Perfect. That was—yes. Exactly that. The tension, the conflict. Miss Hart, you brought something real."
My chest heaved. I forced a smile. "Thank you."
Andre said nothing. He didn't even look at me.
The director jotted notes, still talking. "We'll be wrapping chemistry reads soon. You two definitely have… something."
Something.
Yeah. Like a match and gasoline.
I glanced at Andre, hoping maybe—just maybe—there'd be a tinge of recognition. Some trace of the boy from the academy, or the man who'd just nearly kissed me under stage lights.
But he was already walking off the mark, posture crisp and heavily detached.
The assistant whispered something to him; he gave a short nod.
I swallowed, grabbed my script, and forced myself to sound normal. "Good work out there."
He didn't even slow down. Just lifted a hand in a vague half-wave and kept walking.
My stomach dropped.
Of course. Why did I think he'd changed?
I was still gathering my bag when the door burst open.
Heels clattered on the floor, perfume hit the air before the voice did. "Sorry I'm late!"
A tall woman with glossy auburn curls rushed in—skin glowing, diamond ring flashing. She scanned the room and broke into a grin.
"There's my fiancé!"
Fiancé?
Before my brain caught up, she was already across the room, wrapping her arms around Andre, pressing a kiss to his lips right there in front of everyone.
I froze. The director, the producers— no one looked surprised.
Andre's jaw tensed, but he didn't push her away.
"Rita," he said under his breath, the first word I'd heard him say outside the script.
She laughed, bright and confident. "I couldn't miss seeing you act, baby. You were amazing."
Baby.
The word hit like a slap, and I hated that I felt it.
I blinked hard, trying to pretend the ache in my chest was just leftover adrenaline. The director cleared his throat, muttered something about a great performance, and everyone started gathering papers, avoiding my eyes.
Andre murmured something to Rita, something low I couldn't catch, and then they turned together toward the exit—his hand resting lightly on her back.
The same hand that, minutes ago, had brushed against mine.
My throat tightened. I managed a stiff nod when the director thanked me again. "You'll hear from us soon," he said, smiling politely.
I nodded. "Of course."
They left. The room felt colder instantly.
The assistant called out behind me, "Next!"
But I didn't move. Not yet.
I just stood there, staring at the empty mark where he'd stood, where a spark had lit and died in less than five minutes.
A laugh slipped out of me, soft and bitter. "Great job, Venny. You finally made him look at you—and he didn't even see you."
Outside, the studio lights flickered, catching on the window like the glint of something sharp.
I picked up my script, squared my shoulders again, and walked out.