Chapter Six — The First Read
The first day of workshops starts earlier than I'd like.
7:00 a.m. call time.
6:00 a.m. wake-up.
5:45 a.m. regret all my life choices.
Coffee in hand, I stare at myself in the mirror — messy ponytail, oversized sweatshirt, eyes still lined faintly with yesterday's eyeliner. The face of someone who's been doing this for too long.
I've been in the industry since I was sixteen.
Sixteen — when I first learned how to cry on cue, smile through exhaustion, and turn heartbreak into marketable art.
Back then, I thought fame would fill the quiet spaces inside me. But now, I know — it only makes them echo louder.
Music has always been the only thing that still feels mine.
Late nights in my studio apartment, writing songs no one hears, lyrics that bleed a little truth into the noise.
And yet, even that world — the one I built with my own hands — has changed. After the interview aired last night, my latest single "Blue Fire" hit ten million streams overnight.
My face is trending.
My name, glued next to his.
#SiennaAndAxel. #AshDresEnergy. #TheLastPageCoupleGoals.
The internet has already shipped us harder than any script could. They call us AshDres 2.0, comparing us to the old industry royalty who blurred fiction and reality until no one could tell the difference.
It should scare me.
But deep down, it just feels… familiar.
The workshop room smells like fresh paint and coffee. A circle of chairs, stacks of highlighted scripts, and a dozen faces — cast, crew, and dreamers chasing perfection.
Ember bounces in beside me, holding two cups. "Latte for the legend," she says, handing me one.
"You're saving lives," I mumble, accepting it.
She grins. "And by lives, you mean your sanity. Also, can we talk about how the internet is OBSESSED with you and Axel? You're literally breaking fandom corners. My phone exploded last night."
I groan. "Please don't remind me."
"Too late," she says, scrolling through her phone. "Someone made a fan edit of you two with that sad Taylor Swift song. I cried. Like, actual tears."
Before I can reply, the door opens.
And just like that, the room changes temperature.
Axel Reeve walks in — calm, casual, late as usual — wearing black jeans and a denim jacket that should not look that good in daylight. He's carrying a coffee, too, and flashes the kind of smile that knows it's being watched.
He spots me instantly. A tiny flicker of recognition, a soft smirk.
"Morning, Everglow."
"Reeve." I nod. "You're punctual as always."
"Traffic," he says. "And existential dread."
"Understandable."
He chuckles — low, easy, annoyingly charming.
The director, Miles Rowan, claps his hands to get our attention. "Alright, team. Today, we're not performing. We're connecting. We'll start with a table read — page twenty-three. Calen and Nora's first real confrontation."
I flip to the page. My heart skips. It's the argument scene — the one where Nora, my character, finally admits how deeply Calen has gotten under her skin.
Funny. Art imitating life again.
Miles gestures. "Let's hear it. No acting yet — just truth."
Axel glances at me from across the circle, a silent question in his eyes. I nod, even though my pulse is already sprinting.
He starts first, voice steady, warm, carrying that cinematic quality that makes every word sound like it belongs on a poster.
Calen: "You keep pretending you don't care. But you do. And that terrifies you."
I inhale slowly. Then answer, the way Nora would — raw, defensive, honest.
Nora: "You think you know me because you've seen me break once? Congratulations, Calen. You've joined the long list of people who mistook my silence for weakness."
The room stills.
Even Miles looks up from his script.
Axel's gaze meets mine — not playful now, but intense. Focused.
For a moment, it's not Nora and Calen. It's us. The years between us. The gala. The argument that never really ended.
He leans forward.
Calen: "I don't think you're weak, Nora. I think you're the bravest person I've ever met. You just forgot what that feels like."
My throat tightens unexpectedly.
The words are scripted, but something about the way he says them feels real.
Too real.
Miles claps once, breaking the spell. "Beautiful," he says. "That's the energy I want. Vulnerability, not performance. You two are going to be electric."
Ember nudges me. "You okay?"
I nod quickly, though my hands are shaking under the table. "Yeah. Just… rusty."
After the session, the crew gathers for lunch. I retreat to a quiet corner of the studio rooftop, needing air — and maybe a break from him.
The city below hums like a living thing.
I scroll through my notifications — thousands of mentions, edits, hashtags, love hearts.
They're calling me and Axel "the couple of the year." Some even think we're secretly dating.
And the worst part?
The idea doesn't make me laugh anymore.
My phone buzzes again — a message from an unknown number.
Axel: "You were incredible today. Didn't expect that level of honesty."
I stare at it for a moment before typing back.
Sienna: "You brought it out of me. Don't get used to it."
Axel: "Too late."
I put my phone down and look at the skyline — endless, glowing, alive.
The same city that once made me feel small now feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for something.
Maybe for us.
Maybe for me — to see if I can still fall in love with this world, one more time.
That night, as I lie in bed, my song Blue Fire plays softly from the speakers. The comment section is full of fans dissecting lyrics, pairing them with clips of me and Axel from the interview.
I should sleep.
I should turn it off.
Instead, I replay that line he read earlier — You just forgot what that feels like.
Maybe Nora Quinn isn't the only one learning to remember.