The atmosphere in the trailer was thick with the scent of Julian's expensive cologne and the dusty smell of old script pages. On the monitor outside, Julian looked like a tragic hero, but inside these four walls, Maya found him infuriating.
"No, Julian. Absolutely not," Maya said, slamming the draft down on the small built-in desk. "The protagonist wouldn't just 'walk into the sea' because his lover didn't show up. It's melodramatic. It's cheap. He's a character built on survival, not a Victorian poet with a death wish."
Julian paced the narrow aisle of the trailer, still wearing the heavy wool frock coat from the set. He turned on his heel, his eyes flashing with a competitive fire she hadn't seen in Cabo. "It's not cheap; it's poetic. He's lost his North Star. The audience needs to feel the finality of that loss."
"The audience needs to feel his rage," Maya countered, standing up so she was eye-to-level with him. "He's been hunted his whole life. He wouldn't give up; he'd burn the dock down so no one else could follow him. You're playing him like a victim because you like the aesthetic of being broken."
Julian stopped inches from her. The air between them hummed, vibrating with the same frequency as the night in the penthouse. "Maybe I know a little more about feeling like a victim of my own life than you do, M.K."
"Then use that!" she challenged, her voice rising. "Stop hiding behind pretty metaphors. If you want this video to be a masterpiece, stop trying to be 'likable' and start being real. You're running from the world—remember? Write that into the script!"
Julian's jaw tightened. The intellectual sparring was a different kind of foreplay, and they both knew it. He stepped closer, his hand coming up to rest on the wall behind her head, effectively pinning her against the desk. "You're very bossy when you're not hiding behind a hood, Maya."
"And you're very stubborn when you aren't getting your way," she whispered.
His gaze dropped to her lips, and for a second, the script was forgotten. The "electric chemistry" wasn't just a phrase she wrote in books; it was a physical force, pulling them together until the distance between them was a heartbeat.
The Shadow at the Window
Outside, the set was buzzing with a different kind of energy. Cynthia Vane, Julian's co-star and a rising pop starlet known for her "mean girl" persona, was leaning against a lighting rig, sipping a green juice. She had been watching the trailer door for the last twenty minutes.
"Who is the plain Jane Julian dragged in there?" Cynthia asked her assistant, her eyes narrowed. "He told the director she was a 'consultant,' but I've never seen a writer look at a lead singer like she's trying to solve a puzzle—or rip his clothes off."
"I think her name is Maya," the assistant whispered. "She's been here all morning. No credentials, no agency. Just... him."
Cynthia pulled out her phone, snapping a quick, blurry photo of the trailer's tinted window, where the silhouettes of two people were standing very, very close. "A mystery girl with no name? The tabloids are going to love this. Especially since Julian is supposed to be 'single' for the tour launch."
Inside, Maya was just about to give in to the pull of Julian's gaze when a sharp, rhythmic tapping on the trailer door startled them apart.
"Julian? It's Cynthia. We're losing the light for the ballroom scene. The director needs his 'hero' back on set. Are you and your... assistant... almost done in there?"
Maya scrambled back, her face flushed. "Go," she hissed. "I'm getting the notebook and leaving."
"Not yet," Julian whispered, his voice dark and promising. He grabbed his hat. "Fix the scene, Maya. Make him burn the dock down. I'll be back in an hour to see if you've found your courage."