Second act

I stood off to the side of the set, leaning against a pillar in a dark corner of the room, doing my best to blend into the background.

The studio had done an impressive job recreating a ballroom a vaulted ceiling with chandeliers dripping in crystal, large tapestries along the walls, and plush red carpets stretching across the floors.

It would've been impressive if I actually cared about the scene, but today, my irritation sat like a rock in my stomach, and the opulent surroundings barely registered. I kept my arms crossed, occasionally glancing at the other actors, who were already milling around, each of them donning grand costumes to fit the scene.

The script had me here to meet with a minor character, an informant in the court. My role was straightforward—make contact, get my mission, and then wait for the arrival of the princess and her fiancé, who were supposed to make an entrance soon.

But the director had been circling the set, occasionally casting glances my way with that quirked brow he reserved for people who weren't fully "committed" to their roles.

I could almost hear his words from earlier, still echoing in my head: "Maybe tone down the grumpy expression just a little, Zaya?" I'd tried, but today it was harder than usual to force any warmth.

The truth was, I didn't want to be here. I was a model, not an actress, and being forced into a room with strangers in a spotlight wasn't doing wonders for my mood.

The side character, an older man with a calm, calculating demeanor, slipped toward me, staying in the shadows.

He wore a fine black suit that fit the formal event perfectly, though he blended seamlessly with the crowd.

He nodded as he approached, staying just far enough from me so no one would notice the conversation. The director gave us the signal, and he slipped into his role effortlessly.

"Good evening," he murmured, his voice low and conspiratorial. "I trust you are prepared?"

"Just get to the point," I replied coolly, arching a brow, arms crossed. My character was supposed to be a spy, after all. Detached and focused. Or, in my case today, barely containing her annoyance.

The informant didn't miss a beat, leaning in closer. "Your mission is straightforward: eliminate the princess. She's become a liability." He slid a folded piece of paper into my hand, his eyes flicking toward the grand staircase where the princess would make her entrance. "And I trust you know how to be… subtle."

I tucked the note into my sleeve, nodding once to signify I understood. A subtle thrill tingled down my spine; the words were just lines, but something about them made me feel momentarily powerful, as though I could actually dictate the course of events in this scene.

I turned away from him, scanning the ballroom as I waited for the arrival of the royal couple.

After a brief lull, the room began to shift. There was a collective hush, as if the whole crowd could sense the approach of someone important.

The director muttered an order into his microphone, and we all turned toward the staircase. The actor playing the princess's fiancé stood proudly, his arm looped tightly around Layla's.

The two of them were styled to perfection Layla's gown a flowing sapphire-blue that made her seem ethereal, almost too perfect for this world. She held her head high, her expression regal and reserved, like a real princess making a grand entrance. I hated to admit it, but she looked the part.

But that wasn't what caught my attention.

The fiancé, who was supposed to keep his distance, had his hand possessively at her waist. Layla's expression flickered—barely visible, but there.

It was supposed to be a strained relationship; in the script, the princess was detached, barely acknowledging her betrothed's presence. Yet here he was, pulling her in a little too close, his fingers drifting along her waist and arm in ways that weren't scripted.

My jaw tightened, but I kept my expression neutral, reminding myself that it wasn't my place to interfere with another actor's choices.

Still, something about the way he kept touching her made my irritation flare. It was distracting, pulling away from the subtle tension of the scene and focusing all attention on their awkward, forced closeness. It grated against everything we'd rehearsed.

The director seemed unfazed, though he cast a curious look in my direction as if gauging my reaction.

I was supposed to be observing quietly, awaiting my turn to engage. Instead, my eyes were glued to the uncomfortable interaction between Layla and her "fiancé."

Layla, to her credit, tried to subtly shift away from him, her body language reflecting her character's disinterest.

But he was persistent, his hand lingering on her arm as if he couldn't get the hint. She kept her face composed, but there was a flicker in her eyes, a silent plea for some reprieve. I could see her patience thinning, her smile getting tighter with every unwanted touch.

Finally, I'd had enough. I couldn't watch him crowd her any longer. Maybe it was my sour mood, or maybe I just couldn't stand seeing Layla clearly uncomfortable and doing her best to stay in character despite it.

I stepped forward, my voice cutting through the muted chatter in the room.

"Stop being so touchy," I said, my tone cold and unyielding. "You're embarrassing her."

Every eye in the room shifted to me.