Second act

Lunch break feels like a distant memory now, but bits of it keep floating back into my mind as I watch everyone setting up for the next scene. It had been a surprise sitting next to Zaya, feeling her presence like a tangible weight.

Even though everyone else at the table was talking and laughing, it was as if she had her own gravitational pull, drawing all my attention without so much as a glance in my direction.

There was something so oddly adorable about the fact that her grandma had made her lunch, and the way she'd mentioned it…like it was this quiet little privilege she wanted to keep hidden.

Cute. I don't think she liked that I'd called it that, but honestly, how else could I put it?

She's got this icy exterior, sure, but the way she seemed slightly embarrassed by her grandmother's lunch—well, it made her feel almost…human. Endearing, even. I'm not sure why I find it funny, maybe because I never imagined someone like her having that kind of relationship with her family.

I shake my head, willing myself to focus. Thinking too much about Zaya, especially in a soft light, is like flirting with danger. I have a scene to rehearse, a dance scene, and right now, my only job is to make sure I don't trip over my own feet or embarrass myself.

But easier said than done. Waltzing isn't exactly something I do every day, and after a few minutes, it's clear that my idea of waltzing is little more than stepping on toes and swinging off-beat.

The rest of the cast gathers around in a loose circle, some chatting while others practice their own steps or watch us with poorly hidden smirks.

There's an expert instructor standing to the side, an older woman with silver hair and sharp eyes that catch every misstep.

"All right, now, feet closer together. No, closer. Layla, hold his shoulder up higher," she says, walking around us with a critical gaze. "And breathe, the both of you. You're waltzing, not running."

I laugh nervously, shifting to hold the fiancé's shoulder a bit more gracefully. Or at least trying to. There's something incredibly awkward about being so close to someone I barely know, both of us hyper-aware that every move we make is being observed.

I glance up, only to catch Zaya watching from the sidelines, her gaze steady and unblinking. The room feels smaller suddenly, like her gaze is taking up all the space.

"Are we doing it wrong?" I ask the instructor, trying to sound lighthearted, but my voice comes out a little shaky. The instructor chuckles and pats my arm.

"Just a little less tension, dear. Let it flow. Dance is about grace, not stiffness."

My partner clears his throat, trying to ease up on his rigid posture, but we both know we look ridiculous. The music starts, a soft, sweeping melody that fills the room. I try to follow the rhythm, stepping lightly as I keep time in my head.

The instructor taps my partner's shoulder, guiding us through a few basic steps. We stumble a bit, laughing, but the rhythm eventually starts to feel natural, like we're gliding across the floor rather than stomping on it.

I try to focus on my partner, to keep my attention on him and not…someone else. But the intensity of Zaya's stare keeps pulling my attention back. It's like I can feel her judging every awkward spin, every fumbled step.

I can't tell if she's bored or irritated or maybe a little amused, but her gaze is unrelenting. It's…distracting. A few times, I find myself off-beat, earning another critical look from the instructor.

"Again," she says, clapping her hands. We reset our stance, stepping back into the starting position.

I feel the pressure building, like the walls are closing in a bit tighter with every glance. I tell myself not to look at her, to stay focused on my partner, but when I glance up, she's still watching, her face unreadable.

Eventually, after what feels like a hundred attempts, the instructor finally steps back, satisfied with our progress.

"Good enough for today," she says, giving us a small nod. "But practice. Remember, the dance has to look effortless."

I'm about to relax when the director calls for us to set up for the next scene, the one on the balcony.

This one I've been dreading all day. It's the first scene with Zaya in it, the one where our characters confront each other, and I'm supposed to look genuinely terrified as her character pins mine to the wall.

The crew adjusts the lighting, dimming it to give the balcony set an air of mystery. The faint scent of stage smoke fills the room, and a chill rolls through as if the air itself has taken on Zaya's cold demeanor.

I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the nerves. This is just a scene, just acting. But it's hard to keep that in mind when I know what's coming.

The director gives us the signal, and we take our positions. I step toward the edge of the balcony, gazing out as if I were the princess looking at the stars, unaware of the danger approaching.

I can hear Zaya's footsteps behind me, quiet and deliberate, her presence filling the space with a tension I can't ignore. I know the moment she's there; I feel her before I see her.

The first few takes go smoothly, but something feels off. My nerves are betraying me, and I can't seem to keep my hands from shaking. I reset my posture, gripping the balcony railing tighter, willing myself to stay calm.

But when Zaya's shadow falls over me, her hand reaching out just a breath away, it's like my composure crumbles all over again.

"Hold still," she murmurs, her voice low and controlled, just loud enough for me to hear. There's something in her tone, something that makes it sound like a command rather than a suggestion.

Her hand slides around my wrist, gentle but firm, guiding me back against the wall. I'm trying to focus on the scene, on my lines, but all I can feel is the heat radiating from her, the intensity in her eyes.

My heart hammers in my chest, and I can barely catch my breath. She leans in closer, her gaze piercing as she pins me against the cold wall.

"Don't move," she says, her words sending a shiver down my spine.

I nod, my voice caught in my throat. Her hand presses against the wall beside my head, her gaze narrowing as she holds me there, a mixture of contempt and curiosity in her expression.