Lyriin’s hair is swept up hastily, wild curls escaping to frame her face; the under-eye circles she tried to cover this morning are already leaking through. She hovers at the edge of the set, long cream blouse wrinkled, oversized blazer slipping from one shoulder, fidgeting with the rings on her fingers. When Solmyra arrives—sharp black suit, not a strand of dark hair out of place—silence carves through the chatter. Solmyra’s gaze, impossibly direct, slides over Lyriin and lands coolly on Emrin. He’s in black jeans and a faded tee, always half-tucked, always left-side undone. He straightens, camera in hand, offering that soft, familiar half-smile. Lyriin tries not to stare, but her lips quirk upward; nerves and want twist through her.

Solmyra’s clipped heels echo as she circles the set, her expression severe, lips set in a line. “Let’s keep this professional,” she says, voice chill as glass. Emrin’s face flickers—something wounded and wary—and he lowers his gaze. Lyriin’s pulse skips. While cameras are reset, Solmyra lingers too close, her perfume a waft of bergamot and clean steel. She addresses Emrin quietly, so close he tenses: “Careers shatter for less than what you’re risking.” There’s no accusation in her words, just lethal precision. Emrin nods, jaw tight.

Rehearsal drags. Lyriin flubs a line, panic prickles her skin. She laughs it off shakily, but Emrin’s eyes catch hers—steady, forgiving. During a blocking break, he slides to her side, lowers his voice. “You did great. Don’t listen to anyone who says otherwise.” His hand brushes hers beneath the props table, hidden from sight, their fingers tangling for one daring heartbeat. Her whole arm tingles; she wills herself not to fall apart.

Later, Lyriin escapes to the supply loft and folds herself onto a crate, knees drawn in. Her phone buzzes—Emrin. You okay? She hesitates, staring at the reply bubble, but before she can answer he appears, gentle, concerned, hair messier than usual. He sits beside her, arms resting loosely on his knees. “Hey. You’re safe. I swear.” Her guard collapses; she lets the tears fall. He touches her cheek with careful fingertips, thumb brushing away mascara. “I’ll protect you,” he murmurs, voice so earnest it aches.

She kisses him first—tasting salt and hope, fingers fisting in his soft shirt. His hands are everywhere and nowhere, reverent, careful. They tumble behind hanging costumes, breath hitching, skin against skin, Lyriin’s laugh shivering with disbelief and want as Emrin lays her back. Their bodies press together, urgent, desperate. He tears off her blazer, kisses bloom down her throat, his name the only word she remembers. When he moves inside her, slow and tender, it feels like forgiveness. The world is reduced to his hands, his breath, his trembling devotion. She clings to him, gasping, and when it ends they stay tangled together, sated and breathless.

As dawn kisses the skylight, Lyriin struggles into her blouse. Emrin kisses the mark on her collarbone, whispering, “Don’t run.” She almost believes she can stay.

Across the security monitors, Solmyra’s face is an obsidian mask—the blinking cursor of the “delete” button reflected in her eyes. Jaw set, she erases the footage before anyone else can see what bloomed in the shadows that night. Not one muscle betrays the tremor racing up her arm.

Later, Lyriin fixes her lipstick in the bathroom mirror. Her face is radiant but haunted, eyes flickering with hope and dread. Her phone pings—a news alert. She clicks, heart pounding.

There, splashed across a tabloid site, are blurry, intimate photos of her and Emrin. Sent in by an anonymous source. Her breath catches.

All at once, the air splinters with panic.

To be continued...