Serris steps from her trailer, sunglasses barricading her stare, jaw angled with practiced indifference. Her dress—crimson, satin, slit high—hugs her frame, daring and defensive all at once. Maeve, crisp in sharp-shouldered navy, intercepts her with a too-bright smile, hands fluttering to tame Serris’s hair, to smooth invisible wrinkles, as if holding her together stitch by desperate stitch. Serris’s gaze flickers to Olin, already waiting by the director’s tent in a suit sharp enough to draw blood. He’s smiling with all his teeth.

Lio watches from the shadow of a grip truck, arms folded, muscles straining against a threadbare black tee. Bruises—fresh from the last stunt, and maybe from something darker—pattern his forearms. His eyes dart between Serris and Olin, jaw ticking. He wants to go to her, but holds back, a step, a whole history, away.

Olin’s voice slices through the air, velvet wrapped around steel. “Serris. For the sake of the studio, you’ll walk into the next gala with Zian. Smile, take his arm. Sell the fantasy—your career depends on it.” Zian loiters nearby, young and golden in designer clothes too loud for the hour, his nerves masked by cocky swagger. He lifts his phone, catching Serris in a calculated selfie. She flinches—a flicker, quickly masked by a smile for the camera.

Maeve’s jaw tightens. “She’s not a puppet, Olin.” Her words are soft, edged with venom. Olin barely glances at her, dismissing the protest with a flick of his hand.

Serris’s fingers curl at her side. “Is that a threat?” Her voice is all ice, but her throat bobs with the swallow she fights to hide. Lio feels the pull of her anger—wants to shatter the space between them—but knows any move could set off another blaze. He turns away, fists clenched, jaw set.

Inside the set, Ryven stalks after Lio and Zian, camera swinging from his neck. He’s silent, save for the shutter clicks—the only language he trusts. They round a corner, Zian’s hand landing on Lio’s bare shoulder as they banter, posturing. The flash goes off; Ryven’s lens catches them close, shirtless chests pressed in mock wrestling. Zian’s laugh is bright, but Lio’s eyes—dark, wary—betray a tension under the surface.

Ryven lingers. “That shot… people will talk.” His words hang between accusation and invitation. Lio holds his stare, breath tight. “Let them.” For a half-second, something softer passes between them—regret, recognition, or just loneliness. Ryven’s lips part, wanting to say more, but the moment breaks as shouting erupts down the hall.

Corin storms onto set in a graphite-gray button-down, sleeves shoved to his elbows, eyes wild and red-rimmed. He squares up to Lio, voice raw. “Stay away from her, or you’re done. I made you, remember?” Lio’s mouth twists. “You never made anyone but yourself a monster.” The words land like a slap. Corin lunges, shoving Lio back. Adrenaline crackles—the world narrows to ragged breaths, fists, the drag of nails. They’re both sweating, faces inches apart, hatred and something unspoken burning between them.

Serris arrives, steps between them, palm pressed to Lio’s chest. Her touch is both plea and warning—Lio’s heart pounds beneath her hand. “Enough. You want a show for the tabloids?” Her voice is a thread pulled taut. The men reel, bruised egos thrumming, but neither moves to speak.

Maeve drags Serris aside, thrusting a phone into her hand. “You need to see this.” On the screen: an old thread of texts, Vesta’s name at the top, confessions of love and betrayal—evidence of another fault line running under everything. Serris’s breath stutters. She looks at Corin—guilt etched deep in the lines around his eyes.

Later, Zian corners Serris by the costume racks, desperation flickering in his smile. He lowers his voice, eyes shining. “I have the footage. You and Lio—real close. You want it to stay buried? Then you’ll do what Olin says. Or your secrets are everywhere.” Serris freezes, a cold sweat breaking down her spine. For the first time, her mask threatens to crack.

In the lingering quiet, Ryven finds Lio backstage, the air thick with dust and something restless. Ryven’s eyes glisten—vulnerable, searching. “You ever feel like you’re just… watching your own life fall apart?” Lio, bruised and breathless, nods. Their foreheads nearly touch, a silent truce, both aching for solace neither can give.

Elsewhere, Olin watches the chaos he’s engineered unfold—a slight smile curving his lips, hungry for more.

Serris stands alone in the hallway, back pressed to the cold wall, phone clutched tight, Zian’s threat echoing in her ears. Her reflection in the glass is fractured, unrecognizable. The world she’s built, teetering on the edge.

To be continued…