Chapter 9

The stark white set gleamed under the harsh studio lights, a stark contrast to the opulent drawing room it portrayed. After lunch, we were supposed to be shooting a sex scene, but I didn't know what the scene was supposed to be about. Based on our earlier scenes, the two were supposed to be being swept away in emotions and forbidden desires. Zane, clad in a fitted waistcoat and breeches that accentuated his broad frame, embodied the role of the wealthy young master with effortless charm.
My character, a fiery servant trapped in his household, was everything his wasn't – strong-willed, defiant, and yearning for a freedom she could never have. The scene we were filming crackled with repressed tension. Our characters, fueled by a simmering animosity that masked grudging respect, clashed over a stolen glance, a whispered word.
As the scene progressed, emotions ran high. The director, usually a stoic figure behind the monitor, urged us to push further, to delve deeper into the characters' entangled desires. And Zane… Zane seemed to transform. The playful banter that usually punctuated our breaks vanished, replaced by a simmering intensity that mirrored my own character's.
He stormed into the room where I was pretending to clean like a tornado, locking the door behind him.
"I told you..." He said low and soft. "I warned you."
My heart leaped into my throat. He darted across the room and yanked me over the couch. Fear made my heart race. I tried to force him off, tried to push at his shoulders, but he overpowered me. The air crackled with unspoken emotions as Zane's character pinned mine against the couch, his hand roughly gripping my arm. But then, something unexpected happened.
Zane's grip softened, his touch lingering a beat too long on my arm. His eyes, usually sparkling with amusement, held a depth of emotion that sent a shiver down my spine. And then, in a gesture so natural it felt scripted, he leaned in and kissed the corner of my mouth. It wasn't the bruising, lust-fueled kiss I'd shared with Quinton. It was a soft brush of his lips against the corner of my mouth, a fleeting touch that spoke of unspoken longing and a tenderness that left me breathless.
"Get off me!"
He hiked up my dress and shoving the layers beneath it aside and pinning me down. His eyes blazed with emotion as he shoved into me almost painfully. I arched off the bed, letting the sudden full sensation rush through me. He took me roughly, dangerously. I was overwhelmed. I couldn't breathe, yet everytime I thought that this was too real, too violent. His hands gentled. His lips grazed my neck as if trying to remind me that this was just a scene.
He came violently before getting up and leaving me to tumble off the couch to the ground.
The director yelled, "Cut!" but for a moment, I was lost in the sensations that were still rushing through me.
I thought back to what he said about his inhibitions. Slowly, I turned back to look at Zane. He was several feet away. A flush crept up Zane's neck, mirroring the heat that bloomed in my own cheeks. He didn't ask us to redo the scene, but we picked up with him storming out. The rest of the shoot passed in a blur, the charged atmosphere making even the simplest lines feel heavy with unspoken emotions.
That night, after a shoot that left me strangely stirred, I found myself unable to sleep. Zane's face, etched with a vulnerability I hadn't seen before, replayed in my mind. On a whim, I pulled out my phone and searched for his name. To my surprise, a wealth of information popped up – interviews, lectures, even a TED Talk where he spoke with an infectious passion about the mysteries of the universe.
As I watched him speak, his intelligence and genuine enthusiasm captivating me, a new side of Zane emerged that I couldn't put together with the side I'd experienced on set. He wasn't just the charming co-star or the enigmatic scientist. He was a man of depth and substance, a man who could wax poetic about quantum mechanics and deliver a soul-stirring kiss in the same breath.
And somewhere, amidst the whirlwind of emotions and the confusion of my situation, a tiny, traitorous part of me began to yearn for something more. Something real with him.
The following day on set, a palpable tension hung in the air, a leftover current from the previous day's charged scene. The scene we were filming mirrored the simmering unease – a tense standoff between my character and Zane's about what he'd done to my character before and what would happen going forward.
He walked into the room, and I flinched, scuttling back towards the window as if I would leap out of it. Just as he was meant to start speaking, Zane called for a sudden halt.
The director, ever the pragmatist, frowned. "What's the issue, Zane?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of annoyance.
Zane didn't seem bothered. He turned and left the scene without another word.
"Hey!"
I stared after him. The crew exchanged confused glances.
The director, after a beat of hesitation, sighed in resignation. "Seems our leading man is... off on his nebula again. We'll break for the day."
"What does that mean?" I asked, watching Zane sprinting off the set.
I felt unsettled, like a jilted bride at the altar. The crew, stifling their snickers, began to disassemble the set. As I changed out of my costume, a strange mix of emotions swirled within me. Part of me was annoyed by Zane's abrupt departure. The other part, a part I couldn't quite explain.
"It's normal," someone said. "Zane's probably off to do something with his research like normal. He'll be back to finish the scene... probably."
I almost laughed. I found his scientific obsession strangely endearing. After all, how many men did I know who would ditch a perfectly good sex scene for a physics experiment?