Chapter 1

"Cut!"

The director's voice barely registered through the pounding in my ears.

On the bed, twenty feet away, Adrian's hand remained splayed across Olivia's bare back.

The cameras stopped rolling three minutes ago.

His fingers traced her spine slowly, deliberately—nothing blocked, nothing rehearsed.

She arched into him with a soft gasp that the boom mic definitely caught.

"Cut!" the director called again, louder this time.

Adrian's other hand tangled in her hair, tilting her face toward his.

Their lips were inches apart.

This wasn't in the script.

The silk sheets had slipped dangerously low on Olivia's body.

Adrian's chest pressed against hers, his breathing audible in the silent studio.

"Adrian, we have the shot," the director said weakly.

No response.

Olivia's legs shifted, wrapping higher around his waist.

A sound escaped her throat—breathy, real, unmistakable.

The crew collectively held their breath.

I watched Adrian's hips move slightly, just enough.

Just enough for everyone to know this wasn't acting anymore.

"Cut! CUT!"

Finally, the director stood up from behind the monitors.

The intimacy coordinator took a hesitant step forward, then stopped.

Nobody knew what to do.

Nobody wanted to be the one to interrupt Hollywood's favorite leading man.

Adrian's mouth grazed Olivia's neck.

She threw her head back with a moan that echoed through the soundstage.

Five years of marriage.

And I'm watching my husband dry-hump his co-star in front of forty people.

My clipboard snapped in half.

The crack finally broke the spell.

Adrian lifted his head slowly, like he was emerging from underwater.

His eyes were glazed, unfocused.

Olivia clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

"I—" she started, voice shaking. "I'm so sorry. I just... I got too into character."

Into character.

Is that what we're calling it?

The crew erupted into activity—people suddenly very busy adjusting lights that didn't need adjusting, checking equipment that was fine.

Anything to avoid looking at the bed.

Adrian finally rolled off her, but his hand lingered on her thigh.

I counted the seconds.

Seven.

Seven seconds of his palm resting on her bare skin while she looked up at him like he'd hung the moon.

I forced my legs to move, walking toward them on autopilot.

"Adrian," I said quietly. "We need to move on to the next setup."

Olivia sat up, pulling a robe around herself, tears already streaming.

How convenient.

"Charlotte, your mind is filthy," Adrian said, standing abruptly.

His voice carried across the entire set.

Everyone froze.

"You see dirt in everything," he continued, adjusting his costume with deliberate slowness. "This is art. This is what real actors do—we sacrifice for the craft."

Sacrifice.

The word tasted like ash in my mouth.

"I was just—" I started.

"You were just being small-minded. Like always."

Like always.

When did I become the villain in my own marriage?

Olivia touched his arm, all trembling vulnerability.

"Adrian, please don't fight because of me. I feel terrible."

Her hand remained on his bicep.

He covered it with his own.

I'm standing right here.

His wife is standing right here.

But nobody knew that.

To them, I was just the uptight assistant who couldn't appreciate true artistry.

"I need some air," Adrian announced. "Olivia, let's run lines in my trailer."

They walked away together, her robe slipping off one shoulder.

He caught it, pulled it back up with such tenderness I nearly laughed.

He hasn't touched me like that in eight months.

The whispers started immediately.

"Did you see the chemistry?"

"They're definitely fucking."

"Poor assistant looked like she wanted to kill someone."

Poor assistant.

If only they knew.

I stood there, holding my broken clipboard, watching my husband disappear into his trailer with another woman.

The director approached me cautiously.

"Charlotte, we need to talk about the schedule..."

But I wasn't listening.

My phone was buzzing.

TMZ notification: "Adrian Blake and Olivia Hart: Too Hot to Handle?"

The video was already up.

Someone filmed the whole thing.

I watched it play out again on my screen—Adrian's hand sliding down Olivia's body, her legs wrapping around him, that sound she made.

The comments were exploding.

"THEY'RE DEFINITELY DATING."

"THE CHEMISTRY IS INSANE."

"His assistant is so jealous lmao who does she think she is."

His assistant.

His assistant who washes his clothes and makes his meals and wears his ring on the wrong hand so nobody asks questions.

My phone rang.

Adrian.

"Charlotte, get to the trailer. Now. We need damage control."

I looked at my wedding band—simple, silver, hidden on my right hand.

What am I controlling anymore?

"I'm on it," I heard myself say.

But my feet didn't move.

Another notification.

A photo from Page Six.

Adrian and Olivia entering the Chateau Marmont.

Timestamp: 11:52 PM.

Tonight.

Twenty minutes ago.

I slipped off my wedding ring.

The metal left a pale indent on my finger—five years of marking myself as his.

What have I been protecting?

I scrolled through my contacts to a name I'd saved months ago but never used.

Marcus Parker—entertainment journalist, gossip king, the man who'd offered me six figures for the "real Adrian Blake story."