I Was His Wife. He Called Me His Assistant

Z·Nyra

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Chapter 2

The production van hit another pothole, and I gripped the overhead handle.

We were three hours into the mountains for location shooting.

Pine trees stretched endlessly on both sides of the narrow road.

No cell service for the last hour.

Adrian sat in the front passenger seat, scrolling through his phone.

I was wedged in the back between equipment cases.

The assistant's seat.

Always the assistant's seat.

"Adrian, baby, I'm getting carsick."

Olivia's voice came through his phone speaker—FaceTime, of course.

"We're almost there," he said softly. "Just breathe."

I've been breathing dust and diesel fumes for three hours.

Nobody asked if I was okay.

"Pull over," Adrian suddenly commanded the driver.

The van lurched to a stop.

"Charlotte, get out."

I looked up from my laptop where I was revising the shooting schedule.

"What?"

"Olivia needs to ride in this van. The other one is making her nauseous." He didn't even turn around. "You can take her seat."

Olivia's van had leather seats and air conditioning.

This one smelled like gasoline and had a broken suspension.

"Adrian, I have all the production documents here—"

"Figure it out."

The door slid open.

Cold mountain air hit my face.

"Now, Charlotte."

I gathered my laptop and bag, fingers numb.

Don't react.

Don't give them the satisfaction.

I climbed out onto the gravel road.

Olivia's van pulled up thirty seconds later.

She stepped out in designer hiking boots and a cashmere sweater, looking like a Ralph Lauren ad.

"Oh Charlotte, thank you SO much," she gushed, touching my arm. "I'm just so sensitive, you know?"

Sensitive.

Right.

She climbed into the warm van.

Adrian's hand immediately reached back to hold hers.

Through the window, I watched him kiss her knuckles.

He used to do that to me.

On our honeymoon, in Paris, in bed at 3 AM when neither of us could sleep.

The door slammed shut.

The van drove away.

I stood there on the mountain road, exhaust fumes in my face.

"You coming or what?" the PA from Olivia's van called.

I climbed into the back.

At least it's warm.

---

We reached the location at sunset—a clearing with a half-built period set.

Scaffolding everywhere, lumber stacked in precarious piles.

The crew unloaded equipment while Adrian and Olivia did a "spontaneous" photo shoot by the forest edge.

Her laugh echoed through the trees.

So spontaneous.

So natural.

So perfectly timed for the photographer who "just happened" to be here.

"Charlotte!"

The director waved me over.

"We're running behind. Can you coordinate the lighting setup?"

Can I do your job for you?

Sure.

I spent the next two hours directing the gaffers, organizing the shot list, and making sure Adrian's trailer was stocked with his specific brand of sparkling water.

The kind Olivia also drinks now.

What a coincidence.

Night fell fast in the mountains.

Temperature dropped twenty degrees.

The crew set up work lights that cast harsh shadows across the set.

"Positions for Scene 47!" the AD called.

Adrian and Olivia took their marks on the platform—fifteen feet up on the scaffolding.

I stood below, checking my notes.

Scene 47: The confrontation.

Lots of movement, lots of physical acting.

Lots of opportunities for "artistic" touching.

"Action!"

They moved through the scene—angry dialogue, intense stares.

Then Adrian grabbed Olivia, pulling her close for the climactic moment.

Her hands fisted in his shirt.

It's just acting.

It's just—

A crack split the air.

Metal groaned.

"GET BACK!" someone screamed.

The scaffolding lurched sideways.

Adrian wrapped his arms around Olivia, twisting as they fell.

He hit the ground first, cushioning her landing.

They rolled together in the dirt, tangled up.

Romantic, even in disaster.

I jumped back as lumber crashed down.

Not fast enough.

A wooden support beam slammed into my leg.

Pain exploded through my shin.

I hit the ground hard, the beam pinning me.

"OLIVIA!" Adrian's voice, panicked. "Olivia, are you okay?"

"I think so," she whimpered. "My ankle..."

"Don't move. Don't move, baby, I've got you."

Baby.

He called her baby.

In front of everyone.

I tried to push the beam off my leg.

It wouldn't budge.

"Help," I called out.

But everyone was crowding around Adrian and Olivia.

The medic rushed over with his kit.

Camera phones were already out, filming the "hero" protecting his co-star.

This will be everywhere by morning.

"Can someone—" I tried again.

My voice disappeared into the chaos.

Blood seeped through my jeans.

The beam was heavy, rough wood digging into my shin.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

Finally, a PA noticed me.

"Oh shit, Charlotte's hurt!"

He and a grip lifted the beam.

My leg screamed.

"You okay?" the PA asked.

"Fine," I lied, standing on shaking legs.

Blood dripped into my shoe.

It's fine.

Everything's fine.

I limped toward the crowd.

Adrian had Olivia in his arms now, carrying her toward the medical tent.

She had her face buried in his neck.

Her ankle.

She hurt her ankle.

I might have a fractured leg and nobody noticed.

"That's a wrap for tonight!" the director called. "We'll assess damage in the morning."

The crew began packing up.

I hobbled toward the production van.

"Charlotte?" The driver looked confused. "We're full. Mr. Blake said you'd figure out your own transportation."

Of course he did.

"I'll... I'll catch a ride with someone else."

But everyone was already leaving.

Van after van pulled away, taillights disappearing down the mountain road.

I stood there in the dark, leg throbbing.

They forgot me.

They actually forgot me.

My phone had one bar of service.

I tried calling Adrian.

Straight to voicemail.

Obviously.

He's too busy playing doctor with Olivia.

The last van left.

Silence swallowed the clearing.

Just me, the broken scaffolding, and the dark forest.

I limped to Adrian's trailer—at least it would be warm.

Locked.

Of course it's locked.

He has the only key.

I sank down against the trailer wall, leg screaming.

The temperature was dropping fast.

My breath came out in white clouds.

This is fine.

I've been through worse.

Like that time I did Olivia's stunt work and broke my leg in three places.

Adrian visited me once in the hospital.

Once.

He stayed for twenty minutes.

Then left to take Olivia to her premiere.

A howl echoed through the trees.

Distant, but not distant enough.

Coyotes.

Or wolves.

Do they have wolves in these mountains?

Another howl, closer this time.

I pulled my jacket tighter and checked my phone.

No service now.

I'm alone on a mountain with wild animals and a possibly broken leg.

And my husband is probably feeding Olivia soup in a warm hotel room.

The forest came alive with sounds—rustling, snapping twigs, things moving in the dark.

I pressed my back against the cold metal trailer.

Just survive until morning.

You've survived worse.

You survived five years of this marriage.

Something moved in the tree line.

Eyes reflected in the moonlight.

Don't run.

Running triggers the chase instinct.

I held perfectly still, barely breathing.

The eyes disappeared.

My phone buzzed—one bar flickering back.

A notification loaded.

Twitter trending: "#AdrianSavesOlivia"

I clicked it with shaking fingers.

The video was everywhere—Adrian catching Olivia, rolling to protect her, carrying her away.

"A REAL LIFE HERO," the tweets screamed.

"THE WAY HE PROTECTED HER."

"THIS IS TRUE LOVE."

One photo showed them in the medical tent.

Adrian holding her hand while the medic examined her ankle.

She was crying.

He was kissing her forehead.

Beautiful.

Tragic.

Perfect for their narrative.

My phone buzzed again.

A text from Adrian.

Finally.

"Where are you? Olivia needs her medication. It's in the production kit. Bring it to the Grand Pine Hotel, room 412. She was bitten by mosquitos and she's allergic. Hurry."

I stared at the message.

Mosquitos.

He left me on a mountain.

Forgot me with wild animals and a bleeding leg.

Because his co-star has mosquito bites.

My fingers moved automatically, typing a response.

Then I stopped.

Deleted it.

Opened my messages instead.

Scrolled to Marcus Parker's number.

The journalist who wanted the real story.

I started typing.