Chapter 9: Scene One, Take One
Sienna's POV
The call time was 6:30 a.m. — which, in actor language, meant be there by six or you'll be side-eyed for life.
The studio lot still smelled like dew and coffee when I arrived. Assistants rushed around with clipboards, lights were being tested, and somewhere down the hall, someone was already arguing about lighting tones for "emotional resonance." Typical.
I tugged my hoodie tighter, sliding past a makeup artist who looked like she'd been up all night contouring half the cast.
Another day. Another role.
Except this one was supposed to matter.
The Last Page — a story that had broken the internet when it was announced for adaptation. The book was tragic, poetic, real. And somehow, I'd landed the role of Nora Quinn — the girl who loved words more than people, who was scared to be loved back.
I'd spent half the night rereading her lines. She felt like a mirror I didn't ask for.
The trailer mirror reflected the version of me the world always saw — perfect skin, midnight-blue hair curled into loose waves, gloss catching the light. My stylist, June, hummed as she fixed a stray strand.
"You nervous?" she asked, pinning my hair back.
"Nervous isn't the word," I said. "More like… aware."
"Aware of what?"
"That I'm about to act opposite the industry's favorite golden boy."
Axel Reeve.
Even his name sounded like a headline.
I'd met him once — three years ago at a charity gala. It ended with an argument over something stupid, a camera flash, and a publicist pretending it never happened. Since then, I'd avoided him like bad lighting.
My phone buzzed on the counter — notifications flooding in.
My latest song, "Midnight Theory," had hit ten million streams overnight. Fans were flooding Twitter and TikTok, making edits, crying over lyrics they swore were about my ex.
Sometimes I forgot how many people lived inside my name.
I turned off my phone before I spiraled. The world could wait.
"Ms. Everglow, they're ready for you on set."
I exhaled once, grabbed my script, and walked out.
The soundstage was cold — too much air-conditioning, not enough warmth. The director, Callen Ward, waved me over with that exhausted-genius look directors always had. Crew members darted around like lightning bugs. Axel stood across the set, flipping through his script, all calm and tailored confidence.
He looked unfairly good in character — Calen Rivers, the author who fell in love with the girl who would break his heart.
Of course he did.
"Sienna," Callen said, "we'll start with Scene One. The bookstore meet-cute. Just hit the emotional beats, don't worry about the marks yet."
"Got it," I said, forcing a small smile.
When the cameras rolled, everything quieted.
I wasn't Sienna Everglow anymore. I was Nora Quinn — soft-spoken, slightly messy, all hidden hurt and ink-stained hands.
I looked up from the fake counter of the fake bookstore and saw Axel — no, Calen — looking at me like the world had finally gone still.
It was good acting. It had to be.
Right?
The director yelled, "Cut!" and the crew exhaled collectively.
"Nice chemistry," someone muttered behind a mic.
Axel didn't even glance my way, just flipped his script again, jaw tight.
And me?
I pretended not to feel my pulse in my throat.
Axel's POV
She hadn't changed.
Midnight-blue hair, eyes like glass, the kind of face that belonged on billboards and in heartbreak songs.
Sienna Everglow was still all shine and smoke — dazzling, untouchable, infuriating.
I'd told myself I didn't care when they cast her. That I could handle sharing the screen with her. But the truth was, Sienna made acting feel dangerous. She didn't just play emotions; she dragged them out of you.
The first scene had gone fine — technically. But there was something under her lines, some ache that bled through even the fake smiles. It threw me off. I hated that.
"Not bad for a first take," Callen said, clapping me on the shoulder.
"We'll do better," I replied automatically.
"You always say that."
"Because it's true."
Sienna was talking to a PA, laughing about something, but the sound didn't reach her eyes. I remembered that gala years ago — her snark, her fire. The way she'd called me "Hollywood's favorite ice sculpture."
She wasn't wrong.
I checked my watch — still hours to go.
We'd be shooting until midnight if Callen wanted perfection.
And he always did.
By noon, we were three takes deep. Sienna's professionalism never cracked, but there was a heaviness behind her that felt too real. Maybe she'd lived too long under these lights. Maybe we both had.
When we finally wrapped for the day, Callen called out,
"Great work, everyone! Tomorrow we'll have a special guest joining us — the author of The Last Page. Inara Solace."
That name made the entire crew murmur. Even I'd heard of her — the reclusive novelist who never gave interviews.
Sienna just blinked, like she wasn't sure if she'd heard right.
"She's really coming?" someone asked.
"Yep," Callen said. "She wants to watch the adaptation up close. Be nice — or she'll write you into her next tragedy."
Sienna's gaze met mine across the set.
For the first time all day, we both looked equally surprised.
Later, as I walked out to the lot, I caught sight of her under the fading sun — hair gleaming blue, phone to her ear, smiling faintly as fans screamed her name from behind a fence.
She waved, composed, practiced.
And for a second, I wondered if anyone knew how much of her was performance.
Because I was starting to think… even she didn't.