When You See Me

Chapter One

Julian

“Your worth is not determined by how others see you,” the podcast host whispered in my ear. “It’s something you claim for yourself. Every day. Over and over again.”

I exhaled slowly, sinking deeper into the stretch.

My palms pressed firm against the cool mat, the scent of damp grass and eucalyptus oil filling my nose as the quiet warmth of early morning curled against my skin.

The balcony was still—no cameras, no clicks, no one watching.

Just me. And the low, familiar hum of my carefully chosen calm.

Yoga hadn’t always been part of my mornings. Two years ago, I’d laughed when my old trainer suggested it—something about finding balance, peace, breathing through the pressure. I’d told him I didn’t have time for that hippie bullshit.

But after the third panic attack backstage—after Victor’s hissed warnings in my ear and the constant pull of too-tight suits and too-empty stomachs—I gave in. Stretched. Breathed. Listened to strangers talk about self-worth like it was something you could actually hold in your hand.

Now I couldn’t start a day without it. Especially on days like this.

Shoot day.

Another photo set. Another smiling, blinking, flawless version of me to parade in front of the world.

I shifted into a deeper pose, shoulders pulling tight, the mat soft under my bare feet.

The sun was barely up—pale gold leaking through the hedge—and for a few precious minutes I could pretend.

Pretend I wasn’t about to let Victor Langley adjust every part of me until I didn’t recognize my own reflection.

Pretend my manager wasn’t going to call and shove another job down my throat. Pretend I wanted this.

Because I did.

Didn’t I?

As long as I could remember—magazines, runways, campaigns—this was the dream. The only dream. The price of wanting something was paying for it when it finally came true.

And I was paying.

I shifted into a lunge, letting my muscles stretch and pull tight. My mind slipped—the way it always did—to the boy I used to be. The one who tore glossy magazines out of grocery store racks and taped the covers to his bedroom wall. The boy who thought being seen would make him matter.

I’d wanted this. Craved it. The lights, the attention, the cameras flashing my name like it meant something. I’d stood in front of the mirror at fifteen and promised myself I’d make it. No matter what.

And now I was here. Living the dream.

So why did it feel like drowning?

My phone buzzed sharply on the deck beside me, breaking the thought like glass underfoot.

I sighed, rolling out of the stretch, grabbing the phone without looking.

Bradley.

Of course.

I answered, dragging the towel over my face as his voice cut clean into my ear “Julian, good. You’re up.” No hello. No breath. Straight to business, as always.

“Didn’t have a choice, did I?” I muttered.

He ignored it. “You’ve got a shoot this afternoon. Victor’s set as always. Nothing new. Except they’ve booked you with someone.”

I stilled, towel half dragging across my jaw. “Someone?”

“New face. Up-and-coming actor. Miles Bennett.” Bradley rattled the name off like it meant something.

“He just finished some indie film—you know how they are. Studio wants to make him the next golden boy. Said you’ll be paired for this shoot.

Publicity push, cross-media exposure, blah blah. You know the drill.”

I sat back on my heels, the towel hanging loose in my hands. “I don’t do hand-holding, Bradley.”

“You’ll smile for the camera and play nice, Julian. Like you always do.” His voice sharpened. “Don’t start. They want you two looking cozy—chemistry sells. Even if you gotta fake it.”

I bit back the snort rising in my throat. Right. Because nothing says “chemistry” like forcing strangers into smiles and expecting magic. “When?” I asked.

“Two hours. Victor’s studio. Don’t be late.”

The line went dead without a goodbye. Typical.

I dropped the phone onto the mat and stared up at the pale sky.

Great. Another pretty face to smile at. Another stranger who’ll call me lucky and mean it. Another one who’ll act like they care.

I ran a hand down my face, feeling the familiar weight settle back onto my shoulders.

I pushed off the mat, rolling my shoulders loose, the familiar pull of tight muscle easing as I headed back inside.

The kitchen smelled faintly of lemon and coffee, sunlight striping across the stone counter. I grabbed eggs, spinach, and half an avocado—the quiet ritual of breakfast grounding me the way yoga did.

Victor was always shoving meal plans at me. Lists of calories, macros, what to cut, what to drink, what to spit out. But this?

This was mine.

I ate like this long before him. Not because he told me to—because I liked it. Because my body felt better when I fed it right. When I chose.

Small victories. Even if they were the only ones I got.

I cracked an egg into the pan, the sizzle loud in the still kitchen. Two hours until the shoot. Two hours until the mask went back on.

And a new name, now. Miles Bennett.

I wondered what kind of fake smile he’d wear.

The toast popped behind me. I flipped the egg and layered it onto the bread with soft avocado and bright green spinach. Simple. Clean. Real.

It tasted like plain toast. Like something Victor couldn’t touch.

After the last bite, I rinsed the plate, wiped the counter, set everything perfectly back where it belonged. My space stayed neat. Ordered. The only place in my life that felt like mine.

Even the way I moved here—smooth, measured, silent—was its own ritual. Coffee poured into the same matte black mug. Podcasts lined up on the phone. Shoes by the door, keys in the bowl.

Control.

Here, I had it.

The world outside could tear me apart later.

I stood by the kitchen window for a breath longer than I meant to, staring out into the pale light creeping over the hedges. My chest felt tight. My head was heavier than it should’ve been.

Maybe it was the new face. The new actor. Another fresh smile they’d pair me with to make headlines.

Or maybe it was Victor. Always Victor.

I shook it off, turning toward the bathroom.

Shower. Moisturizer. SPF. Everything in its place.

I pulled on black jeans, a loose dark tee, my favorite worn hoodie—oversized enough to drown in. Off-camera clothes. Invisible clothes. I liked to disappear when I wasn’t being seen.

The phone buzzed again. A reminder from Bradley.

Don’t be late. Big smiles today, Vale. Play nice.

I slipped the phone into my pocket, feeling the old weight settle on my shoulders.

Time for the mask.

I paused by the mirror in the hallway—my own reflection staring back. Pale green eyes. Sharp lines. Perfect hair.

The face they all wanted.

I touched the edge of the frame, the familiar chill of glass beneath my fingers.

“Showtime,” I murmured.

The quiet cracked. The control slipped back into its box.

I pulled the door open, stepped out into the bright, sharp world—and let the sweet, easy, camera-ready smile slide onto my face.

Julian Vale. America’s Sweetheart.

For now.

The drive wasn’t long—twenty minutes of city streets, podcasts low in the background, the weight of the day creeping slow and quiet between the cracks.

Traffic lights blurred past. Familiar corners. Same old billboards with faces I knew. Mine, sometimes.

But as the studio gates came into view, my grip on the wheel tightened.

It always felt like this.

As if the air thickened the closer I got, turning heavy in my chest. Like crossing some invisible line between freedom and something colder. Smaller.

Victor’s domain.

I pulled into the lot, killing the engine.

The building loomed—steel, glass, spotless. Beautiful, if you didn’t know better. If you couldn’t feel the quiet rot beneath the shine.

Here, the mask was required. Here, control was borrowed, not owned.

I sat for a breath longer, the weight of what waited inside pressing against my back.

Then I exhaled, letting the easy smile creep back onto my face.

Showtime.

The second I stepped inside, the mood shifted.

Buzzing voices dulled. Feet shuffled quieter. Like they always did.

I didn’t have to say anything. I never did.

They knew better.

The assistants barely glanced up as I passed. A few stiff nods. Quick glances. No one tried to stop me. No one tried to chat. Not after the last time someone thought they’d break the ice with small talk.

I didn’t play nice here. I didn’t have to.

Let Victor handle the fake smiles and PR soundbites. This part of the machine—the grunts, the techs, the runners—knew exactly what I was: a sharp-edged blade wrapped in glass. Pretty to look at. Dangerous to touch.

My boots echoed on the floor as I crossed the set without slowing, without blinking. Like moving through a cold dream. Eyes followed me. Whispers trailed after.

“Vale’s here early today.”

“God, he looks pissed.”

I always did.

I kept going. Straight to my room.

Only when I slipped inside—and smelled the faint sweetness of lavender conditioner—did something ease between my shoulders.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Her voice drifted warm and soft from behind the chair. Always the same greeting. Always the same teasing warmth.

Lena.

The only human being on this set who dared to talk to me like that.

I let the door fall shut behind me, leaning against it for a breath longer than I meant to. My eyes found her in the mirror—small, dark curls piled loose, a soft mauve sweater slipping off one shoulder. Kind brown eyes that had seen more of me than most ever would.

“You’re late,” she said, grinning, picking up a brush. “Don’t tell me you actually slept last night.”

“Don’t get used to it,” I muttered, peeling off my hoodie and dropping it on the back of the chair. My voice came easier here. Lower. Real.

Lena chuckled. “God forbid you rest like a normal person. What’s the world coming to?”

I sat, exhaling slowly. Let the chair take my weight. Let the room wrap around me—quiet, safe, smelling like clean hair and powder. This was the only place on set I didn’t have to keep my spine straight. My teeth clenched.

Lena moved behind me, gentle fingers brushing hair from my face, settling into her quiet rhythm. “Big day, Vale. New face coming in.” Her eyes flicked to mine in the mirror. “Miles something?”

“Bennett,” I grunted. “Another pretty face to smile at. Act like he gives a shit.”

Lena smirked. “Mm. He is pretty. Saw his last film. You’d like him. Golden retriever type.”

I fake-gagged, rolling my eyes—the faintest real smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “There it is,” she cooed.

“Your one daily expression. Bles,” I huffed, leaning into the chair. Letting myself breathe, just for these stolen minutes.

Here, I could almost pretend none of it waited outside that door. Not Victor. Not the cameras. Not the weight of another perfect mask.

But it was only almost.

Lena worked in smooth, practiced motions, her fingers threading through my hair like the breeze in spring. Quiet. Familiar.

For a moment, I closed my eyes.

“I don’t know how you still have hair left,” she murmured playfully, combing through the ends. “With the way Victor treats you like a goddamn paper doll, it’s a miracle you’re not bald.”

“Maybe I’m already bald,” I mumbled, eyes half-lidded. “And you’re just good at illusions.”

Lena snorted. “Please. If you ever went bald, you’d have a full existential crisis and drag me down with you. No thanks.”

I smirked, but it faded fast.

Her fingers paused for a breath. Like she felt the crack in my mood. Like she always did.

“You all right today?” she asked softly. No pity. No fuss. Just quiet knowing.

I shrugged. “As good as anyone on Victor’s leash can be.”

Her gaze met mine in the mirror. No judgment. Just that steady warmth. “You’re not on his leash here,” she said. “Not in this room.”

It made something twist in my chest. Something uncomfortable.

I glanced away.

Lena didn’t push. She never did.

Instead, she dabbed gently at my jawline with a sponge, her voice going light again. “So. Miles Bennett. First impressions?”

I scoffed. “Haven’t met him yet.”

“Well when you do, maybe try not to terrify him in the first five minutes. He’s new.”

I raised a brow. “Not my problem if he can’t handle it.”

Lena chuckled. “Such a ray of sunshine. No wonder they all adore you.”

I rolled my eyes, but the faintest smile tugged at my mouth—the real kind. The rare kind. The kind only she ever saw.

She stepped back, satisfied with her work. “There. Perfect as ever. Tragic, really. No one this pretty should be this grumpy.”

I stood, smoothing the fabric of my shirt, the weight of the mask settling back over me like armor.

As I reached the door, Lena’s voice called after me, soft but teasing:

“Go easy on him, Vale. Don’t scare the poor boy too bad.”

I glanced back over my shoulder, the barest spark of mischief in my eye.

“No promises.”

And with that, I stepped into the hallway—mask on.

Walls up.

Showtime.

The hallway buzzed soft with noise—shuffling feet, murmuring assistants, the faint clang of lights being adjusted on set.

I moved through it like stone cutting water. Unbothered. Unreachable.

Then I saw him.

Across the space, near the main backdrop—standing with some stiff-looking handler and one of Victor’s grumbling assistants—was him.

Miles Bennett.

The new face.

His gaze was already on me. Like he’d felt me coming. Like he was waiting.

Tall. Tall as hell. Broad shoulders wrapped in a fitted white tee, sleeves pushed up strong forearms like he hadn’t even thought about it. Jeans low on his hips, scuffed sneakers tapping the floor—restless, boyish, too casual for this place.

His hair was a mess. Warm gold and brown, tousled like he’d run his hand through it on the way in and never bothered fixing it. Freckles dotted the bridge of his nose, catching soft in the studio light.

And his eyes.

Bright. Warm. Wide and open in a way this industry usually killed in the first six months. Hazel, maybe—or gold—I couldn’t tell from here. But they locked on mine without flinching.

Like he saw something.

Like he knew.

My chest tightened.

Not the usual cold coil of dread that came with these shoots. Something else. Something unfamiliar. Like the slow clench of a hand I hadn’t noticed curling around my ribs.

His mouth quirked—the faintest, easy grin—like he was amused to catch me staring. Like I wasn’t the storm in the room everyone else carefully avoided.

I glanced away first.

Shit.

Great. Another pretty face to smile at. Another act to suffer through. Another boy who thinks he can play nice and gentle and make friends with the monster in the room.

But the weight in my chest stayed.

And when I glanced back—

He was still watching. Still smiling.

Like he already knew something I didn’t.

My fingers curled loose at my side. A slow breath behind the mask.

Showtime.