19. Reese
Chapter 19
Reese
September 12th
Reese Sinclair and Dante Hastings Caught Training After Hours
By Susan Martin
“Where exactly are we going?” I adjust my baseball cap and sunglasses as I follow Dante down a set of dimly lit stairs behind a pet store in Portland called Squeaky. My heart pounds with each step. If this is anything like the party at Wizard Island last weekend, I’ll be underdressed in my blue jeans and hoodie.
“If I told you, it would ruin the surprise,” he says with an infuriating smirk that makes me want to either slap him or kiss him. Ramsey’s bulk casts a shadow as he follows behind. “Trust me.”
“You do know all the most interesting places, don’t you?”
Dante looks back at me, and there’s a twinge of something in his face before he says, “That’s why people keep me around.”
He doesn’t elaborate before he extends his hand, and I take it, feeling like I’m crossing some invisible line. I’m already here. And honestly, I need the distraction. The raft scene is in four days, and my stress level is peaking and spoiling every chance we get to relax.
From all the time we’ve been spending together, it’s been harder to remember why I should keep resisting him. The movie, my reputation—they all seem meaningless when he looks at me. I may have made an emergency trip back to LA for certain battery-operated necessities. And if the cabin’s utility bill has skyrocketed from all my extended bubble baths?
Well, that’s between me and the water heater.
Miraculously, no articles about my drunken island shenanigans made it to print. And even though our filming location’s been compromised and there’s been an endless parade of photographers at security, I’m tasting something that feels suspiciously like freedom. The kind I haven’t experienced since before I knew what a call time was or that green juice could be considered breakfast. Before every moment of my life was scheduled, filtered, and approved by a committee.
“This feels illicit.”
“I agree.” Ramsey’s voice comes from behind me.
“Come now, kids, where’s your sense of adventure?” Dante puts on his showman smile and pushes through an ornate metal door at the bottom of the stairs, revealing a sight that takes my breath away.
The hidden space can only be described as an intimate jewelry gallery. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow prisms across gleaming glass cases filled with the most exquisite gems I’ve ever seen. Emeralds, tanzanite, black opals, diamonds, and rubies sparkle beneath museum-quality lighting. The air down here feels different. It’s a world away from anything I’ve ever seen.
“I fail to see how this place is going to help me prepare for my role,” I say dryly, though my eyes can’t help but linger on a particularly stunning sapphire.
“Robyn’s a master thief, isn’t she?” Dante’s voice drops to that rich, persuasive tone that makes my knees weak. “Shouldn’t you know what real treasures look like? Not those plastic props they’ve got you working with on set. Consider this life imitating art.”
“Hey, those props are very convincing under the right lighting,” I protest with a laugh.
“Dante, my Adonis!” A figure in impeccable black couture emerges, gliding across the carpeted floors. They plant one dramatic kiss on each of Dante’s cheeks, then do the same to me. “And moi cher , you are Aphrodite incarnate.”
I tense immediately. Every new person is a potential leak. Dante notices immediately, his dark eyes flickering. “Relax. Paulie’s under NDA. No cameras, no social media.” He leans closer. “Just us. Changes the shop location every month. Keeps the riffraff out.”
I swallow. “If you say so.”
“This month we’re doing business beneath a dog store with dusty toys and moth-eaten kibble.” Paulie laughs. “But what else can you do when you have a jewelry vault that would make the royal family blush?”
Dante taps the nearest display case. “Show us what’s new.”
“Straight to business,” Paulie hums, adjusting their oversized tortoiseshell glasses with bejeweled fingers. “For this lovely creature? I have just the thing.” They reveal an array of delicate chains. Some meant for thighs, others for waists and ankles. One particular piece catches my eye. A gossamer-thin emerald-studded chain that captures light like dewdrops.
“These are stunning,” I murmur, my fingers hovering over the emerald piece. “But not really for me…”
“The thigh chain would look exquisite on you,” Dante says, pointing out the exact one that caught my eye.
“I’ll leave it here for you to consider, darling.” Paulie winks. “Now, Dante, my favorite customer, what are we looking for today?”
“Got any interesting rings? She made quite a point of telling me how much she loves mine.” He nudges my arm. “Thought you could help me pick out a new one.”
My mouth opens. Closes. That night floods back to me. Drunk on absinthe, doing things with his rings that in no world can be considered proper. Kissing them. Rubbing them against my skin. Oh my. I definitely hallucinated that whole interaction, right? But Dante’s expression is pure smug satisfaction, the kind that says he’s been waiting to bring this up at the most mortifying possible moment. Then I steal a glance at his forearm. My signature is still there, although it’s nearly faded.
Not my finest night.
“Lucky for me you chose a permanent marker to tattoo me with,” he chuckles.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I scold and pull off my baseball cap and sunglasses, tucking them into my hoodie pocket.
“For someone who acts for a living, you’re remarkably unconvincing.”
I can’t help the snort that exhales through me. I don’t know why it feels like we’re old friends. We’ve known each other for such a short time, and we hardly got off on the right foot, but I feel close to him. Can someone feel close to someone like Dante?
“Darling souls, the tension is simply unbearable!” Paulie exclaims and guides us to a velvet-lined tray. “Though who could resist him? Now then, precious, let me show you what I’ve curated.”
“Tell me what you think,” Dante purrs. The rings sparkle as he roams through the display case. He picks up the first ring, and I’m hyperaware of his proximity. The gaudy diamond feels all wrong.
“It’s…” I search for the right word. “A bit flashy for my taste.”
Dante doesn’t flinch, just smoothly slides another ring across the velvet. “Next.”
“Now this,” Paulie swoops in with theatrical flair, “is a gold signet ring for the pinky finger.”
“Too…” I try to mask my nervousness with humor. “Corleone.” The heavy gold would look clunky on his elegant fingers. His hands are made for something more refined.
“Ah, my dear, I can read you like a rare gem. You’d rather see these beauties on him, wouldn’t you?” They gesture to Dante, who’s leaning against the counter with infuriating grace. “I’ll give you two some privacy.”
Before I can stammer out a protest, Paulie glides away in a cloud of expensive perfume, leaving me alone with Dante and his knowing smirk.
“Maybe you’re not a fan of these because you don’t wear much jewelry yourself,” he observes.
“I do for awards shows. At the Golden Globes this year, I wore earrings that came with their own bodyguard. This guy in a black suit followed me everywhere—even waited outside the bathroom like I was planning a heist.”
“And these?” Dante gestures to my pearls.
“These are actually mine. First piece I ever bought myself after winning my first Teen Choice Award. No bodyguards required.”
“They’re lovely.”
“How did you get so confident with…” I gesture vaguely at his whole…everything, from the artfully layered chains to the chipped nail polish catching the light. “All of this. Was it like a switch flipped one day?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Yeah, I emerged from my mother in a leather jacket, obviously.” When I shoot him a look, he leans back, considering. “It was gradual. Aesthetics are a language, aren’t they? A way to write your own story before anyone else can.”
“No baby photos of you brooding in chains then?” I laugh, trying to picture him as anything other than this curated image before me.
“God no. Went through every phase imaginable. Preppy. Sporty. Brief California surfer period—puka shells around my neck and everything. I wanted to fit in but never quite found my people.” He absently touches one of his rings. “Then I started fencing. Something about holding a sword, being good at it, changes how you carry yourself.”
“Fencing always seemed more buttoned-up to me,” I say, watching his fingers trace the silver band.
“It is. But that’s what made it interesting, bringing something different to it. The sponsors liked that, actually. This whole thing”—he gestures to himself —“it made the sport feel more accessible somehow.”
“Meanwhile, I’ve been basically the same since I was on The Sweet Life with Cleo,” I admit, fidgeting with my necklace.
His eyes follow the movement, lingering. “We all wear armor. Yours happens to be pearls instead of silver.”
I blush, and my eyes flick to one of his silver rings. I’m pretty sure it’s the one I decided to kiss last weekend. “What’s the story behind this one? You always have it on.”
“Got it after winning my first tournament,” he says. “Nothing special. Sterling silver from some pawn shop when I was fifteen. But I keep it on.” His voice is flat, matter-of-fact, though something in the way he touches the ring suggests there’s emotion there.
“It may be one of my favorites,” I admit and look back down at the velvet box. “Although…”
I spot a delicate piece and lift it up. It’s titanium, with a lustrous pearl shell like a precious accent. “This is beautiful too.”
He gives me his hand, palm facing down, and only the middle finger remains empty. “Let’s try it on.”
The ring shimmers. My fingers tremble as I take his hand in mine, steadying it at the wrist.
I trace the collection of rings already adorning his fingers. When I finally slide the new ring onto his middle finger, the moment stretches, sweet and thick like the summer twilight back in NOLA. His entire body goes still, and suddenly this hidden jewelry vault feels far too small to hold all the things we’re not saying.
“There,” I say, pulling away.
“I’ll take it. What can I get for you.” It isn’t a question.
“No.” I wave my hand dismissively. “I have a vault full of stuff that just sits there, gathering very expensive dust.” Besides, accepting jewelry from a man like him feels dangerous. It would be red flag number…well, I’ve lost count, and that says all I need to know.
“Look at you, pretending you don’t want anything when I saw you eyeing those chains earlier. The one with the emeralds is quite beautiful, no?”
“It’s not really me.”
“Says who? Come on, tell me what you want.”
You to push me against these counters and run your pretty fingers across my skin until I forget my own name.
“I don’t know…”
“You deserve to let someone treat you to something nice, don’t you think? Besides, Felix has been a prick all week. A beautiful thing can brighten up a day.” He says the last words with a weight I try not to read into.
“Don’t remind me of him.” I bristle, the moment shattered. “He’s been even more impossible this week, and I didn’t think that was possible.”
“Heard him threatening another stunt double.”
“Some of the studio execs are visiting set next week, and Felix has gone full helicopter parent, convinced they’ll yank our funding faster than he can say action.” The words taste bitter in my mouth. “He’s hovering over my every move, but he won’t actually tell me what I’m doing wrong anymore. Just hits me with disappointed sighs and groans like some frustrated bulldog.”
“Whatever that prick says, this film works because of you.” Dante’s dark eyes hold mine. “Trust me. Your control is perfect. Every mark precise. Trust your body. Trust your instincts. You’re not acting the part. What were your words? You are the leading lady.” My heart expands in my chest. “Felix wants you weak,” he says bluntly. “I’ve noticed that he’s barely shooting your corrected scenes. You okay with that?”
I hate how he sees me so clearly. “Obviously not. But what am I supposed to do? I’m only the actress, darling .” I imitate Felix’s nasal voice. “I’m not codirecting, not producing. This whole production, this director—I’m drowning in pretense.” I exhale sharply, the sound echoing off gleaming display cases. “After so many years of being Hollywood’s perfect little porcelain doll, I’m exhausted from being sculpted by some other man’s vision, like clay in hands that don’t understand what they’re molding.”
“Have you never worked with a female director?”
“Sadly, no. But what a dream it would be to work with someone like Amara Bellamy—”
“Amara?”
“Her work is revolutionary,” I press on.
“Mari’s actually staying on my yacht. Old friend from Princeton theater days.”
My mind conjures images of them lounging on deck, sharing inside jokes and creative visions. The surge of possessiveness catches me off guard. I have no right to feel territorial.
“If I’d known you were a fan…I could have arranged something weeks ago. Called in a favor,” he says.
“Don’t tease me,” I warn. “Her vision, what she did with Saoirse Ronan and Florence Pugh, even Margot Robbie—it’s everything I dream of.”
Dante tilts his head, eyeing me. “Who says I’m teasing?”
“It’s your default setting.”
“Not wrong,” he says, his voice flat. “But your answer disappoints me. The fact that working under a woman director is some rare, coveted thing is fucked up, especially when you’re making films about women’s lives. But that’s obvious. I want to know what you want. Really want.”
I let the question settle in my chest, where it mingles with all those late-night dreams I barely let myself acknowledge. The ones where I’m not reciting someone else’s vision but crafting my own. Where I’m not the face on the poster but the force behind the lens.
“I want to own my own production company and direct movies,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can catch them. It’s the first time I’ve admitted it to anyone. Not even Heather. Or Cleo. “I’ve been dreaming about it since I was sixteen, spending more hours analyzing director’s commentaries than actually watching the films. But there’s this gap between knowing how something works and actually making it work yourself.”
“All those years on set isn’t only observation,” he counters. “You see things others miss. Like on Thursday, you suggested changing the blocking in scene forty-three? Pure director’s instinct.”
He noticed? The tiny change I’d suggested, having the villager crumple inward with despair instead of lashing out in rage when Robyn delivers the stolen goods? It was such a small note, but he’d caught it.
“Though if we’re talking actual directing experience,” I add, feeling oddly exposed, “my crowning achievement was terrorizing the neighborhood children into performing The Wizard of Oz when I was eight. Ten tiny actors, including an extremely unwilling infant we cast as a flying monkey. Their parents still bring it up at block parties, though I maintain that the baby’s performance was Oscar-worthy.”
“Fuck me,” he says, letting out a low laugh that makes something twist in my stomach. “I did that same show. Let me guess, you were Dorothy.”
“Guilty.”
“I played the Tin Man,” he says, and the air between us shifts, like tectonic plates grinding beneath the surface. “Typecasting, probably. All metal, no heart.”
I recite the line before I can stop myself: “‘Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable.’”
“‘But I still want one.’” His words hang in the air, delicate and dangerous. I understand, suddenly and completely, that we’re not talking about The Wizard of Oz anymore.
The emerald chain catches the light, and I think of all the times I’ve said no to the things I wanted, afraid of wanting them too much. My fingers trace the glass case, leaving crescents of condensation.
“Paulie?” I call out to the back, and they appear. “I’ll take the chain.”
Maybe sometimes the bravest thing isn’t refusing to want but letting yourself want anyway, even when it might break you.