21. Reese
Chapter 21
Reese
“Stop rolling!”
Felix again. I swear I’ve started to hear his screaming in my nightmares. The extras flinch in unison. We’re all conditioned to his outbursts by now. But the executives lining the trees just nod, like a director having a fit is as normal as drinking tea.
We’ve been set up a few meters away from the lake, at a makeshift ship dock, since 5:00 this morning, running the same sequence until my muscles ache, trying to nail whatever impossible standard he’s created in his head.
My temples throb.
Four weeks of constant criticism, of being told I’m inadequate, incorrect, or whatever arbitrary standard Felix has decided applies today.
“This is a hundred-fifty-million-dollar embarrassment!” he thunders. “I’ve crafted box office gold for fifteen years. All my movies have real action, real stakes. The studio wanted their female-led blockbuster, and now I’m stuck with… this .” He gestures dismissively in my direction, like I’m merely a prop that’s been misplaced.
I dig my fingernails into my palms, struggling to maintain composure as fatigue and frustration build inside me. I’ve rehearsed this scene with Dante until I could perform it in our sleep.
But Felix would criticize a sunrise for being too predictable.
“Felix, if we could—”
“Save it.” He steps toward me, invading my space. The crew falls silent. “Everything went sideways when Lawrence pulled out. I should have walked when they couldn’t recast with someone who understands the physicality required.” His finger jabs the air inches from my face. “Someone who can sell the action.” Several crew members avert their eyes, uncomfortable with his aggressive stance.
“The sequence follows exactly what we’ve been practicing for weeks,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “If you could give me specific direction on what’s not working—”
“What exactly is your role here?” His words drip with condescension.
“Excuse me?”
“Your job title. What is it?”
“I’m the lead actress.” Each word tastes bitter.
“Then start acting like one!” He yanks at his hair like a mad scientist. “I shouldn’t have to spell it out. We have one shot at tomorrow’s underwater sequence, and you can’t even nail the setup.”
Weeks of biting my tongue, of maintaining professionalism, of working within his vague parameters. My eyes burn with tears that I refuse to let fall. Not here. Not for him.
“I’m trying my best, but your feedback isn’t actionable.”
These ambiguous criticisms are infuriating.
All bluster, no substance.
What concrete direction am I supposed to extract from that? Does he communicate differently with his male leads, some unspoken shorthand I’m not privy to? The thought makes my jaw clench.
I want to throw something. Preferably at his head.
“Trying?” His sneer twists his face into something ugly and cruel. “Where’s the raw sex appeal? The money shots?” Behind me, the wooden dock creaks beneath us as Dante shifts closer, his familiar presence solid at my back. “The studio pays for eye candy and explosions, sweetheart, not some PBS special!”
Each insult hits like a slap. So much worse than a wooden sword to the jaw.
This wasn’t part of the dream. Not during that first audition, not during training, not during those late-night script readings where I discovered who Robyn Hood really was. This isn’t how I imagined proving myself.
“I think we should take five,” I say, keeping my voice level despite my racing heart. “Give everyone a chance to reset—”
“Oh, now you’re directing too? These divas nowadays.” His gaze sweeps the crew like a searchlight, hunting for allies, but he finds only averted eyes. “Tell me, Sinclair, who exactly did you have to sleep with to land this role?”
There it is—the ugly truth. A familiar burn spreads through my chest, radiating outward until it reaches my fingertips. No matter how much I prepare, how hard I work, how deeply I understand my craft, to men like Felix, I’ll always be just a body to be desired or dismissed.
I taste blood where I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” Dante growls, and I’ve never heard that edge in his voice before, not even during that mess with Nick. The hair on my arms stands up as the rest of the stunt team silently forms ranks behind me.
Felix takes a step back, his shoe scuffing against the wooden dock. I watch as realization dawns on his face—he’s alone against a wall of people who make their living taking controlled falls from buildings.
But wounded egos are dangerous things.
“Listen here, pretty boy,” he snarls, compensating. “Go white knight on your own time, not the studio’s dime. We all know you’re just trying to get in her pants. She’s nothing but another—”
“Finish that sentence,” Dante says through gritted teeth. “I dare you.” He draws himself up to his full height. The entire crew holds its breath, and the birds seem to go quiet.
My heart stops, then restarts with a vengeance. My hands start to shake as the frustration I’ve been suppressing all morning finally surfaces, burning in my throat.
“This isn’t about the scene, is it?” I struggle with the clasps on my costume, the impractical metal breastplate and exposed midriff that make stealth scenes laughable. “This is about me refusing to film soft-core porn disguised as an action sequence. Because that’s not in my contract, Mr. Langford.”
“I was making blockbusters while you were still playing with dolls. Your artistic integrity means jack shit when you can’t grasp what sells tickets. But please, enlighten me about how your little romance movies trump my Oscar wins.”
“Enough.” I finally wrench off the chest plate with a satisfying click, followed by the heavy chain mail belt—the physical embodiment of how he’s trying to transform this character—and drop them at Felix’s feet. I pull out the extensions that have been causing me a headache all day and wipe at the excessive makeup.
“We’re done shooting today.” My voice carries across the set. I stand taller, steadier now that I’ve made my decision. “Your crew has been working fourteen-hour days. They’ve missed birthdays, canceled plans, and pushed through exhaustion. I’ve given everything to this role. And your response is to belittle everyone’s contributions?”
Around me, cases snap shut with deliberate force, equipment dismantling.
“You ungrateful little—” he starts, but I interrupt.
“Consider your next words carefully.” I maintain eye contact, refusing to be intimidated. “This industry is smaller than you think, and I’m not without my own connections.”
My body moves before my brain catches up, feet carrying me along the river, through the redwoods like muscle memory. Branches whip across my face, leaving stinging kisses as walking turns running turns sprinting deeper into the forest.
My lungs burn, but it’s nothing compared to the inferno of rage in my chest. I run until I reach the waterfall on the far side of the lake. The same lake that had me hyperventilating during that panic attack weeks ago, when even the splash of water against my ankles sent me spiraling.
I should’ve seen this coming.
Felix finally revealed what’s actually eating at him—that he, Hollywood’s favorite purveyor of testosterone-soaked explosions, has to acknowledge that women can do more than ask What do we do now? or die prettily to motivate the male lead.
“I put everything into this!” I strain. “I trained until my muscles screamed. I memorized every word. I faced every fear. I fucking learned to hold my breath underwater. And what am I to them? Just another pretty face with an expiration date!”
My boots kick at loose rocks, sending them skittering into the rushing water. The waterfall looms ahead. I’m left in my leather skirt, leather boots, and leather vest. Yet, for the first time, I feel more like Robyn already.
Kick. Pace.
Four. Seven. Eight.
The mist hits my face in tiny needles of ice. Each step closer makes my heart slam against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Heather was right.
Should’ve pulled out when she told me to. Be strategic , she said. Instead, I’m ruining my image, sneaking off set, risking everything I built to become the latest set diva who can’t work with a visionary director.
The studio will bury this movie.
They’ll blame me.
Why wouldn’t they? They sure as hell won’t blame their pal Felix.
I pick up a rock and hurl it at the falls. Then another. And another. Each splash disappears into the thundering white noise, but it feels good.
“After everything I’ve worked for!” I scream at the rushing water. They’re going to fire me. “All because I couldn’t shut up and smile!”
One step forward. My body screams retreat. Another step. The spray hits my bare stomach. Cold. Sharp. Real.
It makes me feel alive. Screw it . I step right into the water until it hits my skin like needles.
Good. Let it hurt.
The falls pound against my shoulders. Like the sound in my head when I read reviews that Geraldine can’t hide from me. When I hear the whispers. When I catch the crew’s pitying glances. When I imagine tomorrow’s headline: Reese Sinclair Melts Down, Tanks Hundred-Million-Dollar Production.
My feet slip on algae-slick rocks. I steady myself. These legs can hold a sword stance for hours. These arms can lift my body weight.
This strength is mine.
Not Felix’s. Never his.
Water streams down my face. Or maybe it’s tears. I can’t tell anymore.
Nothing matters except the scraping in my chest. Everything I’ve worked for, sacrificed—gone in one defiant moment.
What is wrong with me?
I scream.
The sound tears from my throat—feral, dying. Everyone at the dock must hear me.
“I hate this!” It echoes until my voice melds with the falls.
Years of smiling, nodding, being good—bleeding out of me like an open wound.
Let them hear. I’m done.
I don’t notice Dante until he’s there at the edge. Watching. His gold eyes steady on mine.
He sees everything. Always seems to.
“Reese, you’re in the water,” he says, like he’s commenting on the weather and not witnessing my breakdown.
The falls pound against me, soaking my hair and clothes. The cold brings clarity now, not panic. What remains of my costume clings like a second skin as the current pulls at my legs.
He walks through the downpour until he’s before me.
His gaze isn’t concerned or pitying—it’s just my own reflection.
For the first time since landing this role, I’m not auditioning for my own life. That’s how it feels with him.
He was right. Something wild in me begs for both release and control.
I look at him—steady, firm—nights of temptation and fantasies rushing all at once as my heart forgets its rhythm.
Not from fear. From something dangerous and inevitable.
I have nothing left to lose. Not even my hard-earned control.
No excuses. No job to protect. No directors to dodge.
Whoever catches us, it doesn’t matter. Felix already spread his filth about me to the crew.
“I’m in the water,” I repeat, the falls pounding against my back. What I hope he hears: I’m not afraid.
I’m done playing good.
Because being a good girl consumes you whole. It smothers and suffocates. Devours you from within until nothing remains but a hollow shell of pleasing smiles and careful words.
And right now? I want to tear my perfect life apart with my teeth.
Dante’s eyes catch mine through the water’s curtain. Dark. Intent. Burning. He drags me into that liminal space between fury and freedom with his gaze.
The boundary I dance along whenever we’re together.
I crave danger.
I need to ignite.
My body moves before my brain catches up. I clutch his shirt—fabric bunching between my fingers like salvation—and crash my mouth against his.
I kiss Dante Hastings.
Nothing gentle exists here. It’s all teeth and tongue and weeks of raw wanting.
He answers instantly, violently. His hands brand my skin through soaked clothes, lifting me effortlessly, strong fingers digging into my thighs as my legs instinctively lock around his waist.
His mouth devastates mine, tasting of adrenaline, desire, and something uniquely him that makes my head spin.
The waterfall thunders around us, but only the heat of his skin against mine matters.
I bite his bottom lip, and he growls—actually growls—his fingers marking my thighs.
Good. I need evidence.
Proof I chose chaos over control.
A sound tears from my throat—desperate, wanting—as his hands slide up my spine.
“Fuck,” he whimpers against me, one hand winding into my hair, pulling just enough to arch my neck. “You’re killing me, Reese.”
I surrender to his hungry, desperate mouth, and for once I believe. Believe I’m as untamed as he sees me, that our inferno could reduce the world to ash.
That I want that smoke again.
I want it scorching my lungs.
His grip tightens—possessive, demanding. The world shrinks to sensation. Muscles flex beneath my exploring hands. My teeth in his shoulder, tasting water, salt, him.
My existence has been restraint incarnate. Perfect posture, perfect smile, perfect sound bites served for mass consumption. Always responsible, reliable, the good girl failing at the impossible game of being woman enough but never too much.
I’m sick of her.
Sick in my marrow, between heartbeats, in every swallowed rage that poisons me like arsenic.
I choose mess. Choose the unlidded fire within.
Dante’s teeth graze my bottom lip, pulling a gasp from me. I welcome the pain. Crave it. His hands slide up my rib cage, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through wet leather. I rake my nails down his back, feeling muscles ripple beneath.
He pulls back just enough to see me, his breath hot against my lips. Water streams down his face, catching in his lashes. For a moment, we stare, our chests heaving.
He’s so beautiful—dark and certain of himself. Being with him makes me feel magnificent.
Then he kisses me again—slower, deeper, like he’s memorizing my taste.
Dante’s fingers tangle in my wet hair as the waterfall mists around us, the slight sting of pain delicious. The heat of his mouth ignites my nerve endings. I press myself against his chest, feeling how strong and solid he is.
He tastes sweet, and my lips tingle from the force of our kiss. My thighs shake around his torso, but he holds me up effortlessly, as if I weigh nothing.
I’ve been kissed before, but never like this. Never in a way that made me feel simultaneously unmade and completely myself.
I want that.
I want him to remind me that I can exist as pure instinct, desire, and freedom.
Time liquefies. Each kiss becomes rebellion. Here, under thundering waters, in Dante Hastings’s arms, I shed my carefully constructed image.
There’s vicious pleasure in murdering your curated self—the one packaged in acceptability and tied with desperation’s ribbon.
I’m finally Reese Sinclair with a capital Sin.