Chapter 3
LEXI
The next morning, the sun was already blinding by the time we pulled up to set.
Charleston light had a way of showing everything—the shimmer on the water, the haze above the marsh, even the tiny motes of dust dancing in the air. Los Angeles light was harsher, filtered through smog. This was something else. Too honest, maybe.
Our production trailers were lined up along the dock like little pastel houses, their metal sides painted to blend with the backdrop. Crew members darted between them carrying clipboards, coffee, and the kind of quiet urgency that meant we were behind schedule before the day had even started.
“Ready?” Hannah asked from beside me, already scrolling through her phone, her headset in place like she’d been born with it.
“As I’ll ever be.”
My reflection in the trailer window stared back—makeup flawless, hair curled into effortless waves that had taken an hour to achieve.
The irony never got old. The whole point of today’s shoot was raw realism, according to the director.
“Stripped-down intimacy,” he’d called it in the production meeting. No glamour, no filters. Just truth.
And yet here I was, airbrushed within an inch of my life.
“Ms. Montgomery,” one of the production assistants called, jogging up with a clipboard. “We’ll get you through wardrobe and touch-ups, then straight to blocking. Boat scene first.”
Boat scene. Right. Of course, they’d start with that.
I followed him down the dock toward a gleaming white trawler bobbing gently in the water.
A handful of crew worked around it—adjusting reflectors, running cables, setting up a massive wind machine on the pier.
From a distance, it looked like chaos. Up close, it was choreography.
Everyone knew their part. Everyone except me, apparently, since my stomach twisted tighter with each step.
It wasn’t nerves, exactly. I’d done this a hundred times. But no matter how many sets you’ve been on, there’s something about the first day—the shouted cues, the tension humming under every movement—that makes you feel like a beginner all over again.
Inside the makeup trailer, my team swarmed like bees.
“Morning, superstar,” said Carrie Drake, my makeup artist and therapist rolled into one. “Sleep okay?”
“Not really,” I admitted, sliding into the chair.
She studied me in the mirror. “Jet lag?”
“Existential dread.”
She laughed softly, brushing powder across my nose. “So, the usual.”
I smiled at that. If anyone understood, it was Carrie. She’d been with me since the indie days, long before the blockbusters and the award shows. She’d seen me cry in bathroom stalls and throw up before auditions. She knew how to hold space for the good and the bad.
“You look beautiful,” she said finally, stepping back.
“I look like someone who slept three hours.”
“Same thing,” she deadpanned, then turned me toward wardrobe.
The costume designer fussed with the hem of my sundress, pinning it in place. “The director wants this to feel … accidental,” she said. “Like you just threw it on after swimming. Can you make it look like that?”
I almost laughed. Can I make something look like something else? That was the whole damn job.
When I stepped out of the trailer, the director was already waiting. Franklin P. Smith was young, brilliant, and just pretentious enough to make people call him a visionary.
“Lexi,” he said, kissing the air beside my cheek. “You look luminous.”
“Thanks,” I said, because what else do you say to that?
He launched into a monologue about the emotional weight of the scene—something about isolation, vulnerability, how love and danger live in the same breath. I’d read the script enough times to know all of that already. What I hadn’t quite prepared for was starting with a sex scene.
They always said they scheduled those early to “break the ice.” Personally, I thought it was more to get the awkwardness out of the way before anyone got too comfortable.
My co-star, Benji Dawes, waved from the dock as he boarded the boat. Tall, dark hair, soft blue eyes—the kind of face that looked heartbreakingly sincere on screen. He was one of the nicest men I’d ever met in Hollywood. And completely, utterly uninterested in me.
He was out, privately but comfortably, with a longtime partner who sent him daily good-luck texts before shooting. I envied that kind of quiet, uncomplicated love.
“Morning,” Benji said, offering his hand to steady me as I stepped aboard.
“Morning.”
“You ready to fake it ‘til we make it?”
“Story of my life.”
We laughed, the easy camaraderie easing my tension a little. Still, my stomach fluttered as the director called for silence. The crew shifted into place. The camera assistant clapped the slate.
“Scene Twelve, Take One.”
Action.
The boat rocked gently beneath us. I was supposed to straddle him, kiss him, then collapse into laughter that turned breathless, then tender, then something that could pass for desire.
It was choreography, all of it—the tilt of my chin, the arch of my back, the placement of my hands. Benji whispered his lines against my neck, his voice soft and professional. The camera circled. Someone adjusted a reflector mid-take. Another moved in closer with a boom mic.
I could feel every breath of the crew around us. Fifteen people, minimum, watching from just out of frame. Franklin’s voice floated across the deck: “Good, good—now slow down there, Lexi, hold his gaze—perfect. A little more shoulder—beautiful.”
Beautiful. There it was again. Always beautiful. Always perfect. Always performing.
By the time we wrapped the scene, my neck hurt from holding the same position too long, and my lips were sticky with fake sweat.
“Cut,” Franklin said, clapping his hands. “That’s it! Excellent work, both of you. Let’s reset for coverage.”
Benji leaned close as we disentangled. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, sitting back on my heels. “Just glamorous as ever.”
He chuckled. “Remember when people thought this job was sexy?”
“Don’t ruin the fantasy,” I teased, though my smile felt thin.
Because the truth was, I loved this job. The creativity, the intensity, the chance to live a dozen lives in one. But sometimes, it felt like all the emotion stayed trapped on screen, while my real life grew quieter, smaller.
Between takes, I watched the crew moving around me—everyone busy, everyone belonging somewhere. And there I was, the center of the scene, the one everyone stared at but no one really saw.
The loneliness hit hard then. Not the kind that comes from being alone, but the kind that settles in when you realize you could be surrounded by people and still feel unseen.
We shot for hours. The sun climbed higher, then slid toward afternoon. Sweat beaded on my back beneath the dress, and my smile stiffened from repetition. Every kiss, every caress was rehearsed, filmed, reframed, and filmed again.
When they finally called lunch, I escaped to my trailer, collapsing onto the sofa. The air-conditioning hummed, cool against my skin. Hannah handed me a bottle of water and a wrap from catering.
“You killed it,” she said, scrolling through her phone.
“I faked it,” I corrected.
“That’s literally the job description.”
She wasn’t wrong.
“Benji’s a sweetheart,” she added. “It must make things easier.”
“It does,” I said, twisting the cap off my water. “He’s gentle. Patient. And absolutely zero threat to my virtue.”
Hannah grinned. “Lucky you.”
I smiled, but it faded quickly. “You ever think about how weird it is? We fake love for a living, and then wonder why we can’t find the real thing.”
She looked up then, eyes soft. “You’ll find it, Lexi. You’re just not looking in the right places.”
I almost laughed. “Where exactly should I look? Between call times?”
She shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”
After lunch, we moved to interiors—a cabin set built on a soundstage nearby. Same scene, different angles. The intimacy coordinator hovered helpfully, calling out reminders about boundaries and consent. It was all safe. Professional. Mechanical.
At one point, Benji leaned close and whispered, “I’m sorry if this feels weird. I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”
I smiled. “You’re fine. Really. You’re probably the least weird part of my day.”
He laughed, genuine and kind. “Then I’m doing my job.”
The cameras rolled again. And I did mine.
By the time we wrapped, the light outside had turned honey-colored, sliding across the docks like a spill of gold.
I changed into shorts and sneakers, my hair piled messily on top of my head.
The crew was still buzzing, packing up gear, shouting instructions.
Someone handed me a fresh water bottle. Someone else asked for a selfie I politely declined.
In the SUV, Hannah scrolled through tomorrow’s call sheet while I stared out the window. The world outside was stunning—palmettos swaying, light dancing on the water, a family laughing on a nearby sidewalk. Real life, happening just beyond the glass.
I pressed my forehead against the window and let out a slow breath.
“You okay?” Hannah asked.
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I said softly. “Just tired.”
She nodded, returning to her phone.
But I wasn’t just tired. I was empty. All day, I’d poured out every emotion—longing, vulnerability, desire—and none of it had been real. Not one touch, not one kiss.
By the time we reached the house, the sky was streaked in pink. I headed straight for the shower, letting the water wash away the fake sweat and foundation, the day’s performance sliding down the drain.
When I came out, wrapped in a towel, Hannah was on the sofa with her laptop. “Tomorrow’s lighter,” she said. “Mostly rehearsal scenes. Maybe some press photos.”
“Good,” I said absently, grabbing a bottle of wine from the counter.
I poured a glass and stepped out onto the deck. The marsh stretched wide and endless, the cicadas starting their evening song. I sipped, letting the wine coat my tongue, and closed my eyes.
This was the part no one warned you about—the quiet after the chaos. The applause fades, the lights go dark, and you’re left with yourself.
I thought about the script, the love scenes, the way I’d spent hours pretending to want someone while a dozen people adjusted lights around us. I thought about how I couldn’t even remember the last time someone had touched me just to touch me.
No cameras. No choreography. No expectations.
I’d always told myself I didn’t need that. That the work was enough. That connection could wait.
But maybe it couldn’t. Wait for what?
I glanced through the glass door at Hannah. She was still typing, headphones on, focused as ever. And suddenly, an idea returned. Reckless, stupid, but thrilling in its own way.
Maybe I could have one night. Just one.
No scripts. No cameras. No handlers or hashtags.
Someone who didn’t know me. Or if they did, didn’t care.
I imagined slipping out—hair pulled back, hat low, maybe that brunette wig I’d joked about. Hannah could help me plan it, if I played it right. A disguise. A location. A few hours of anonymity.
The thought alone made me feel lighter. Like maybe I wasn’t just playing pretend anymore.
And maybe that was the real goal—not to dream about it, but to do it.
Sometime during these next few months, between call sheets and press days, I’d find my moment.
Charleston felt too alive, too charged, to let the chance slip by. One way or another, I’d make it happen.
I just needed the right night—and the right man—to make me forget who I was.
I drained the last of my wine and set the glass on the railing, the metal cool beneath my fingertips. Somewhere in the distance, a boat engine hummed low across the water.
Tomorrow, I’d be Lexi Montgomery again—the actress, the brand, the illusion.
But tonight, as the wind lifted the edge of my towel and the air wrapped warm around my skin, I let myself imagine something else.
Freedom.
Desire.
A body pressed close in the dark, no cameras watching, no one to tell me where to look or when to breathe.
Just one night.
That was all I wanted.
Just one night where it didn’t have to be an act.