3. The Studio’s Darling
Chapter three
The Studio’s Darling
Hayes
“Cut! That’s a wrap on the harness rig,” the director called out from behind the monitors.
A pair of riggers stepped in, unclipping the carabiners from my waist. The sudden release of tension sent a dull ache through my lower back.
The heat radiating off the massive overhead lighting rigs baked my skin.
I stood in the center of the green-screen soundstage, my muscles burning from three straight hours of suspended wire work.
Sweat gathered at the base of my neck and ran down my spine.
A hundred crew members swarmed the space, their overlapping voices creating a chaotic din.
A wardrobe assistant hovered near the taped marks on the concrete floor, holding an empty hanger.
I peeled the restrictive costume jacket off my shoulders and let it drop into her waiting hands.
“Take this before I melt in here,” I told her, unbuttoning my cuffs.
“I’ll get it straight to the steamer, Mr. Gallagher,” she replied, clutching the garment to her chest. “Can I grab you a bottle of water from craft services?”
“No, thank you. I just need two minutes inside my trailer.”
She backed away into the crowd, dodging a grip maneuvering a silver reflector shield.
I rolled my shoulders, desperate to reach the air-conditioned sanctuary of my trailer.
The physical toll of this three-year franchise marathon drained my stamina.
I dragged my boots across the floor, my muscles throbbing as I stepped over the cables snaking across the concrete. My calves burned with every step.
This was the final film in the trilogy. It was the last hurdle before Sutton and I could afford to walk away from this forever. Keeping her safely at the estate insulated her from this madness.
Before I cleared the edge of the set, Eleanor stepped directly into my path. She held a box of tissues, blocking the exit door.
“Hold still, Hayes,” she instructed.
I stopped, lowering my chin as she reached up. She pressed a soft tissue against my forehead, dabbing the sweat away like I was still a kid. The dry tissue against my skin offered a strange comfort in the suffocating room. I closed my eyes for a second, letting my mother take care of me.
She dropped the ruined tissue into a nearby trash bin. A second later, my mother was gone, and my manager was back.
“You did incredible work out there, sweetheart,” she said, offering a tight, professional smile. “But we don’t have time to rest just yet; the studio wants three interviews by noon.”
I suppressed a groan, tilting my head back until my neck cracked. I owed my mother my career, so I let her call the shots. If she needed me to push through the exhaustion today, I would do it without a single complaint.
“I know the talking points, Mom,” I said. “I’ll give them the charming leading man routine. Just make sure the reporters don’t ask about my private life.”
Eleanor leveled a flat stare at me. She adjusted the collar of my undershirt, her fingers brushing my neck.
“They don’t care about your private life, they care about selling this movie. Now keep moving, because I have a behind-the-scenes photographer waiting for you near the monitors.”
Eleanor placed a hand between my shoulder blades. She steered me away from the paved path leading to my trailer, forcing me toward a cluster of director’s chairs arranged near the equipment trucks.
“Keep your shoulders back, Hayes. Don’t look tired,” she muttered, pushing me forward.
I shook off the stiffness, forcing a relaxed, camera-ready posture. A production assistant scrambled out of our way. We rounded a stack of equipment crates, stepping into a makeshift photography staging area. The shields surrounded the chairs, catching a blinding glare from the overhead lights.
Blaire Hastings was already waiting in the center of the setup. She tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder, her practiced, glittering smile in place.
“There’s our handsome leading man,” Blaire said, her voice cutting through the chatter of the crew. “I was starting to think you got lost in all that stunt rigging over in the second unit.”
A sweet, expensive perfume wafted off her skin, cutting through the acrid smell of hot asphalt and stage makeup. Blaire was the studio’s newest darling. Being the new girl meant the executives were currently demanding non-stop proof of our chemistry.
I stopped beside the chair, burying my physical exhaustion under a polite smile.
“Just trying to survive the heat out here, Blaire,” I said. “Let’s get these press photos done so we can both get out of the sun and grab some water.”
A behind-the-scenes photographer emerged from the glare of the shields.
He circled us like a shark, holding a massive digital camera.
He adjusted his lens, barking instructions to his photo assistant.
Giving this photographer exactly what he wanted was the fastest way back to the silence of my trailer.
“Alright, you two, step closer together!” the photographer yelled. “I need to see some real connection to sell this relationship!”
The photographer crouched behind the camera, aiming the long lens directly at us. His assistant hovered near the C-stand, angling a large reflector that caught the afternoon sun and directed a harsh beam straight into my eyes. I squinted, trying to blink away the white spots clouding my vision.
“Bring it in tighter!” the photographer called out, waving his hand toward us. “Come on, I need to see the romance, people! Look like you actually want each other!”
My mother paced right behind the photographer, keeping her arms tightly crossed. She scrutinized the staging, dissecting every angle. “Hayes, drop your right shoulder,” she directed. “You look too tense. The studio is selling a love story, not a hostage situation. Lean into her.”
I forced my posture to relax. I angled myself toward my co-star.
Blaire took the cue instantly. She stepped across the pavement, closing in until the toe of her shoe bumped mine.
The suffocating heat of the blacktop trapped the sweet, floral scent of her perfume in the air between us.
She looked up at me through her eyelashes, a bright, calculated smile stretching across her face.
“Your collar was totally crooked, Hayes,” Blaire said.
She reached up, her fingertips brushing against my neck. She tugged at my collar, taking her time as she adjusted the fold. Her hands didn’t drop back to her sides. Instead, she smoothed her palms flat against my chest and let them rest there.
I did not step back. I did not break the pose.
It means nothing, I reminded myself as the camera began to fire.
The contact was just a physical prop. Blaire played the PR game perfectly, giving my mother the exact shots she needed to keep the studio happy.
I stood my ground, tensing my back in the heat.
I allowed my hand to settle loosely on her waist for the camera.
“Hold that exact pose,” the photographer commanded, the flash strobing in rapid succession. “That is the money shot.”
“Perfect,” my mother agreed, her voice carrying over the mechanical clicking. “The fans are going to devour this.”
I kept my eyes trained on the lens. The forced intimacy was just another transaction, disconnected from anything real. Sutton knew I loved her. She understood the required illusions of my job. Smiling for this picture was just the price I paid to keep Sutton safely at home.
I flashed a flawless, easy grin.
“You’re a lifesaver, Blaire,” I said. “Let’s give them the perfect shot so we can finally go inside.”
The photographer lowered the camera and tapped the screen. “I’m checking the playback now,” he called out to the crew. “I’ve got what I need. You’re clear to step off your marks.”
I did not wait for further instructions. I dropped my hand from Blaire’s waist and turned my back on the staging area. I stepped over a bundle of production cables crisscrossing the asphalt, focused on getting away from the camera crew. The oppressive heat of the lot baked through my shirt.
A young production assistant in a headset intercepted me, holding a walkie-talkie and a laminated schedule.
“Mr. Gallagher,” the assistant said. “You have a five-minute break before they need you back on your mark. Can I get you anything from craft services for your trailer?”
“No, thank you,” I said, ignoring the schedule. “I’m just going to sit in the air conditioning for a minute. Please make sure nobody disturbs me until they’re ready to roll cameras.”
“Understood, sir. I’ll stand right outside the door if you change your mind about the water.”
I left him behind, walking past a cluster of lingering reporters checking their phones.
I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact with the media pen, and headed straight for the steps of my private trailer.
I yanked the door open and wedged the rubber stop in place, leaving it propped wide open so I could hear the call to roll cameras.
I stepped across the threshold. A freezing blast of air conditioning washed over my skin, instantly chilling the sweat on my neck. The sudden contrast was staggering.
I walked to the back of the narrow room, turned, and fell back into the cushions, letting the chair catch me.
The leather creaked under my weight. I dropped my head back against the headrest and closed my eyes, as the frantic noise of the studio lot finally faded.
Through the open door, the muffled shouts of the camera crew drifted in, fading into a faint, chaotic hum.
The constant performing took a massive toll.
Even when the actual film cameras stopped rolling, feeding the PR machine was an endless, exhausting chore.
Every smile, every staged touch, every rehearsed interview answer drained my remaining patience.
All I wanted was two minutes to sit in the dark and breathe before my mother hauled me back out to the firing line.
In the quiet of the trailer, my thoughts drifted to my wife.
Sutton managed the estate in Los Angeles with quiet, unyielding competence. She never demanded red carpet appearances, and she never dragged a camera crew into our living room. She kept me sane enough to survive this industry. Maintaining that boundary was the smartest decision I had ever made.
Blaire’s shadow filled the open doorway, blocking the harsh light of the lot.
The heat of the asphalt lot bled into the freezing air of the trailer. Blaire stepped inside. She held up her phone, the screen already glaring bright against the cool interior of the narrow room. The scent of her floral perfume followed her inside, overpowering the air conditioning.
She swept past the production assistant stationed outside without a single glance.
“You left the door propped wide open,” Blaire said.
I kept my head resting against the cushions of the armchair. The dull ache in my lower back flared up again. Three hours in the harness had left me running on fumes.
“I told the PA I needed two minutes alone, Blaire,” I said.
She didn’t care. She crossed the narrow room, coming straight for my chair. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor. She stopped right beside the chair, standing close enough that her leg brushed against mine.
“The PR team is begging for organic content from the set today,” Blaire said, angling the phone toward us. “Let’s give them a sneak peek of how hard we’re working in here.”
I stared at the glaring screen in her hand.
Just another transaction. My mother had spent the entire morning demanding higher engagement metrics.
Fighting Blaire over a harmless social media post required energy I did not possess.
Playing along was the fastest way to get her out of my trailer so I could have my silence back.
I kept my back rigid against the leather.
“Just make it quick, Blaire,” I said. “I need at least two minutes of absolute silence before we have to go back out there.”
She did not wait for further permission. Blaire perched directly on the padded armrest of the chair. The cushion compressed beneath her sudden weight. She leaned over my lap, boxing me into the seat.
Her blonde hair slipped forward, brushing against my neck. She pressed her cheek close to mine, closing the gap until all I could breathe was her perfume. She raised her phone high, framing the shot.
I did not push her away. I pressed myself flat against the backrest.
I kept my free hand resting on the chair’s opposite armrest, ensuring my fingers remained clear of her waist. Having her this close meant nothing to me. All I could think about was the quiet, untouchable sanity of my home in Los Angeles and the woman waiting for me there.
I let her take the picture. Keeping the studio off my back meant keeping them away from Sutton, and that was all that mattered.
I looked into the small lens and flashed a camera-ready smile.
“Perfect,” Blaire said.
She tapped the screen. The flash fired, blinding me briefly.
“The fans are going to lose their minds over this one, Hayes,” she added, dropping her voice to a whisper.
She lingered over my lap for a second too long, her weight still pinning the cushion down. I stayed perfectly still, waiting for her to move. The screen finally went dark, and it was over.