Love Unscripted (Second Chance #1)

Chapter 1

Aaron Cortelli—the lead actor and director of the upcoming biblical epic Esther—sat in the rehearsal room with his arms folded across his chest, posture rigid, expression unreadable.

Sunlight poured through the high windows, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily above the polished floor. Script pages lay scattered across the long table—evidence of earlier auditions.

Ray Donovan, the film’s producer, stood near the back wall, jacket draped over a chair, arms loosely crossed, eyes alert.

He hadn’t spoken much since they arrived, but his presence altered the room’s gravity.

Ray never attended auditions unless he was already convinced something important was going to happen.

“This is the right call,” Bruce Brown, the casting director, said, for the third time. “You’ll see.”

Aaron didn’t look at him. “Adriana Callas was excellent. Thoughtful. Reverent. She understood Esther.”

Ray’s mouth twitched faintly. “She was safe.”

“That’s not a flaw,” Aaron said.

“No,” Ray replied evenly. “But it’s not an attribute either.”

Aaron finally turned. “There are other actresses we can consider even if you don’t like Callas.”

Ray met his gaze without blinking. “I want the best Esther.”

Aaron scoffed softly. “And you think that’s her.”

“I know it is,” Ray said.

Aaron opened his mouth to respond—but the door opened.

Camille Carlucci stepped inside.

Aaron stood without meaning to.

She wasn’t what he’d expected. Not the polished seductress splashed across tabloids, not the woman whose image had been commodified and consumed.

She wore a simple black dress—elegant and modest. Her dark hair was pulled into a high ponytail, her makeup was minimal, and her jewelry restrained.

A delicate gold cross rested at her collarbone and a jeweled gold cuff, the most statement making item she wore, caught the light on her hand.

He wondered briefly if it was all an act.

She greeted them with a composed nod. “Good afternoon.”

Her voice was softer than he’d anticipated too. Not coy. Soft but suggesting quiet strength.

Ray straightened, openly studying her.

Bruce made the introductions. Camille nodded at Ray but her gaze lingered on Aaron.

“Mr. Cortelli.”

“Aaron,” he said, too quickly.

She hesitated—just a fraction—then nodded. “Aaron.”

Bruce handed her the pages. “Scene twenty-three.”

Camille nodded, setting her bag down carefully beside the chair.

She picked up the script from the table, flipping through the marked pages with quiet concentration.

Her eyes moved steadily over the scene notes Aaron had scribbled in the margins—small adjustments to tone, pacing, emotional beats. She didn’t rush.

Aaron watched her for a moment before his phone vibrated against the table.

A text from his mother.

Dana: Madison’s dance teacher pulled me aside after class. She wants Madison to be the lead in the children’s recital next month. Said she picked up the routine faster than the older girls and has “natural stage presence.”

A reluctant smile tugged at Aaron’s mouth. Of course she did. He could picture it vividly—Madison in the middle of the studio, curls bouncing wildly, arms moving with dramatic enthusiasm. The image warmed something deep in his chest.

Dance had quickly become her favorite thing in the world.

Not that she lacked other interests. The child loved arts and crafts too.

Half the surfaces in Aaron’s house had at some point been covered with glitter, crayons, stickers, glue, or badly cut construction paper masterpieces his mother insisted deserved preservation.

Madison could spend an hour painting crooked rainbows or making bracelets no human being could actually wear comfortably.

But dance—that was different. Dance lit her up. The second music started playing, something inside her came alive. She twirled through hallways, practiced spins in grocery store aisles, and turned ordinary walks through the house into elaborate performances no one had asked for.

And she certainly hadn’t inherited that from him. Aaron loved music. Always had. Music helped him think, helped him create, helped him pray sometimes. But dancing? That had never been him. Madison got it from her mother.

Scarlette had moved through life like rhythm lived inside her bones.

She had been a gymnast and later a cheerleader.

She could still do ridiculous things that made no sense to Aaron whatsoever—perfect back handsprings into swimming pools, effortless cartwheels on beaches, baton twirling routines she’d learned as a teenager and somehow never forgotten.

That same easy grace lived in their daughter now. Sometimes it hurt to see it. Sometimes it felt like a gift—

“I’m ready,” Camille said softly.

Aaron looked up.

She had stepped forward, feet planted, posture composed. Her hands lifted briefly, palms open, before folding at her waist. She inhaled, eyes lowering for a moment, then rising with quiet resolve.

“My king…” The words filled the room. “I know I should be silent,” she continued, voice steady but trembling with restrained emotion.

One hand lifted, reaching toward an unseen presence.

“But how can I hold my peace when the lives of my people hang in the balance?” Her gaze lifted beyond the room, beyond them.

“If I have found favor in your eyes… let my plea be heard.” Her breathing slowed. Her fingers tightened, then released. “I did not choose this crown.” A subtle shake of her head. “But I will not shrink from the purpose God has placed before me… even if it costs me everything.”

The room changed. This was not acting. This was inhabiting.

She straightened, fear and courage coexisting in her posture. Her voice—gentle, unyielding—carried weight without being forceful and was reverent without sounding fragile.

Aaron felt his breath catch. Ray’s expression had gone utterly still. When Camille finished, she lowered her gaze, the spell breaking. There was silence.

Then Ray exhaled slowly. “Thank you.”

Bruce grinned, vindicated.

Aaron forced himself to speak. “Your emotional range is… remarkable.”

Camille met his eyes, uncertainty flickering beneath composure. “Thank you.”

As Bruce launched into logistics, Ray said nothing—but his decision was already made. Aaron knew it. And that knowledge unsettled him deeply.

~*~*~*~

Camille stepped into the hallway and leaned briefly against the wall, closing her eyes. Her heart was still racing.

She slid the script into her bag and smoothed her dress, settling herself. It was modest, this style, and modesty was still new to her. But she had chosen it because it felt right. She was learning what it meant to present her body pleasingly without offering it up for consumption.

The audition had gone well as far as she was concerned. She had felt Esther in her bones.

But Aaron Cortelli…

She hadn’t expected him here. The famous footballer turned actor.

She was familiar with his hugely successful critically acclaimed film noir John Gray in which he played the lead character.

Who knew that he was now directing Christian biopics?

Had he also left mainstream Hollywood behind or was he involved in this project for another reason?

And afterward, his praise had been careful. Measured. “Your emotional range is… remarkable,” he’d said.

She wanted more from him and the realization unsettled her.

She pressed her head back against the wall, breathing deeply. She had prayed for this—an open door, a chance to start again, to work in a project that reflected her newfound convictions.

But she had not expected that it would be accompanied by a complication by the name of Aaron Cortelli. In another life, she would already know how to handle him. Charm him. Disarm him. Control the outcome.

But that woman was gone, she told herself as she straightened and walked toward the exit. This season was about discovering who she was as God’s new creation. She was not about to get distracted from that.

~*~*~*~

Aaron had been having the same argument with Ray for forty-five minutes, and it had gone nowhere.

Ray stood near the window of the production office, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, phone face down on the table as if daring it to ring. Aaron sat opposite him, rigid, arms crossed, jaw set so tight it ached.

It was now eight days after the audition with Camille Carlucci.

They had held auditions with countless other actresses eager for an opportunity to play Esther, but no matter how pretty, or how talented, or how famous, or how Christian, Ray was not impressed or interested.

For him there was only one woman who could play Esther.

“It’s Camille Carlucci,” Ray said again, measured but relentless. “She’s the answer to every problem this project has.”

Aaron exhaled sharply. “She’s the beginning of several.”

Ray turned, resting a hip against the desk. “Let’s be clear about what we’re arguing. I’m not talking about vibes or instincts. I’m talking about facts.”

He ticked them off on his fingers. “She has star power. That’s not a theory.

It’s a fact. The woman pulls audiences, and that reassures the studio.

Second, she can act. She’s got awards, nominations, critical acclaim.

No one disputes that. Third—” His mouth curved slightly, unapologetic.

“—she looks the part. Esther was chosen because she was beautiful. Camille sells that without effort.”

Aaron leaned forward. “Esther was chosen for more than her face.”

“And Camille can convey more than her face,” Ray shot back. “That’s my point.”

Aaron opened his mouth, closed it, then asked, “What about her salary? I hear that presently she’s worth something like ten million per movie. Can we afford that?”

Ray smiled, his light blue eyes lighting up. “I spoke with her agent, Liv West. Liv says that Camille is willing to take less money than she’s used to.”

“You aren’t the least suspicious about that?”