Chapter 2
Ten months later
Camille stepped out of her ice-blue Mercedes-Benz and surveyed the studio parking lot. Trucks lined the far end. Crew members moved back and forth, talking quietly, coffee cups in hand.
As she walked toward the building, a few people noticed her. Some smiled politely. Others nodded. There was recognition in their faces. She swallowed a sudden nervousness that had crept up on her when she had entered the studio property.
Perhaps it was because she remembered how high the stakes were.
When she got the call from Liv that she had gotten the role she had been surprised and elated.
She made a vow to herself that she would do all it took to show them that they hadn’t made a mistake casting someone with her background in their Christian film.
A young man with an easy smile approached her. “Good morning, Miss Carlucci.”
“Hi,” she replied, shaking the hand he offered.
“I’m Jimmy, production assistant. Follow me. We’re on Stage Three.”
“Thank you.”
Inside the soundstage, Aaron Cortelli was reviewing a document when he looked up and saw her.
Camille took a deep breath, again confronted by the quiet magnetism that seemed to surround him.
This was the first time she had seen him since the audition nearly a year earlier.
The changes were obvious. His hair was long, grazing his shoulders, and he wore a trim beard and mustache—no doubt for his role as King Ahasuerus, which she knew he was playing in addition to directing.
He had on a white shirt, a black jacket, and black jeans.
Altogether he looked undeniably handsome.
Camille swallowed, reminding herself that she was here for a fresh start, nothing more.
~*~*~*~
He had not expected the moment to affect him, but it did.
Aaron glanced away from the sight of Camille making her way toward him, giving himself a moment to regain his composure.
He had not seen her since the audition, and seeing her now moving with command even as she ever so gently sashayed those hips in that elegant dress—reminded him exactly why he had insisted Ray not cast her and probably why Ray had insisted that he would.
He did not miss the way several male crew members’ eyes immediately locked onto her. The attention was unmistakable.
She fit Esther. That much was certain. She was very beautiful.
But there was also Aradia—the Shadow Peak queen—woven into her presence—the other reason he had objected to her being cast as lead.
He knew he would likely need to strip that away if Camille was to portray Esther faithfully and not turn her into something seductive.
What had he said to Ray, Esther required restraint, not allure.
And Ray had snapped back that as director it was his job to shape it.
Well, fine. He would do what he had to because he sensed that if given half a chance she would revert to what seemed to come naturally to her.
Aaron set his notes aside and walked toward her. “Camille. Welcome.”
“Thank you,” she said. Her smile was polite and restrained, any hint of flirtation was absent. For some reason, he had expected that she might try to flirt with him given her reputation. He was relieved that she hadn’t. It would be awkward to have to put her in her place on the first day of work.
“I thought we’d take a few minutes before rehearsal,” he said, “just to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“That would be helpful.”
At his gesture, they stepped aside, away from the center of the set.
“These early scenes,” Aaron said, his voice thoughtful, “begin with Esther before any of this touches her—before the palace, before the crown. She’s with Mordecai, living a life that’s…
simple. Steady. There’s warmth there, of course.
He’s her only family and the one who has always looked out for her.
She feels safe. Protected. You see who she is when she’s not trying to impress or perform for anyone. ”
Camille’s expression softened slightly. “So we get to know her as herself first.”
“Exactly,” he said. “And then everything shifts. The selection process begins, and she’s pulled into something she didn’t ask for and doesn’t fully understand.
It’s not ambition driving her as it might be for some of the other women—it’s a desire to be obedient.
To trust God even though she doesn’t know what He’s doing.
” He glanced at her, choosing his words carefully.
“There’s submission and hesitation. Even a quiet fear.
She’s stepping into a world where she has no control, no guarantees. ”
Camille nodded slowly. “So less outward emotion… but more going on beneath the surface.”
“Right,” Aaron said. “She’s watching, learning, trying to find her footing without drawing attention to herself. Every choice matters, even when she doesn’t yet know why. The audience needs to be able to sense that even though she isn’t verbalizing it.”
“It’s what we actors call subtext. The thinking or feeling behind the words.”
“Yes, pretty much.”
“Yep, when what isn’t said out loud is communicated through facial expression, body language, pauses and timing.”
Aaron held her gaze. “Precisely.”
He was impressed that she understood what he had been trying to communicate so well.
Not every actor got it right away. He was reminded that this was not her first rodeo.
Camille Carlucci had been a child actor, had grown up on television sets so she was an old hand at this.
It gave him hope that it might turn out better than he thought.
“If a scene doesn’t feel right,” he said, “tell me. We’ll work it out.”
“Thank you,” Camille said. “I will.”
~*~*~*~
Three weeks Later
Camille sat in her trailer after a long day on set. She brooded as she carefully removed her makeup.
These past few weeks on set had been smooth enough on the surface.
She had entered the production with ideas of her own, instincts honed by years of work, but she realized early on that Aaron intended to keep a tight leash on her.
If a scene doesn’t feel right, tell me and we’ll work it out, he had said.
In practice, though, that promise dissolved the moment the cameras rolled.
She would arrive on set and he would lay out her performance with military precision.
This is what you’re to do. No room for interpretation. No room for discovery.
At first, she complied eagerly. This was her first foray into Christian cinema, and she genuinely didn’t know where the lines were—what was permissible, what might be questioned.
But it didn’t take long for her to notice the imbalance.
Other actors floated suggestions—What if I try this?
What if we shift that?—and Aaron listened.
He considered. He adjusted. When Camille did the same, the answer was immediate and final.
“No. That isn’t Esther. That’s not what Esther would do.”
She couldn’t miss the subtext. It felt less like direction and more like correction—like he was guarding her, policing her, holding her at arm’s length from her own shadowed past. As if he were her probation officer rather than her director.
It irritated her, though she reminded herself again and again that he was in charge and she needed to fall in line.
Still, something about it left her hollow. Some of Esther’s scenes felt overly restrained, flattened by caution. Camille wanted to contribute—to shape the narrative, not merely recite it. But she swallowed the dissatisfaction and did as she was told.
~*~*~*~
Aaron drove home after a punishing day on set, Donna Summers blaring on through the car speakers, whoa-oh-oh on the radio.
It had been a twelve-hour day. Sometimes it was longer when they were pushing. And they were pushing.
He was always conscious—painfully conscious—that he had not been the studio’s first choice to direct.
He had developed the script and brought it to Ray Donovan.
He thought about taking it to the studio himself but he had been around long enough to know that directors rarely walked into studios alone with a script and got it financed.
Ray was a seasoned producer. He brought with him relationships with studio executives, and credibility as someone who could deliver a film.
Aaron had the vision but Ray had the access and trust pipeline.
So Ray turned the script into a package.
He refined it for marketability, estimated the budget, and attached actors and the other talent and shaped a pitch that felt financeable.
Even though Aaron was the one who had brought the script, the studio had only wanted him as lead actor, not director.
That had stung but he had taken that sting to God.
He reminded himself often that he was there because of God, not because of executives or studio politics.
If God had opened the door, then God would sustain him in it.
No matter what whispers floated around the lot.
Ray had advocated for him staying as director, making the point to the studio heads that Aaron’s father, Robert, would agree to join the cast if Aaron directed. And then he was also able to offer Camille Carlucci as leverage. So the studio was satisfied. Placated even.
Still, Aaron felt the pressure to not only be a good director but to be great one. To not only meet expectations, but to exceed them.
Ironically enough, he hadn’t chased acting. Acting had chased him. He was a third generation actor. It had begun with his grandfather Michael then his father Robert. Both men were award-winners. Both were respected. Both were legends in their own right.
Because of such a legacy, people assumed he had always wanted to act. He hadn’t. Football had been his focus early in life. It had been his identity. His love. And when he’d walked away from the game for personal reasons, Hollywood had simply been waiting with open arms.