Chapter 2 #2
So, he enjoyed acting. But directing? Directing was different.
The first time he sat behind a monitor and watched a story unfold through his lens, something shifted in him permanently. There was something beautiful about shaping tone, pacing, silence. About deciding where the camera lingered and where it pulled away. About protecting the integrity of a story.
But because of who he was—Robert Cortelli’s son—he felt the weight of proving himself. Nepotism was a word that hovered in the background of almost every room. So yes, sometimes he overcompensated. He pushed for perfection. He drove the crew to hit marks, stay on schedule, tighten scenes.
On the other hand, he also made sure they knew he cared.
He learned their kids’ names. He prayed with them if they asked.
He invited them to church with Sunday lunch at his house afterward.
More than one crew member had said, “No director’s ever done this before.
” But he wasn’t doing it to be impressive.
He genuinely wanted the best for them. And the best, in his view, was Christ.
He turned into his parents’ gated Malibu property, headlights sweeping across manicured hedges and white stone columns as Michael Jackson encouraged him to rock the night way. The house was palatial, yes. But to him it was simply home.
His mother Dana had offered to keep Madison during the week so he could focus fully on directing Esther. It sounded practical but it also terrified him.
After his wife Scarlette died, he had taken the easy road. He had fled and left his thirteen-month-old daughter in the care of his parents because he could not bear the sight of her cherubic face—Scarlette’s face—looking back at him.
Scarlette.
She had been pregnant and driving home from his championship game. Their toddler was in the back seat. It was suspected that she had fallen asleep at the wheel when she ran the red light. The car had been struck by the driver of an eight-ton truck.
He had blamed himself. Blamed God. Drowned himself in clubbing to numb the pain and then had taken the first role that gave him an outlet for his anger.
But God—and his family—had refused to let him self-destruct.
Months later, when repentance finally broke through his grief, he had made a vow: he would not willingly be apart from Madison again. So every morning he drove her to his parents’ house and every evening he picked her up. He lived just ten minutes away by design.
He rang the bell and the door flew open almost immediately.
“Hey,” his brother Damian grinned. He was twenty-two, and had just concluded his final year at college. He was all dark-blond hair and aquamarine eyes—their mother Dana’s genes strong in him.
“You okay?” Damian asked.
“Sure. Why do you ask?”
“You look a little tense.”
Aaron waved his hand dismissively. “Nah, I’m fine. Where’s Madison?”
“Upstairs with Mom. They’re doing some alphabet thing. I heard singing earlier.”
Aaron smiled. “Dad?”
“Entertainment room. He’s got a couple of the old guys over. Pool table’s been loud for an hour.”
Aaron shook his head and headed down the hall.
The entertainment room smelled faintly of cigar smoke and whiskey. Laughter erupted just as he entered.
Robert stood at the pool table, cue in hand. Still classically handsome and commanding even in his sixties.
Corey Elsom and two other longtime friends, Matt Feldman and Brian Brooks lounged nearby.
“Well, look who it is,” Corey called. “Our biblical hero.”
Aaron grinned. “Evening, gentlemen.”
Robert’s eyes softened when he saw him. “Long day?”
Today’s shoot had featured Esther and the chief Eunuch, Hegai, so Robert had the day off.
“Productive day.”
Corey leaned back. “So how does it feel playing Ahasuerus? Heard somebody say he looks suspiciously like Mordecai. What’s the backstory there? Secret Persian family scandal?”
The room burst into laughter.
Aaron shook his head. “Makeup department earned their paychecks. The resemblance isn’t that dramatic on screen.” In fact, Robert had been fitted with a prosthetic nose so that he would look less like a classically handsome Roman and more like a Jewish statesman.
“Mm-hmm,” Corey said. “And how’s it going directing your own father?”
Robert smirked and answered before Aaron did. “He’s ruthless.”
“That’s not true,” Aaron protested mildly.
“You made me redo that gate scene six times,” Robert countered.
“Because you kept lifting your eyebrow,” Aaron said. “Mordecai doesn’t lift eyebrows.”
More laughter.
Then the tone shifted slightly.
“So,” Brian said casually, chalking a cue stick. “How’s it going with Camille Carlucci?”
Aaron felt it immediately. That tightening in his chest.
“She’s a good actress,” he replied evenly. “No problems. She knows the script. I’ve kept things… structured.”
“Interesting,” Corey murmured. “Word around town is she ran the Shadow Peak set.”
Aaron’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “That won’t be happening here.”
Robert watched him carefully but said nothing.
“Good for you,” Matt nodded. “the director’s chair isn’t a democracy.”
Aaron forced a light chuckle. “We’re staying on schedule. That’s what matters.”
The conversation drifted back to sports and industry gossip, but Aaron excused himself sooner than usual. He didn’t want to linger. He didn’t want to discuss Camille and he had no guarantee that conversation might not drift to her again.
Upstairs, he found Dana and Madison sitting cross-legged on a plush rug, colorful alphabet cards scattered between them.
“A is for…?” Dana prompted.
“Angel!” Madison chirped.
Aaron’s heart squeezed.
The moment she saw him she sprang up. “Daddy!”
She launched herself into his arms with such force he staggered back laughing.
“Well hello, sweet pea.” He kissed her cheek. “How was school?”
She began an enthusiastic, slightly chaotic retelling involving glue, glitter, and a boy named Nathan who “doesn’t share but I shared anyway because Jesus says to share.”
Dana smiled from her seat, watching them.
“You look tired,” she said gently once Madison paused for breath. “Do you want something to eat?”
“No, Mom. I ate on set. I just want to get her home and into bed.”
Dana stood, smoothing her blouse. “You’re pushing yourself.”
“I’m fine.”
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You don’t have to prove anything, Aaron.”
He met her eyes. She knew him too well. “I’m not,” he said quietly.
She lifted one eyebrow—exactly like Robert. He almost smiled.
“You’re a good director,” she said. “And you’re a good father. Cut yourself some slack.”
He nodded, though he knew that he wouldn’t.
Madison tugged his sleeve. “Can we stop for ice cream?”
“Not at eight o’clock at night,” he said.
“Grandma lets me.”
Dana gasped. “That is slander. That only happened one time.”
Madison giggled.
When they left the house, Aaron strapped Madison into her car seat and drove home through the dark Malibu roads, her chatter slowly dissolving into drowsy silence.
By the time they pulled into his driveway, her head had tilted sideways, lashes resting against flushed cheeks.
He sat for a moment before turning off the engine.
Directing his father. Managing a crew. Holding Camille in careful, professional boundaries. So far, it was working. He had kept control. Of the set. Of her. Of himself.
And yet…
As he carried Madison inside, a strange unease pressed against his ribs. He couldn’t name it. But he had the distinct feeling that something was shifting beneath the surface. Like the air just before a storm.
~*~*~*~
Camille’s was preparing for the scene in which she would be presented to the king for one night.
She had rehearsed it so many times it lived in her body now, instinctive and memorized.
The lines were not her concern. She knew them.
She and Aaron had discussed the scene at length—how she was to play it.
With restraint and with bashfulness. After all, Esther was a virgin.
Aaron had made that point abundantly clear. She was not worldly. Not seductive.
Today, however, posed a particular challenge for her.
This would be the first scene she and Aaron shared together.
She understood the intention clearly: she was to appear modest, deferential.
Yet was it truly wrong to want to be appealing as well?
To want to glimpse that spark—that flicker of interest she was accustomed to seeing in men’s eyes?
In Aaron’s eyes, she saw nothing. And that bothered her because the attraction she felt for him was strong.
Was it terrible that she wanted him to feel the same way about her?
After all, it wasn’t as though he had a wife like Simon had.
He was unattached. His wife had passed away three years ago.
He was a young, virile man. There was no reason he shouldn’t get on with his life.
She turned the scene over in her mind and resolved to play it accordingly—faithful to Esther, yes, but honest. Because surely Esther wanted to be desired.
Surely, that was why she had taken the eunuch’s advice on what to wear and the scents and beauty treatment to apply.
And sure she was demure but she was also a woman seeking to win the heart of the king.
When she finally stepped into wardrobe and makeup, the transformation startled even her. They had done extraordinary work. She looked radiant. Regal. Beautiful.
Surely, she thought, that would stir something in Aaron today.
~*~*~*~
Aaron was already on set when Camille entered.
The chamber had been dressed for evening—oil lamps placed low and deliberately, their flames softened by amber glass. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, pooling behind columns and tapestries, while the central space glowed with a warm, intimate hush.
Camille’s gown whispered as she crossed the threshold. The jewels in her hair and throat caught the lamplight with each step, throwing brief glints across her cheekbones and her throat.
Aaron looked up. And the reaction was immediate.
His gaze followed the line of her movement, the fall of fabric against her body, the way the light gathered at her shoulders and traced the curve of her neck before slipping into shadow again. For a moment—just a moment—he forgot to mask the reaction.
Camille felt his reaction like heat.
For the first time since rehearsals began, she knew he wasn’t simply observing her. He was feeling her.
“Places,” the assistant director called.
Aaron didn’t look away right away. When he finally did, he drew a measured breath, straightened, and nodded once. “From Esther’s entrance,” he said, voice even, controlled.
Camille stepped forward.
Her movements followed the blocking—slow, reverent—but something lived beneath it now. Awareness sharpened her senses. The lamps seemed closer, the air warmer, the space between them charged. She kept her eyes lowered, but her body knew where he was, tracked him instinctively.
When she reached the mark and stopped, close enough now to feel the heat of his body, her breath caught—not intentionally, but genuinely.
She lifted her gaze. Just briefly. And the contact struck like a match.
Aaron’s composure cracked—only for a heartbeat, but it was there. His chest rose a fraction too quickly. His jaw tightened. The hand resting at his side flexed, then stilled, fingers curling as though resisting an impulse to reach out.
They were close enough now that the air between them felt thin.
She spoke her line softly, as directed, her voice barely more than breath. He answered, his tone low, measured—but the restraint rang loud. As he stepped closer, per the scene, the light shifted, drawing them into the same pool of glow.
His hand rose. Just as it was scripted.
But when his fingers brushed her wrist, the contact lingered too long. Camille’s breath caught. She swallowed, instinctively moistening her lips before she could stop herself. His gaze dropped to her lips. He gulped. When he lifted his eyes again, they locked with hers.
Their faces were close now. Close enough that she could feel his breath, warm against her cheek, close enough that the tension was palpable.
“Cut.”
The word snapped through the space like a blade.
Camille remained frozen in position, heart pounding, skin tingling where his hand had been. She hadn’t planned this—not the intensity, not the way it had taken hold of her so completely.
They reset.
Again, the entrance. Again, the light. Again, the narrowing space.
And again, the same pull.
Each time, the tension tightened. Camille felt it settle low in her body, making her movements more careful, her breathing shallower. This wasn’t performance anymore.
“Break,” Aaron said finally. “Ten minutes.”
He turned away immediately, breaking the spell by force. Camille stepped aside, pulse racing, the effect of his close proximity still making her skin tingle.
A moment later, he joined her. Up close, she could see it now—the cost of restraint etched into his expression. His voice was quiet when he spoke.
“You’re leaning into the intimacy too strongly,” he said, measured but firm. “Esther isn’t seducing him. She’s yielding to him. I need you to soften it.”
She searched his face. She wanted to say something like, “I wasn’t trying to be seductive.
” But she knew that would be a lie. That had been exactly what she had intended to do.
Yet, she could see that Aaron was trying to resist the attraction he felt for her with everything in him.
Even now as he stood before her there was no accusation there.
No irritation. Only effort. Only control.
And suddenly she understood.
Her gaze dropped to his left hand. The ring caught the lamplight. She realized she had never seen it absent, never once. Heat gave way to something sharper.
Shame.
She had felt powerful in that moment—aware of her effect, her presence—without fully reckoning with what it cost him to hold the line.
“I understand,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
He studied her for a beat, then nodded. “Thank you.”
When they returned to set, Camille adjusted—not just the performance, but her intent. Esther’s humility became a shield, a boundary that protected them both.
The scene settled into something reverent.
But the truth remained. The attraction she had yearned for from Aaron had been real. The pull undeniable.