Chapter 5 #2
She leaned back, folding her arms. “When I first began Shadow Peak the director dictated every line reading. I told him it made me feel useless. He said it was his job.” Her eyes locked on his. “Do you agree with that?”
Aaron took a moment, sipping water before answering. “Yes. A director can be as specific as he wants. It’s his prerogative.”
“So its fine if actors get turned off.”
“That’s their prerogative.”
Her voice cooled. “So I either adjust… or leave.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Pretty much.”
The bluntness knocked the air out of her. “You want me to quit.”
His hands came down on the table—not explosive, but decisive. Final. “Camille.”
Her name—low, controlled—sent an unwanted shiver through her.
“If I wanted you gone, you wouldn’t be here. I asked you to dinner because I believe that you are a reasonable woman and will make the changes necessary.” His eyes, intense and blazing, held hers.
Julie reappeared with their meals—perfect timing. Aaron sat back, still glaring but controlling himself. She hated that she found him maddeningly attractive even right now.
She reached for her burger.
“Aren’t you going to say grace?” he asked.
She paused, lowering it. “Why don’t you?”
He sighed and bowed his head, voice steady again as he prayed.
Afterward, she watched him for a second then took a bite.
“As I was saying before your tirade—” she continued after she swallowed her bite of burger.
“My tirade?”
“—the actor should have a say in how the scene goes.”
“They do. During rehearsal.” He set his fork down. “Not in the middle of shooting a scene. Once we’re rolling, the decisions have been made.”
The authority in his tone left no room for argument.
“And right now,” he added, quieter, “you’re disrupting the process.”
“So what?” she asked, softer now. “You regret casting me?”
He hesitated just a fraction. Then looked away.
That was all the answer she needed. Her chest tightened.
“I’m not trying to ruin your film. I’m just… not used to being sidelined. On Shadow Peak, I fought for my input. And eventually—it made the series better.”
“At first, you followed my direction.”
“Because I wasn’t sure.”
“You weren’t sure about what?”
She exhaled. “Listen, Christian film is new territory for me, okay? I felt that I should just trust your lead seeing that you have been in this area longer than I have and you would know what is acceptable and what isn’t.”
“What changed?”
“I started thinking more about Esther. I felt like I needed to do more with her.”
“More with her like what?”
“Make her come alive. Make her more prominent. More…I don’t know…more like a queen.”
He took a deep breath and looked away and she could tell that he was trying to control his anger. Eventually, he turned to her with blazing eyes.
“Do you think I don’t understand Esther?”
The question was quiet. Dangerously so.
“I didn’t say that—”
“You implied it.”
He leaned forward, voice low and controlled.
“You’re not elevating her, Camille. You’re reshaping her into something that fits your perception—not the story we’re telling. Who do you think you are?”
She straightened her spine. “Camille Carlucci. Two-time Emmy Award winner.”
He scoffed. “Prima donna is more like it. I’ll have you know I’ve directed my father—a three-time Academy Award winner.
In our last film he gave a monologue completely wrong.
I made him redo it, giving him the tone and expression I wanted.
It would have been inconceivable that he would refuse, because I was the director and he is old school and knows the right way to do things.
You need to understand your role. You are not the director.
You are the actor. You need discipline and self-control.
If you continue to behave like a spoiled brat on my set, we’re done. ”
Camille leaned back slowly. The fight… drained.
Because she now understood.
Simon’s voice echoed faintly in her mind—pushing her to assert, to dominate, to take control. But Simon always sounded right—right up until everything fell apart. He was the gold that turned out to be brass. Why did she ever listen to him?
Her gaze dropped to her plate. She’d misstepped. Badly.
And now she had to fix it—without losing her dignity.
~*~*~*~
They ate in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Julie came to take away their empty plates. She then returned with Camille’s apple pie and ice cream.
“Dessert?” she asked Aaron.
“Coffee for me,” he said, just as Camille took a bite of her pie.
Camille murmured, barely audible, “You didn’t answer my question, Aaron. Do you regret casting me?”
His heart pinched. She looked close to tears, and it tore at him. He hadn’t meant to wound her—he’d only been frustrated. Still, honesty mattered.
“Actually… it wasn’t my decision to make.”
“Whose decision was it?”
“The studio’s, ultimately. Ray influenced it, of course.”
“So, I acknowledge it wasn’t your decision to cast me. But do you regret that the decision was made?” she asked, eyes shining.
He grew quiet, reflecting on the past two months. The early weeks had been good. And even after she’d gone rogue, he still enjoyed directing her. Ray called it patience. Aaron called it something else.
He met her gaze.
“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t regret that you’re the lead. Despite our disagreements, you’re an asset to this film. And I admire you. It takes courage to walk away from a celebrated television career for Christian film. No one does this for fame.”
She smirked. “My mom reminds me daily.”
He smiled sympathetically. “Sorry.”
He checked his watch—an hour and fifteen minutes had passed.
“Oh, no! I’ve got to go. My sister has an art showing tonight and I promised I’d be there.
It’s twenty to eight—the show ends at nine.
” He glanced at her apologetically. “I’ll pay on my way out.
” He hesitated. “We haven’t resolved this, Camille, and we need to do that tonight. Would you… come with me to the show?”
She blinked. “To your sister’s show? Why?”
“We can continue talking in the car. It’s about twenty minutes away. Enough time to finish.”
“What about my car?”
“I’ll bring you right back. This place closes at ten, so it’s fine.”
She glanced down at her clothes. “Am I dressed for an art showing?”
“Definitely. Trust me—you should see what those artsy-fartsy types wear. Anything goes. You actually look normal. Finish up your dessert and let’s go.”
She laughed. “I’ll have to let them box this up. I can’t eat that quickly.”
~*~*~*~
Aaron settled the bill, then guided Camille out to the parking lot.
He stopped beside a vintage white Mustang convertible.
Camille blinked, surprised. She’d expected something sleek and modern but the moment she saw it, she understood. The car suited him. It was cool, understated and confident. Just like Aaron Cortelli.
He opened the passenger door with an easy, unforced courtesy.
She smiled her thanks and slipped in. The gesture caught her off guard—familiar in a way that tugged at something deeper. Her father used to do that.
The thought softened her. For all the hurt he’d caused her… she still loved him.
Aaron rounded the car, slid in, and started the engine. It turned over with a low, satisfying growl.
As he pulled out, Holly Holy filled the car.
“Is that Neil Diamond?” she asked, turning slightly toward him.
He nodded. “You know his music.”
“My father’s obsessed. I’m pretty sure he owns every album. Autographed, of course.”
A faint smile crossed his lips as he lowered the volume.
Then, just like that, his focus shifted.
“So,” he said, tone settling back into something more deliberate, “where we left off—going forward, I need you to return to your original approach to the role. I need the version of you who trusted me.”
She tilted her head, a hint of mischief slipping in. “And what version was that?”
He shot her a look that made it clear he wasn’t amused.
With a dramatic sigh, she turned toward the passing lights. Night breeze whipped through her hair.
“Okay, listen,” she said. “I agree with most of what you said tonight. I agree that I went off the rails for a bit. I was wrong to do that. The thing is, good directors don’t say, ‘Do it exactly like this.’ They help actors find truth. Otherwise you’re just… copying.”
She lifted a hand before he could interrupt.
“But—I also know there are moments when precision matters. There are deadlines. There is Time pressure. And good directors know how to communicate that respectfully.”
“So I’m both disrespectful and a bad director,” he said evenly.
“I didn’t say you’re bad,” she replied, softer now. “Just… maybe be a little more accommodating.”
He went quiet.
She glanced at him, trying to read him, but his expression gave nothing away.
The music filled the space, and she started humming along to Song Sung Blue, letting her voice drift lightly into the air as if his silence didn’t matter. But it did. A few songs later, she turned toward him again.
“If you’re not going to speak,” she said, “you might as well turn around and take me back to the diner.”
He glanced at her then, like he’d momentarily forgotten she was there.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was thinking.… I owe you an apology.”
She stilled.
“You’re right,” he continued. “I should have listened more. Ray said something earlier today that bothered me. He suggested we might have a directing issue.” A small pause. “I didn’t like hearing that.”
She watched him now, completely still.
“But I was just reflecting and I realize he wasn’t entirely wrong. I made assumptions about you—because of Shadow Peak. I decided what kind of actor you were before I ever asked you how you work.” He shook his head slightly. “That wasn’t fair. And it wasn’t wise.”
Another beat.
“I’m sorry.”
Silence filled the car—but it was different now.
She had never met a man like this. No defensiveness. No deflection. No carefully crafted excuse. Just ownership. Her heart thudded harder than she liked.