3. Dante
Chapter 3
Dante
August 12th
OLYMPIC HERO’S DOWNWARD SPIRAL: Dante Hastings Spotted Living Fast Life in Monaco While Former Team Claims Gold Without Him
The unforgiving LA heat burns mercilessly, indifferent to my pounding hangover.
Last night served as my farewell to summer—a decadent blur of top-shelf liquor, pristine lines of white powder on sleek black marble, and models whose endless legs defied gravity. All of it a desperate attempt to numb reality.
The U.S. Fencing team claimed Olympic gold. Without me. As if I hadn’t shed blood on those strips for years, hadn’t transformed that team into something remarkable. I single-handedly elevated fencing into a sport worth watching, yet they act like every medal and victory I brought them meant nothing.
Now I must wait four more years to reclaim my title—a title that should have secured me a second gold this year.
Four years to prove I remain unrivaled.
Four years fighting against obscurity.
My legacy dissolves like cocaine in champagne, ephemeral and fading.
To compound the injury, my baby brother, Ezra, claimed two medals in swimming this year. I should be proud—I am proud.
But this bitter, resentful person isn’t me.
I’m Dante fucking Hastings.
The studio lot signs shift and blur, refusing to hold still. No piste, no saber, no beautiful violence of competition. I take a deep drag of my cigarette, spot Studio F through the haze, and force myself to move.
Three days of table reads and in-person meetings with the stunt and props teams await me. As the stunt coordinator consultant on this project, I’ve been collaborating with Marcus, the head stunt choreographer, working through the film’s sequences over email. It’s my first time working on a film, but the process has been surprisingly straightforward. The props team regularly sends me sword specifications for my professional feedback.
Today, I have a four-hour meeting with them immediately following the first-act table read. The script my agent, Todd, mailed me sits untouched in my suitcase, as pristine as the day it arrived. Why cloud my mind with it when we’ll be reading it today anyway?
I haven’t read a script since college. Surely I’ve overcome the fact that sometimes when I read, the words tend to swim together.
Dyslexia can’t be permanent, can it?
Whatever. I’ve managed fine without much assistance for twenty-six years.
When I reach the door, I check my Patek. I’m fashionably late, but these Hollywood types probably expect that. I crush out my cigarette, pop a mint, and take a deep breath.
I push through the studio doors and into the table read room. A mahogany table dominates the space, surrounded by leather chairs and expectant faces.
“Morning,” I say crisply to no one in particular.
Felix Langford, the action movie mogul, lounges at the head of the table like he’s sitting on a throne. His wire-frame glasses and shaggy gray hair dip forward. “Well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Hastings finally gracing us with his presence.”
“Charmed.” I grab a coffee and a crimson apple from the snack table. The familiar preperformance stiffness settles into my shoulders—until everything stops.
Because there she is.
Reese Sinclair.
One look, and I’m not an Olympian, not a Hastings—simply struck speechless.
Lost in her script, she’s ethereal. Golden curls caught in a velvet headband, impossibly long lashes casting shadows as she works. Even her fingers are elegant, wrapping around a strand of that famous Sinclair mane. The haircut that both of my sisters—and thousands of other girls—ripped straight from magazines to show their hairdressers, hoping to capture a fraction of its effortless perfection.
She’s pure grace.
A strand of pearls adorns her slender neck. She has perfect cheekbones, a soft jawline, and a pink cardigan falling just so off one shoulder. The glimpse of a silk strap beneath feels like a deliberate temptation.
As a teenager, I spent hours staring at her poster on my wall before falling asleep, dreaming about what her signature peach lip gloss tasted like. She wets her lips, and my cock hardens in my trousers.
Fuck.
“Mr. Hastings,” Felix seethes. Reese looks up, and our eyes meet. Something shifts in her expression—curiosity perhaps, or recognition. Then her face hardens into perfect disdain, as if I’ve committed some unforgivable social transgression. “Are you planning to read your lines from there or join the rest of us?”
“Searching for a seat,” I say, glancing away for a second. But when my gaze returns, Reese is already back in her notes. Completely ignoring me. There’s some kid next to her—Simon something, my supposed second-in-command in this thing.
I head over, trying not to look too eager, though the spring in my step threatens to betray me.
I’ve done the whole celebrity scene—met the who’s who, mingled with all the big names, collected numbers from Met Gala royalty, and saved them under fake names in my phone.
But seeing Reese Sinclair in person makes me reconsider my assumption that this sugarcoated darling isn’t my type.
“This seat taken?” I ask Simon perfunctorily, sliding next to him before the kid can answer. Her scent hits me immediately—cedar and magnolias, but darker, earthier. I turn to her and say, “Good morning, Reese, I’m—”
“Dante Hastings.” The way she says it—crisp, rehearsed—makes my own name sound foreign to my ears.
Interesting.
“Indeed.” The room’s ambient noise fades as I lean closer. Close enough to drown in her perfume, yet far enough to maintain plausible deniability. “I have to wonder,” I say, refusing to let our brief introduction die such an ordinary death, “if we’ve crossed paths before. Perhaps at one of those tedious LA parties where everyone pretends not to notice each other?”
“Excuse me?” The air around her turns cold, but I catch that telltale tension in her shoulders. She’s aware of me and resisting that fact.
“Well, you know who I am.”
“I’m a professional, Mr. Hastings. I know everyone I’m working with.”
“Of course,” I concede, watching as she returns to her script annotations, her pen moving across the margins in decisive strokes. Where is America’s darling starlet? Where’s that musical southern drawl she carefully conceals in interviews? “You got any notes you can share with me, help get me up to speed?”
“Where’s your script?”
“Didn’t think I’d need to bring the one I’ve been poring over endlessly,” I bluff.
She flicks her fingers, still absorbed in her page. A PA appears with a script as if she summoned them from thin air.
I murmur thanks. My shirt collar tightens like a noose. What’s with the indifference?
The script before me might as well be written in Sanskrit. I stretch out beneath the table with calculated indolence, but she remains immune.
Doesn’t spare me a glance. Doesn’t flinch.
Well then.
I reach for my apple and roll it between my fingers, pretending to read my lines but tracking the way she tucks a strand of gold behind her ear, exposing that unfairly perfect jawline. I bite into the fruit, letting out a loud crunch that’s impossible to ignore.
Her eyes catch mine, lightning-quick and scorching. Dismissive, but there’s finally a glimpse of heat beneath the ice. I place the half-bitten apple between us—a dare, an offering, a trap.
“Terrible manners of me. Should’ve offered to share.”
“No, thank you.” A flush blooms on her throat. There it is.
“Have you worked with Felix before?” I ask, though I’ve memorized her IMDb page.
She glares at me again, and isn’t it fucking perfect? Especially when it’s less of a glare and more of the kind of look that would send lesser men running. Not me.
“If you’d bothered to show up for introductions this morning…”
I grin. Christ, she’s magnificent.
“My sincerest apologies. Though I’ve found that timing, like everything else in life, is an art form. The best moments tend to be unscripted.”
“Some of us actually value professionalism over performance.” She flips through her script, marking pages with pink Post-its.
“An Olympic gold tends to speak for itself in the professional department, wouldn’t you say?” The moment it leaves my lips, I recognize the desperation in it. Like a teenager showing off his varsity jacket. Pathetic, really. I haven’t needed to prove myself to anyone in years.
Her lips curve into something caught between a smile and a weapon. “Fascinating,” she says. “Is that why Tokyo had to make do without your…particular brand of professionalism this year?”
The air rushes out of my lungs. For a dangerous second, I want to confess everything. The fight. The SafeSport decision. The USFA’s pending disciplinary review. The shattered dreams that still wake me at all hours of the night. “I—”
“Precisely,” she says in a clipped tone, a clear instruction to back off. “Now, Mr. Hastings, since we’ve all been waiting on your arrival, perhaps we could redirect that famous focus of yours to something productive?”
Her words should deter me, but instead I want to press for another reaction.
“Alright!” Felix shouts. “If you two are finished, shall we begin?”
“Ready, Felix.” Reese brightens and turns her gaze to Felix, her hand twitching up like an eager student before she catches herself and lowers it.
“Let’s dive in,” a young man beside Felix, probably a head writer, announces.
The table read starts from the beginning of the script and moves devastatingly slowly. Reese is the biggest star on set. Next to her sits Omar Reeve, playing Foxborough’s king, and then Robyn’s sidekick, Elizabeth Brando, who’s only ever been an extra in television dramas. They all breeze confidently through their lines while I find myself increasingly conscious of my limited acting experience.
Theater at Princeton feels distant now—those small roles squeezed between fencing competitions. The reality of film production looms large, and my hangover isn’t helping.
They hired me for my blade work, of course. The acting is merely an extension of the Hastings brand—another performance, another stage.
I settle my gaze back on Reese. She’s amazing, like watching the sunrise—knowing you should look away, but you can’t.
Simon nudges me. “You’re up next. Act one, scene three.”
I flip to the scene where the sheriff of Foxborough makes his grand entrance. Todd, who read the script before signing me on, said the role would be perfect for me. It would give me extra media coverage that being a mere stunt coordinator wouldn’t.
“Hey, Sheriff,” Reese says, and I falter.
“Dante?” Simon whispers beside me.
“Your line is,” Reese prompts through gritted teeth, “‘The common folk show such spirit.’”
Fuck. I look down at my script. The familiar panic rises as letters dance and blur, a childhood nightmare revisited. My brain scrambles for purchase but finds none.
I stammer, “The common folk show such spirit. But slowly…surely?” Heat creeps up my back. “No, surely you understand, taxes are the crown’s…crows?” Damn it. I know the words, but as soon as I open my mouth, my tongue stumbles. “No, the crown’s divine…divide? No—divine right.”
The heavy silence in the room speaks volumes. I laugh, too sharp, too quick. “My copy is all smudged.”
“Sure it is. Have everything memorized for the shoot or don’t bother showing up,” Felix spits, like Coach Lev does when I tell him I wasn’t drinking the night before training. “Let’s move on. We have the fight scene—sheriff wounded but alive. Robyn escapes to the forest with Merrick.”
I grasp at fragments, improvising poorly. “Find that thief. Tell Foxborough her head’s worth gold.”
“Fox-burr-o,” Reese corrects, leaning close enough that her breath ghosts my ear. God, she’s giving valedictorian energy.
“Robyn, let’s go,” Elizabeth, playing Merrick, shouts.
“Sheriff, I won’t let you down,” Simon says.
“Now the monologue.”
Reese clears her throat. “They’ve underestimated me my whole life. While our king indulges in opulent feasts behind his fortified walls, our children languish in destitution. No more.” Her fist meets the table. “They forget, true power lives in the people. And we will have our justice, whatever the cost.”
“Good,” Felix says, “but let’s make the dialogue more accessible. Peasant women wouldn’t use such fancy words. Keep it authentic.” Reese’s knuckles whiten around her pen as she marks through her lines. “And add some tears. You know, to soften up Robyn’s edges and make her someone worth rooting for.”
Reese’s mechanical obedience while defiance smolders behind her eyes makes my blood sing with recognition. This has been happening throughout the entire table read. Reese will say her line, and Felix will have notes.
But this time, instead of replying, Of course, Felix, how high do you want me to jump , she says, “I’ll work on incorporating those elements, but maybe instead of crying—”
“Trust me,” Felix interrupts with a wave of his hand, “it’ll play better.”
Sexist prick.
“You’re right,” she says, clipped and perfect.
“Okay, next scene with the king,” Felix says.
Omar starts, and Reese slumps back into her seat, reorganizing her pens and colored markers in front of her. A perfectly manicured pink finger curls around the ends of her hair. She catches me watching and raises an eyebrow.
“Have you lost your page again?” she whispers.
“Your performance. I’m a bit lost for words.”
“Yeah…lost for words,” she says sarcastically. I’m so fucking embarrassed that she saw me stumbling over myself, but I won’t let her see.
I throw on my charm, changing the subject. “You know,” I say, “last I checked, thieves aren’t exactly known for their waterworks. Just saying.”
Without looking at me, and with the room distracted by the king and his men plotting to take more taxes from the town, she says, “We’re in the hands of one of the most successful action directors in the industry.” Interestingly, she’s neither disagreeing nor agreeing with me. “Now please pipe down; you’re going to get us in trouble.”
“Rule follower, huh?”
She glares at me again. So fucking gorgeous.
“Pay attention, Mr. Hastings.”
“Please,” I flash the smile that’s gotten me out of trouble more times than I can count, “call me Dante.”
She regards me one final time before turning away.
Maybe it’s the competitive instinct, but I can’t seem to let her go.
In Saber, the point goes to whoever attacks first.
Always press the advantage.
This just became a game, and now I need to figure out what riddle she’s spinning. And I’ve never been able to resist turning the tables on an overconfident opponent.
After the table read wraps, I head to my meeting with the stunt team. As we file out, the head PA stops us. “One more thing—cabin assignments will be emailed shortly. Supporting cast and crew will share cabins with two others.”
The thought of Reese as a potential roommate makes the corners of my mouth twitch.
“Shooting starts the Monday after next. We’ll film Monday to Saturday, Sundays off. Check your email for weekly schedules. Fight scenes are on Thursdays and Fridays—longer days, so plan accordingly.” The head PA scans the room. “Questions?”
No one raises a hand. Before I head over to the stunt team meeting, I should corner the production team about my cabin situation. And Friday shoots? They’ll have to work around my training schedule and whatever charity circuit Lev has planned for me. I start to make my way over, but Reese breezes past, all dangerous curves wrapped in denim with her perfume lingering in the air.
On second thought, I’ll let Todd handle the scheduling details. And the stunt team can wait a few more minutes.
I match her stride. She’s shorter than I thought; her head barely reaches my shoulder. Must be about five-four, though her PR team lists her as five-six online.
“The pronunciation thing earlier? Brutal.” I drone playfully. “Are you always so merciless with your scene partners, or should I feel special?”
She turns, a sweet smile crossing her face. “I only sharpen my claws for the ones who can’t be bothered to learn their lines.” My blood sings at her bite. “Though most gentlemen have the decency to fake it better than you did.”
“Straight for the kill.” I laugh. “Fair enough. But watching you take me apart? That was something else.”
“Have you read page fourteen, section KD-33 of your contract?” She pauses, and I track the careful shape of each word on her lips. “No need to admit you haven’t. There’s a strict no-fraternization clause, so why don’t you be a dear and keep your energy focused on your lines instead of attempting to hide the fact that you don’t care for this project?”
I know the section. Todd made me recite it to him over the phone. These clauses appear in contracts when someone looks like Reese—beautiful in a dangerous way that makes men forget themselves.
I find myself wanting to impress her, to make up for my earlier shortcomings.
Perhaps showering her with praise will get her to warm up to me. “Maybe you’d prefer me admitting that your take on Robyn is revolutionary. It’s refreshing, new. I mean, compared to your other great roles, what you brought back there? It was impressive.”
“I take my craft seriously, and I don’t plan on letting anything get in the way of this movie’s success,” she says, sidestepping me.
“It shows, and if you ever want to take your sword fighting to the next level, I’d be more than happy to help. I’m working with the head of stunts and leading a team through some fight choreography each morning before shooting.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hastings, but Felix procured a qualified trainer for me. Nick Valentine has trained all of the best male action heroes of our time. I don’t need any additional lessons.”
“Well, I’ll be here should you change your mind. I do have a gold medal,” I remind her, noting how she unconsciously mirrors my posture—a dance of symmetry neither of us acknowledges.
“Yes, you’ve already mentioned. But it’s curious how you keep leaving out the details of your fall from grace.”
“Careful, Reese, you keep bringing up my career this much, and I might think you’re interested,” I say, leaning in closer.
“Definitely not,” she snaps, looking flustered. “What I’m trying to say is that people work hard on films; they dedicate their lives to thankless tasks to make magic happen—”
“Undoubtedly.”
“They work years for these opportunities. They don’t land them because of who they are or who their family may be.”
Her implication hangs there, tedious and predictable. The Hastings name is all anyone sees when they look at me. My father with his tech empire, Viggle, my mother coaching champions, my siblings stockpiling accolades for the family trophy room.
Everyone assumes my success came without any struggle or effort.
Yes, I have money. Yes, I know the right people. I won’t pretend otherwise. But there’s something reductive about assuming privilege eliminates all obstacles. The world sees the Hastings name, not the pressure that comes with it—the constant expectation to be exceptional.
Society runs on connections and capital—that’s just reality. I’ve learned to navigate it, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t earned my place. Doors may have opened for me, but I still had to walk through them and prove I belonged there.
“And you didn’t get cast as Robyn Hood because of who you are?”
“I’ve been in this industry since I was a child. I know what hard work means.” Her voice is steel. “Meticulous, calculated, exhausting work. Just last month I did an entire PR circuit for my latest film, started an intense workout regimen for this role, and shot a national commercial where I had to execute a perfectly timed dive into a pool of yogurt.”
I remember the commercial. The way she emerged from a sea of dairy like Venus rising from seafoam, except it was vanilla yogurt, and she was selling processed food to the masses. “Right. The ’Gurt ad.” My laugh comes out hollow. “Quite the cultural touchstone.”
“I’ve done what needed to be done, and I will continue to excel at whatever challenge is placed before me,” she says, and something in her determination makes me want to reach across the space between us. Instead, I watch her shoulders square, her posture as perfect as a prima ballerina. “I have earned every single role through dedication and sacrifice. And I will ensure this film receives the critical acclaim it deserves, with or without your contributions.”
The little crease around her eyes as she narrows her gaze at me sends blood below my belt. There she goes with the glaring again.
“And all I’m suggesting is we might understand each other better than you think.” I hold her gaze, watching her pupils dilate in the afternoon light. “And I’d like to prove it. Over lunch, perhaps? We could discuss…technique.”
“I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
“Who said anything about pleasure?” I counter. “I’d call it tactical planning. Two fighters comparing notes. I have plenty of knowledge to share with you, and you seem like the kind of person who likes to get intimate with their characters.”
“Right. Thank you for that impossible-to-refuse offer, Mr. Hastings. But I have a packed schedule with costumes for the rest of the day.”
She turns on her heel, walking away. Those damn blue jeans are a masterclass in temptation.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Reese. Save me a seat, why don’t you?” I turn in the opposite direction, having to walk off the semi.
She’s nothing like I expected.
And for the first time since Tokyo slipped through my fingers, since the fencing world watched me fall, I find myself wanting to prove something—to her, to myself.
Not just that I can remember my lines or handle my saber, but that underneath the carefully crafted image of Dante Hastings, there’s someone worth knowing.
Someone who could match her fire with his own.
I’ll show her I’m more than her first impression of me, however accurate it may be. I’ll prove I can be as dedicated to this craft as she is, even if it means confronting every demon that’s been chasing me since my suspension.
I’m more than my gold medal.
I have to be.
Frankie
wheres my autograph?!?!
Dante
Another admirer playing hard to get.
Frankie
DANTE I STG if u dont get this done im gonna cry and then moms gonna get involved and then u’ll REALLY be sorry…
Dante
The thrill of the chase, little sister. Some things can’t be rushed.
Besides, it seems America’s sweetheart isn’t a fan of mine.
Brooklyn
Her birthday is on June 3.
So she’s a Gemini, Dante!!! She must’ve been matching your energy
Dante
If only.
Brooklyn
Though, since you’re a Taurus, you may not be compatible
It says here your match will be interesting but tricky! You’re super different but it can work if you could meet in the middle!
Dante
Well, she wasn’t interested in meeting me anywhere.
Frankie
OMG STOP BEING DRAMATIC FOR LIKE 2 SECONDS PLEASE IM LITERALLY DYING HERE
Dante
I’ll grow on her.
Brooklyn
What happened? What did you do?
Frankie
BETTER QUESTION WOULD BE WHAT DIDNT HE DO???
get that autograph and my premiere tickets
or Im telling mom about Monaco and showing her ALL my crying selfies!!!!!!!!!!!!
Dante
Why is it always my fault?
Brooklyn
Your reputation precedes you.
Dante
She read up on me. You know how the press has been. Got miss goody two shoes’ panties in a twist.
Brooklyn
You could tell her the truth about what happened at the World Cup.
Dante
Definitely not. Don’t worry, you’ll both get your autographs and meet and greets. That’s why I’m your favorite brother, right?
Frankie
who told u that? loooool
Brooklyn
Why not let some of her good rub off on you for a chance?
Dante
Stop your fretting, children. I’ll be putting the sin in Sinclair in no time.