10. Reese
Chapter 10
Reese
August 22nd
Reese Sinclair and Jaxon Elio Spark More Dating Rumors at the Love and Loathing Premiere
Heather
We need to talk about Felix. People are catching on to the fact that he’s turning this into some B-movie cash grab.
Reese
Aren’t you the one who always tells me not to listen to whisperings?
Heather
Yes, but listen to me. After all these script changes and what happened with that trainer, at least let me bring in additional security, and we’ll get Sarah as an intimacy coordinator!
Reese
There aren’t any intimate scenes. You’re overreacting.
Heather
Overreacting? That bruise on your arm from yesterday’s shoot was absolutely horrific! Think about the national Diamond Essence campaign we’re going to be filming in October.
Reese
I promise I won’t be bruised up come October.
Heather
You’re missing the point. Felix is pushing you too hard, and it’s not allowed. I can sue him for endangering my talent.
Reese
Heather, it was an accident during the fight scene. I’m fine.
Heather
I won’t let some patronizing patriarchal director derail your big move into a new genre. This is about protecting your career. I’ve got three other scripts hot on my desk right now—all action roles, all powerful female characters. We put an opt-out clause in this contract for a reason.
Please, Reese.
Reese
I appreciate you looking out for me, but I can handle Felix. This is the role I want, and I’m not walking away. Trust me on this one.
In twenty-five days, I’ll either prove myself worthy of playing Robyn Hood or confirm Felix’s doubts about casting me.
The scene that terrifies me most looms ahead: diving headfirst off a moving raft into freezing water to retrieve my sword after being disarmed while battling the king’s army. Two days of shooting. Extremely limited windows for the full moon that’s needed for the shot. There can’t be any mistakes.
An entire production crew is counting on me.
People’s time and efforts. The budget.
I put my phone back into my bag and take off my sweatshirt, standing in the pajamas I woke up in. I kick off my shoes next. The lake stretches before me in the early morning light, deceptively peaceful. Sunlight dances across its surface, creating a masterpiece of golden ripples that would take any normal person’s breath away. But it takes mine away for a different reason. My chest tightens looking at it.
I pull myself off the rocky ledge and walk toward the lake, digging my toes into the damp earth at the water’s edge. My heart pounds.
Heather’s doubts echo in my mind, her well-meaning concerns making me feel like that same naive actress who needed her hand held through every decision. But I’m not that girl anymore.Maybe I should’ve woken up Ramsey to watch over me, but I want to do this alone.
I’m Robyn Hood—or at least, I’m supposed to be.
Her character should embody a revolutionary force, fighting for justice and building a family out of society’s rejects. She’s a warrior who sacrifices everything to help people who can’t help themselves. But Felix’s gutless vision has stripped away her essence. The searing commentary on gender barriers and systemic corruption? Completely erased.
Now it’s me running through forests in outfits that keep getting tighter, trying not to lose my fake eyelashes during slow-motion fight scenes.
At yesterday’s premiere of Love and Loathing , the reporters’ whispers were draining. Is she doing her own stunts for Robyn Hood ? Is she still hooking up with Jaxon Elio? And then the questions. Who are you wearing? How did you manage to fit into that dress? Are you planning to start a family soon? How long did hair and makeup take? Is it intimidating to work with such a powerful male director in your new role?
No one takes romance films seriously, as if falling in love makes you weak or shallow. The industry dismisses them with contempt, as if exploring the depths of human connection is somehow lesser than violence and spectacle.
There’s nothing wrong with romance films. I loved being in them. But I’ve only been offered big roles in picture-perfect fairy tales with neat and tidy happily-ever-afters. Stories where trust is never tested, where love conquers all without cost. Producers don’t want to see me portray the devastating reality of how relationships can wound us. The tears, the heartache, the longing that makes love stories truly potent.
Maybe after Robyn Hood succeeds that will change.
A heavy sigh escapes me.
I’m drowning in expectations, and not the metaphorical kind.
Something urgent coils in my stomach.
My feet move before my brain catches up.
One step. Then another.
The lake water splashes up as I charge in, each droplet a tiny icy dagger against my skin. The smell of wet earth and algae fills my nostrils.
Seventeen years, Reese.
Seventeen years of letting this fear win. Not today.
I survived Friday’s fight scene. Ran through the forest while Felix barked directions. This is just water. One quick dip under. Tomorrow, I’ll hold for a second. The next day, two. Baby steps.
Soon I’ll be diving for Robyn’s sword, showing them all what I’m made of.
Water laps at my knees, creeping up to my waist. The cold seeps into my bones.
My breath comes faster. Shorter.
My pulse drums in my ears.
My muscles seize. The memory hits, that heavy cover sliding inexorably forward, water rushing in, my small fists pounding uselessly against solid plastic. Time stretches like taffy, each heartbeat an eternity.
“Simply a memory,” I tell myself, my tongue thick and clumsy in my mouth.
The lake feels just as suffocating. My vision starts to tunnel, the edges of the world going dark and fuzzy. A metallic taste fills my mouth.
The whirring gets louder again, the clanging of the pool cover filling my ears, and I whirl around, a child’s scream caught in my throat.
Still nothing.
Only trees, their shapes warping and swaying, though there’s no wind. My legs tremble violently, my knees threatening to give out beneath me.
“One…two…” I sound small, disconnected, like that little girl. Like I’m already being swallowed by murky depths.
I pinch my nose, bend my knees, and try to swallow a breath before descending into the lake water. The cold bites at my skin, creeping up my body like icy fingers.
In an instant I’m back there, trapped under the dark cover, pounding my tiny fists against it, screaming for Daddy as water fills my lungs.
I lurch upright, a strangled “HELP!” tearing from my throat.
My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. The world tilts. Trees blur into a green smear through my tear-filled eyes. Through the haze, a figure sprints toward me.
Daddy?
“Help!” The word escapes on a child’s terrified sob. “Help me!” Each breath comes in desperate gasps. Not enough air. My lungs feel like they’re filling with concrete. The roar of blood in my ears drowns out everything but my own panic.
“Reese!”
It’s Dante.
Strong arms wrap around me, pulling me up and out of the water.
“It’s okay, Reese.” His voice cuts through the static in my head. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
He sets me on the rocky shore, yanking off his running jacket and wrapping it around my shoulders. His eyes dart around until they land on my water bottle by my tote.
“I—I can’t breathe!” I sob, my fingers clutching at his arm. “I’m having a heart attack.”
“It’s not a heart attack.” He moves, shaking the bottle hard, listening for something. Then he uncaps it and dumps the water out. “Stay present. Stay with me.”
He reaches for me, gently prying open my clenched fist. Something cold presses into my palm—ice.
“How does that feel? Cold, right?”
“Yes,” I manage, taking a deep breath. The ice stings my skin, sharp and biting.
I stare at it in my palm. One of his herculean hands draws slow circles along my back, and my breathing naturally falls into sync with the rhythm. Inhale for four, hold for seven, exhale for eight.
Four. Seven. Eight.
“There you go,” he says. “Keep focusing on the ice.”
The chill burns away the panic, bit by bit. With each drop of melting water that trickles between my fingers, the memory of the pool fades into a dull background hum. The world comes back into focus. First the whisper of wind through leaves, then the rough texture of pebbles pressing into my legs, and finally, most distractingly, Dante’s hand on my lower back.
It’s comforting.
“How?” My words catch in my throat as I look at him properly. He’s soaked to the bone, dark brown hair plastered to his forehead, white T-shirt clinging to his chest. Why did it have to be him to find me? I can’t think with him so close. His gaze bounces from my eyes to my lips to my fingers, which are rubbing along the zipper of his jacket. “What are you doing here?”
“I was out for a run and heard you scream.”
Scream? I didn’t scream, did I?
I lean away from him as my traitorous body shouts to sink into his warmth. The circles on my back stop, and I wish I hadn’t said anything.
“I haven’t felt like that since I was a kid. I thought I was going to die.” The explanation feels weak.
“You had a panic attack.”
“I—how did you know what to do?”
“My oldest sister gets them real bad,” he says. “Figure skating comes with a lot of pressure. Not that Brooklyn would ever admit it. Her therapist taught her this thing with ice. Now whenever she hits the rink, the first thing she does is touch the ice. Grounds her, you know?”
I blink at him, unsure what to say. This side of him is so different from the smug playboy mask he usually wears. I’ve caught glimpses, but I want to see what else he’s hiding.
“You look like you don’t believe me.”
“No,” I say, “I do. I didn’t expect that. Sounds like you’re close to your sister.”
He looks boyish as his head tilts to one side. “I am. Brooklyn’s a rock, always rounding us up like it’s her job. But while I was giving my parents a headache, my oldest sister was always there.”
His words lodge between my sternum, and my mind wanders to what it would feel like to nudge my head into his chest and be held for a while.
“This stays between us, okay? No one can know.”
“Take it to the grave,” he says, crossing his heart. “But what were you doing out here in the first place?”
“I’m afraid of water,” I whisper, the admission making my throat tight. “Not water itself, but diving under it.”
“Southern girl like you never went tubing on the river?” He asks like he genuinely wants to know, not like it’s a setup for some line he wants to use on me.
“I almost drowned as a kid.” I study the pebbles at my feet, aware of his steady gaze on me. “I was twelve. Our pool had this automatic cover. One night, I was swimming alone when it started closing. I got trapped underneath.” My lungs burn at the memory. “The saltwater—Daddy had it converted from chlorine that summer—it burned like fire in my eyes, my nose, my throat. Everything was a blur of dark blue and panic. I was screaming and pounding on the cover, but it kept whirring shut above me, this mechanical monster stealing my sky.” I pause, taking a shaky breath, the phantom taste of saltwater flooding my mouth, metallic and sharp. “If he hadn’t heard me…”
Dante’s expression remains steady.
Every instinct honed from years in this industry screams at me to stand up, say thank you, and return to my cabin. To maintain professional distance.
But I don’t.
“So you were going to try and tackle that head-on. Alone? At the ass-crack of dawn? That’s pretty fucking badass, fighter.”
He manages to pull a small laugh out of me. “There’s a scene coming up.”
“The raft scene? When Robyn dives in for her sword?”
“Yeah,” I manage, surprised he remembers. “Been reading the script after all?”
“Professor Sinclair told me I can’t come to class unprepared anymore.”
Ignore him!
I wrap my arms around myself, suppressing a shiver. “You heard Felix last week when he mentioned bringing in a double, but…” I trail off, hating how vulnerable I sound.
“You’re obviously too stubborn for that?”
“I need to do this myself,” I say, and he nods like he understands.
“Maybe next time you try to conquer your fears, you could start slower? Like dunking your head underwater in the bath?”
“What do you mean, my plan to walk into a freezing lake in my pajamas wasn’t brilliant?”
“It is an interesting choice of swimwear,” he teases.
We let the silence linger between us, neither of us rushing to go. It’s not uncomfortable like it usually would be with a fellow actor, chattering about himself or showing pure indifference.
Instead, Dante studies me with an intensity that makes my cheeks burn, like sunlight on cold skin. His eyes track every micro-expression, every shift of my posture, and I sink deeper into whatever this is between us.
I’m comfortable.
And that makes it dangerous. I already have my circle: Cleo, Heather, Ramsey, and my loving parents.
That’s all I need.
I can’t like him. I just can’t. It’s not the no-fraternization clause. It’s not even Ricky, though maybe some small part of it is.
It’s the fact that I have everything to lose, and I can’t afford to throw this dream away on some silly schoolgirl infatuation with a boy who looks like he’d be a good time.
“You’re under a lot of stress, aren’t you?” he asks.
“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“There’s a stretch of coast up here I used to visit with my family. You should go. Definitely nothing pool-like about it. It’s different from the Gulf, but peaceful in its own way.”
“Sounds nice,” I admit, “but it’s impossible to leave set. Between my bodyguard and the paparazzi…” I twist my fingers into the ends of my hair, slowly exhaling. “I can’t really get up and go places. Not alone. Not without it becoming a thing.” I hate how pretentious it sounds, but it’s true. I can’t step outside to get my mail without someone getting a shot of me.
“Even though we’re nearly seven hundred miles from LA?”
“These reporters, they find out everything.” He nods, eyebrows crinkling in thought. “Well, I should get back and dry off,” I say and shrug off his jacket to return it to him.
“Keep it.”
I look down at the striped cotton pajamas clinging to my skin, suddenly aware of how much more vulnerable this feels than any costume I wear on set. There, I have layers of makeup and fabric to hide behind.
Here, it’s just me.
I pull his jacket tighter around myself.
He stands, helping me up. His palms are rough with calluses, and he holds mine a beat longer than necessary.
“Maybe we should skip our training session today,” he suggests.
“No,” I blurt. “There’s no need to fuss over this. We’ll train as we planned.”
“Alright, well, let’s get you back home before you catch a chill.” He picks up my stuff, folding my sweatshirt carefully over his arm and carrying my sneakers, and joins me at my side as we walk back.
“Thank you, Dante,” I say quietly. His name feels sweet on my tongue.
“You know, I was just starting to like ‘Mr. Hastings.’”