"I'm leaving, Susan. Forget me—forget that there was ever a man like me."
"You told me you would never betray me for the rest of your life," the woman demanded, voice cracking like thin ice. "So why doesn't it count anymore?"
By the cobblestone bridge, a woman in flowing white seized the wrist of a handsome young gentleman dressed in pale robes. Her grief poured out of her as if it had been steeping for a lifetime—each syllable trembling, each breath a wound.
"If you go," she said, tears rising, "then don't ever look back. I won't search for you again. I won't ask after you. I won't chase rumors, or beg strangers for scraps of your name…"
The sorrow in her voice was so complete, so devastatingly sincere, that even the crew—people who lived in false worlds for a living—were shaken. A few turned away and wiped their eyes, pretending it was the cold.
"CUT!"
The director's shout snapped the spell in half.
All at once, the set exhaled. It wasn't relief exactly—it was more like surviving something. This scene had made every single person on set hold their breath.
Partly because it was freezing. The kind of night cold that crept into your bones, that made your fingers stiff and your face go numb. And if the crew felt it, then the two stars acting opposite each other—half-dressed in period costumes, standing in an open night wind—were paying for it twice over.
But the second reason was the one no one wanted to say aloud, as if speaking it might jinx them:
They'd gotten it in one take.
One.
For a high-risk scene, late-night shoot, two top-tier actors, raw emotion, complicated blocking—
And it just… worked.
It was the kind of professional discipline that made you remember why certain people were called legends.
This project—Matchless—had been famous before a single frame was released. The buzz was monstrous, the rumors constant, and the production leaked like a sieve: a passing extra with a phone, a fan crouched behind a truck, someone filming through a crack in a gate.
And when the leads were Jaynara Stevens and Luke Mercer—two names that could make headlines just by breathing in the same room—no one wanted unauthorized footage floating online for their fandoms to tear apart. Security was tense. Staff were stationed like a barricade, even in the dead of night, keeping the most rabid fans from surging into the set.
"Everyone, thank you for your hard work!" Director Vance beamed so widely his eyes nearly disappeared. His excitement radiated like heat in a place that had none. "Seriously—thank you. And a special thanks to Jaynara and Luke for that incredible cooperation. Especially Jaynara—her arm was burned yesterday and she's still wrapped up, but she pushed through tonight's night shoot so we wouldn't delay. That's professionalism. That's dedication. Thank you!"
Applause broke out, half sincere, half desperate for warmth.
"Take a breather," Director Vance continued, voice almost giddy. "We prep the next setup, and when we're done—let's party!"
It was the last scene of the schedule. They'd finally secured the two leads' overlapping availability and had been terrified the night wouldn't be enough.
But Jayna and Luke—no extensive rehearsal, no drawn-out coordination—had simply stepped into it. Like they'd walked into the same dream.
Perfect fusion. Seamless rhythm.
It made the old rumors curl back to life: the whispers about them, the long-running headlines, the "maybe" that people fed on.
Luke, handsome in a way that looked unfair under harsh set lights, took the coat his assistant offered and draped it over Jayna's shoulders.
He did it openly, without the slightest concern for who watched.
Jayna, still the female lead who'd been crying like her heart was being torn out just seconds ago, turned cold the instant the camera stopped rolling. She didn't even bother to fake softness.
"You know you're not cute when you're like this, Jayna," Luke teased, his voice intimate in that casual way that made tabloids drool.
Jayna shot him a look sharp enough to cut.
Tom Hanley—her assistant—appeared at exactly the right moment with a thermos. He even pressed his fingers lightly to Jayna's temple, massaging as if he'd done it a thousand times. The ornate headpiece had been digging into her skull all night.
"Is your arm bad?" Luke asked, nodding at the bandage beneath her costume sleeve. He grinned. "You really moved Director Vance. If it were anyone else, they'd have thrown a fit and walked off set the minute they got burned."
Jayna pushed up her oversized sleeve, examining the neat wrapping on her forearm as if it didn't belong to her. She spoke slowly, flatly.
"It's nothing. A minor thing." Her mouth tightened for the briefest second. "I'm not that delicate."
Truthfully, she had wanted to use it as an excuse to bail.
But after yesterday—after what had happened—she no longer wanted delays.
She wanted the shooting done.
She wanted everything finished.
Luke tilted his head, studying her the way only a long-time scene partner could.
"Jayna," he said, narrowing his eyes with a half-smile, "I'm gonna say something you won't like."
Jayna didn't even look at him. Her fingers drifted to the bracelet on her wrist—the gold, the tiny diamond star—touching it as if the metal could keep her anchored.
"Then don't." Her voice cooled. "And stop calling me that. Don't get so familiar."
Luke chuckled, unbothered. He seemed to enjoy her sharp edges the way some people enjoyed the thrill of walking too close to a ledge.
"You were too deep in it," he said, nodding toward the set. "That scene."
"Actors are supposed to live inside it," Jayna replied. She exhaled white mist into the air, annoyed by how vicious the night had become. "I'll take that as praise."
Luke watched her carefully. "What you said back there… it didn't feel like it was meant for me."
Jayna lifted a lighter.
The flame trembled.
She paused, then smiled faintly, as if humoring him. She lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, and spoke around the smoke—
"Of course it wasn't for you. It was for the character—Mr. Liam."
Liam York.The heartless male lead of the script.
Luke only smiled, not arguing.
He'd played opposite her too many times to miss the smallest fracture in her.
He turned toward Tom, who was scrolling through his phone a few steps away, and tapped him lightly on the arm.
"So?" Luke drawled. "Got any insight? What's bothering our Jaynara? Come on. Tell me."
Jayna exhaled smoke toward Luke's face, unimpressed. "What, you're gossiping about me now?"
"If you won't talk," Luke said, eyes bright with mischief, "your assistant will."
Tom stiffened, caught between an A-list star and his own boss.
Luke leaned closer, grinning shamelessly. "Tom, if she treats you badly, jump ship and come work for me. I'll pay better. I've got great energy. Great fortune. Best boss in the industry."
Jayna made a disgusted sound and planted her palm against Luke's face, pushing him away as if he were an overly affectionate dog.
"Back off. Don't block my air. And I'm not ending up on another stupid headline with you."
Luke laughed, taking the shove like a compliment. "Jayna," he murmured, suddenly softer, "you really don't feel anything for me at all?"
Jayna didn't answer. She only stared up at the sky.
Not a single star.
"Or," Luke added, as if he couldn't resist poking the bruise, "has your 'her' finally shown up?"
Jayna's face went dark at once.
She crushed the cigarette out with deliberate force.
"Don't count me in for the after-party tonight."
"Oh, come on." Luke groaned, exaggeratedly wounded. "I say one thing and you're offended? You're so petty."
He looked like he wanted to grab her by the collar and shake her until her temper fell out of her pockets.
Jayna was infamous in the industry for being difficult—not because she was unprofessional, but because she refused to be handled.
Tom could only laugh awkwardly at their bickering, hands folded like prayer.
To be honest, there were moments when he wished Jayna would soften toward Luke. Luke's mouth ran like a reckless car, but he had a good heart. In this world, he was one of the rare people who treated Jayna with something real.
But after yesterday, Tom finally understood something he'd never been able to explain:
Why, after all these years, Jayna was still alone.
Why she'd never truly let anyone in.
He couldn't forget the way she'd stumbled out of the elevator, suddenly drained, leaning on him just to reach the car. The way she'd sat in the back seat afterward and cried silently, ruining her eye makeup with tears.
Tom had never seen her like that.
Never.
Jayna cared too much about pride. About control.
Off camera, she didn't cry.
Not once.
So who was that doctor?
What did she mean to Jayna—really?
Tom's curiosity gnawed at him, but he swallowed it down. Some questions were too dangerous to ask.
Jayna rinsed her mouth with a capful of mouthwash, spat neatly into a disposable cup—an old habit after smoking—and said, almost as an afterthought, "There's somewhere I want to go tonight."
Then, seeing Luke's disappointment, she added—almost kind—
"I won't skip the wrap dinner. I'll be there. I'm staying in town for a while—call me when you need me." Her tone sharpened again, like a blade returning to its sheath. "Just don't ask me out at midnight again. I don't want paparazzi catching it."
"Understood," Luke said, overly obedient, mock-saluting. "Yes, Your Highness."
His mood lifted anyway, as if her compromise was enough.
He'd drink too much tonight, as usual. Jayna always ducked parties like she was allergic to them, while he liked drowning himself in noise.
What kind of habit was that?
Back at the hotel, after the last shot wrapped, Jayna scrubbed the day off her body until the exhaustion ran down the drain.
It was 11:00 p.m.
She stood in a towel, hair damp, staring at her phone.
Ten calls.
More.
Since yesterday, it had rung over and over—but not once had the screen shown the number she wanted.
Not once.
Jayna pressed her lips together, then turned the phone dark.
Still, she kept waiting.
Even while filming, she'd been imagining Ginevra's face so intensely that the lines she spoke on set had begun to feel like confession.
That face—
The one she fell into, again and again, without escape.
And then yesterday… she'd actually seen her.
She'd grown taller, a little taller than Jayna. Black hair. That cool, porcelain skin. Eyes dark enough to drown in. A sharp nose. Thin lips that looked like they were made for silence.
Jayna's gaze had clung to her like something starving.
She hadn't been able to look away.
Luckily—mercifully—Ginevra had refused to meet her eyes.
She hadn't seen how Jayna looked at her then.
How openly, how obsessively.
How it had almost hurt.
"This is a disaster," Jayna muttered, covering her face with her hand and letting out a humorless breath.
Behind her, Tom's voice came carefully. "Boss… are you going out?"
Jayna had already changed.
Her favorite red dress—rich, dangerous, almost wicked in how it hugged her silhouette. Over it, a black wool coat.
She reapplied lipstick with a practiced swipe.
"Yes," she said. "Same place."
Tom sighed. "Don't get drunk. I'll come pick you up later."
Jayna liked a bar owned by an old friend—a place where the clientele were wealthy, influential, polished. The atmosphere was quieter. Cleaner. Less likely to invite anything that made her skin crawl.
"I just want some me space," Jayna said softly. "I'm tired."
Her hand smoothed the waist of her dress, and she noticed she'd lost weight. The buckle would need to be pulled in one notch tighter.
She didn't know whether to feel proud or sick.
Tom hesitated, then spoke cautiously. "Boss… if you want to know more about that doctor, I can—"
"Tom."Jayna cut him off sharply.
She turned her head, eyes suddenly severe, and looked straight at him as if daring him to misunderstand.
"I know her better than anyone."
Tom fell silent at once.
Jayna held his gaze for a beat—then realized, belatedly, how intense she'd become.
She forced a smile, patted his shoulder like nothing had happened, and left the hotel.
She drove alone toward the hills.
GOLDEN EARTH.
A private bar perched on a mountaintop outside the city—one of the most expensive investments in the region, rumored to be the biggest private club for miles. Its security was strict, almost militant. Entry was a privilege. The guests were typically people with money, power, and a name that carried weight.
And the price of a drink could make ordinary people flinch.
Jayna didn't come here for thrills. She didn't come hunting patrons.
She came because she wanted quiet.
Because she wanted darkness with rules.
Because here, she could drink without being touched by the world.
And, if she wanted, she could make the owner serve her himself—no fuss, no questions, no bill, and not even a tip required.
When she stepped through the entrance in that red dress, heads turned.
Not casually.
Not politely.
Instinctively.
Every gaze that crossed her path snagged and lingered, as if the room couldn't help itself.
She was too captivating—too dangerous in her beauty.
Even a second glance felt like a sin.
Men looked until their partners pinched their arms.
Women looked until they remembered themselves.
No one was immune to that kind of fatal pull.
"Well," a voice said with laughter in it. "Same as always?"
The owner—Beau Sawyer—met her personally, guiding her in as if shielding her from the swarm of attention she inevitably drew.
He waved off the attendants and walked behind the bar himself.
Jayna's eyes flicked to the whiskey he pulled out.
"Sphere ice," she said. "I need the big ones."
Beau grinned, indulging her. "Why is my sweet little star drinking this late? What's got you in a mood?"
Jayna chose the bar counter rather than a private room. Paradoxically, with Beau serving her personally, the bar became the safest spot in the club—no one dared intrude. It was hidden in plain sight.
She scanned the room.
Only a few bodyguards stood at a distance. The crowd on this floor was lighter than usual.
Yet outside, the line of luxury cars hadn't thinned at all.
Jayna took the heavy glass tumbler, swirled the whiskey, and sipped.
It went down smooth and burning—clean warmth, sharp edges.
Her favorite kind of anesthesia.
"A VIP tonight?" she asked, tone lazy.
Beau's smile turned sly. "As the owner, I'm obligated to protect guest privacy," he said. "I wouldn't possibly tell you that a certain Mr. Langford is upstairs celebrating his 'second wife's' birthday, would I?"
Jayna lifted a brow. "Oh. Promoted her, huh."
Her mouth tugged, not quite amused.
She'd heard of Mindy Hall—how she'd climbed, how she'd cut, how she'd stepped on whatever lay between her and the place she wanted. The kind of woman who smiled sweetly while ruining lives.
Beau nodded toward the rooftop garden above them. "The main characters are up there. Tonight's crowd is… serious." His tone grew quieter. "Financiers. Famous directors. Politicians. And a few names you don't say out loud."
Jayna tipped back the rest of her drink.
She laughed suddenly, a brief, bright sound with no warmth in it. "So I picked the wrong night."
"How could it be the wrong night?" Beau said smoothly, already sliding another drink toward her. "You come to here, the door's always open for you. I'm always at your service."
Jayna shook her head slightly.
She drank faster anyway.
Three glasses later, a soft haze rose behind her eyes, turning her gaze misty and too beautiful to be safe.
Her fingertips traced the rim of the glass.
Then she spoke, slowly, as if the question had been living under her tongue for years.
"Beau… have you ever been obsessed with someone?"
Beau watched her carefully. He didn't answer. He knew her well enough to know she wasn't finished.
"I loved someone," Jayna said, voice low, the words barely surviving the air. "I thought I'd never see her again. Not in this lifetime."
She stopped. Her throat tightened.
Her eyes turned wet in a way that made Beau's chest ache.
She pushed her empty glass toward him with a look that said don't ask—just pour.
Beau, fighting his shock, poured her a lower-proof drink. Gentle. Safer.
Jayna laughed softly at the caution.
"Worried about my tolerance?" she murmured, sipping anyway. "I saw her yesterday. Really saw her."
Her breath hitched, and she swallowed as if the memory was too sharp.
"She was exactly the way I imagined. She was… so beautiful it didn't feel real. The kind of beauty that makes you doubt your own eyes." Her gaze drifted upward, unfocused, as if she were staring at a face only she could see. "Her voice could drown me. And I've been thinking about her for eleven years."
She smiled, and it wasn't a smile at all.
"I don't even have a single photo of her. I thought her face might've blurred in my mind over time." Jayna shook her head faintly. "It didn't. It's not blurred at all. It's carved too deep."
Her voice cracked just slightly on the last words, and she didn't bother fixing it.
"Tell me," she said, looking at Beau with an expression that was both laughter and grief tangled together, "am I pathetic?"