Two weeks this month felt like forever for Julian. At Warner Bros Studios in Los Angeles, the heat from the set lights seemed to drain the last pieces of his sanity because he had to live through the days when the castle bedroom became his second home. Marcus Thorne, the director, demanded perfection. Every inch of silk sheets, every strand of hair that fell, and every breath that collided had to look as if the audience were peeking into the most forbidden secret.
Julian stood in front of the dressing room mirror, buttoning his nineteenth-century pajama shirt. He looked at his reflection, not as Julian, but as Elyas.
"Ready, Julian?"
Selena's voice came from behind the curtain. She entered without knocking, her thin nightgown falling perfectly over her body. She stepped closer, her graceful fingers straightening Julian's collar. The touch no longer made him uncomfortable; it had become part of the tormenting routine.
