The camera clicked into place. Lights flared to life. And Silas Vale stepped into frame like a god summoned.
The film project was a psychological thriller with romantic undertones, a genre that demanded nuance and darkness. It was perfect for Silas. No other actor could deliver love like a threat, desire like damnation. The set, built to resemble a sprawling mid-century estate, was alive with motion, buzzing with tension and intrigue.
"Ready, Mr. Vale?" the director called.
Silas gave a nod, expression composed, voice low. "Always."
He stepped into the scene, his presence magnetic. Every movement was deliberate, every word heavy with layered emotion. He leaned into his co-star's space, whispering scripted promises that made the air around them feel electric. The crew watched, rapt, some forgetting to breathe. Silas did not just play roles. He consumed them.
But something else simmered beneath his performance today. An ache was buried behind his steely gaze. The weight of desire he could not name on set, because it belonged off camera, to her.
When the take ended, he broke character with a shake of his head, eyes scanning the edge of the set. Behind the director's tent, his assistant stood pressed to a phone, voice low.
She was still in Riverton. She had left the café and entered a boutique. Alone.
"Keep watching. Do not get seen," Silas murmured.
The ache intensified.
He was not following her out of curiosity anymore. He knew that. He had passed that line long ago. Now he followed because if he did not, the not-knowing would rot him from the inside out.
Before he could spiral deeper, the assistant director's voice cut through. "Mr. Vale! Meet your newest co-star."
A tall man approached with sun-kissed hair and an easy grin that did not quite belong in the world Silas was steeped in. His handshake was firm, warm, and completely disarming.
"Tristan Mercer," he introduced himself. "Big fan."
Silas arched a brow, taking in the man's clean-cut look and earnest charm. "You're in the new arc?"
"Yeah. Supporting role, but they want the chemistry to hit."
Tristan radiated golden retriever energy — loyal, bright, and dangerously likable. The kind of man who left thank-you notes, remembered birthdays, and made everyone feel important. A man who had no business existing in a world of knives and shadows.
They rehearsed a rooftop confrontation scene, tension high, stakes higher. Tristan delivered his lines with compelling fervor, throwing in a boyish smirk that made the female crew members giggle behind their monitors. His energy filled the set like sunlight.
Silas watched him between takes. Observed him. Measured him. He did not hate Tristan. Not yet. But envy licked at the edges of his mind.
It was not about charm. It was about lightness. About the ability to smile without a storm brewing behind the eyes. About not being consumed.
During lunch, they sat across from each other. The table between them filled with studio food — pasta, fruit, protein bars.
Tristan twirled his fork. "So, who's the woman that's got your head in the clouds?"
Silas's jaw tensed. "What makes you think it's a woman?"
"That look in your eyes? I've worn it."
Silas chuckled, slow and mirthless. "She's not like anyone."
Tristan leaned back, chewing thoughtfully. "The best ones never are."
Silas said nothing. He could not. His thoughts were miles away, anchored to the image of Grace Laurent's lips curved in a calculated smile, her fingers brushing another man's wrist, her body dressed in sin.
He had not meant to fall into this. He had not meant to crave her in silence, or to devour every breadcrumb she left in her wake like it was sacred scripture. But here he was.
And now this — this golden boy, sitting across from him, effortlessly charming, effortlessly present. The kind of man Grace might enjoy.
For a while.
But not forever.
Silas leaned forward, eyes cold despite his smile. "Be careful around the ones who shine too bright, Mercer. They burn the fastest."
Tristan chuckled, unaware. "Good advice. Might have to write that down."
Silas just watched him, already writing an ending in his mind.