The shoot wrapped up late that evening, leaving the studio bathed in the tired hush of post-performance silence. Silas peeled off the last of his costume, muscles aching, nerves sparking with something that wasn't fatigue. He dismissed the assistant director with a nod and walked toward his trailer, brushing past staff and crew who had long learned not to disturb him.
Inside, the lights were dim. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioning and the faint buzz of his phone, vibrating on the table. A message blinked on screen:
"She left Élan Mode. Alone."
Silas picked up the phone, thumbed through the photos. One showed Grace walking to her car, long black coat cinched at the waist, eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses. Regal. Controlled. Unreachable.
He tossed the phone aside and sat down heavily, the tension coiling in his chest like a serpent. He had everything at his fingertips—wealth, fame, influence—and yet none of it satisfied the way watching her from a distance did. He didn't want to know Grace Laurent.
He needed to possess her.
The afterparty wasn't loud or glamorous. It was hushed, smoky, held in one of those upscale lounges only insiders knew. Silas didn't usually stay long. He had always kept his vices measured, his indulgences clean. But tonight, he drank more than usual. Sat longer than he should have. His mood was frayed and silent.
A few tables over, Camilla Rowe—his co-actress—flashed him a smile. There was nothing shy about it. Camilla had been in the industry nearly as long as he had, and she was used to getting what she wanted. Her reputation was sharp and glittery, not unlike the designer dress hugging her figure tonight.
She didn't approach immediately. She knew better than that. But as the night dragged on, drinks flowed and the distance between them shrank. It wasn't staged, not premeditated. Just inevitable.
By the time she finally drifted to his side, she didn't speak. Just touched his shoulder, lightly, and when he didn't stop her, she leaned down, her voice a whisper.
"Need a distraction?"
Silas didn't answer. He stood, nodded once, and she followed.
They left through a side entrance, bypassing the lounge and stepping into the quiet, polished hallway of the private hotel suite floor. No cameras. No eyes. Just opulence and silence. Silas led her into one of the reserved penthouse suites, modern and soaked in amber-toned lighting.
Camilla stepped inside, toeing off her heels, the shimmer of her dress catching the light. The room smelled of fresh linen and faint cologne. She turned to him slowly, the curve of her lips half-challenge, half-invitation.
Later, in the quiet of that suite, Camilla pressed her lips to his, her hands trailing expertly down his chest. Silas let it happen.
Their clothes came off in hushed moments. Skin met skin, heat built. But as her mouth trailed lower, as her nails scraped along his ribs, something in him began to shift.
It was gradual, a trickle of thought that turned into a flood.
He wasn't seeing Camilla anymore.
He was seeing Grace.
Not the memory of her, but the image from the photo—aloof and unattainable, all black silk and hidden glances. The ghost of her scent lingered, imagined or not, vanilla and citrus, and it hijacked his senses.
His grip tightened on Camilla's hip, and she arched into him, mistaking it for passion. He didn't stop. Not this time. He let the illusion consume him. Every thrust, every moan, every breath—he shaped them into her.
Camilla murmured his name against his neck.
But in his mind, it was Grace.
Only Grace.
When it was over, he sat at the edge of the bed, back to her, breathing heavy. Camilla curled up beside him, but he felt cold, detached, emptied out and raw.
"Was that what you needed?" she whispered.
Silas didn't answer.
He got dressed in silence and left the suite, his mind not on what had just happened but on the woman he could never touch, yet couldn't stay away from.
Grace Laurent was under his skin now. And there was no escape.