Page 71 of Little Monster
Jordan and Alisha give me beaming smiles, and Michael pats me on the back gently, careful to avoid ruffling my hair.
“It was perfect,” the director says. “Nora, you are the epitome of talent.” He kisses me on the cheek, then waves a hand in the air. “Let’s do it one more time, just for assurance, and then we’ll move on.”
Across the foyer, Dex meets my eyes, but I don’t give him anything—not a smile, or a frown, or a single tear. I just turn and climb the staircase, ready to get this damn thing over with.
We film a number of scenes, the majority featuring Dex lip-synching over the lyrics and looking haunted while searching the deteriorating halls for his lost love. Sebastian stands with me when neither of us are filming, and he keeps handing me Skittles from a bag he’s carrying in his pocket.
“All right, we’re ready for the final scene,” the director says, and his eyes find me from down the hall.
I’ve been dreading this since Ashton told me about it. This will be the only scene Dex and I have to film face-to-face. So far, I’ve been incredibly lucky to not have to speak to him, touch him, or even be too near him. But now that the day is coming to an end, I have to film the most difficult scene yet.
An intimacy coordinator worked out all the details with me earlier, ensuring I was comfortable. But now, as the whole film crew heads upstairs to the master bedroom for the last scene, I’m starting to feel sick—not because I don’t want Dex to touch me or be near me, but because I want ittoomuch, and this is only going to serve as a reminder of what I can’t have.
What he so easily took away from me.
It’s not a sex scene—I don’t think they would ever have asked me to film one of those—but it is supposed to be sensual, a remembrance of better times for the male lead, before he let his lover slip away and she became a ghost in his mind. And I’m the lover, the phantom who haunts the halls and his mind, present but always out of reach.
We step into the master bedroom, and I pause for a moment to take everything in. The walls are painted a rich royal blue, and the furnishings are all luxuriously gilded. There’s a vanity against the wall, sheer drapes over the windows, and a four-poster bed in the middle of the room. It feels like stepping into a nineteenth-century estate.
I’m hustled through the doorway by the film crew, who immediately start setting up lights for their shots. The director steps in a moment later, Dex behind him, and I try not to tense up when they head in my direction.
“Ms. Miller, I take it our coordinator discussed this scene with you?” the director asks. His hair is frizzed up from allthe times he ran his hands through it today, and I’m pretty sure I watched him drink at least four coffees.
“She did.” My voice comes out strong, and I don’t bother to glance at Dex as he drifts closer.
“Great. Here’s how this is gonna go.”
He summarizes the three scenes he intends to film: one in front of the curtains as the evening light streams in, one at the vanity, and one on the bed. I strive not to react when he reminds me what we’ll be doing in the bed: rolling around, laughing, kissing.
Acting like we love each other.
“Will that be okay, Ms. Miller?” the director asks.
I consider it. The thought gives me flashes of being pushed up against Dex’s glass doors, his chain wrapped around my wrists, and the want I still have for him flares to life. Angrily, I shove it down.
He doesn’t want me.
“Perhaps you should ask Mr. Reid,” I say back, my voice perfectly neutral.
Dex looks over at me sharply, his lips pulling down. He’s still wearing that same expression from earlier today, and I still can’t quite work out what it is.
But I shouldn’tcarewhat it is, shouldn’t care abouthim.
The director quirks an eyebrow, his gaze sliding from me to Dex. “Mr. Reid? Will there be a problem?”
“No.” He holds my gaze as he says it, and something about it lights a fire in me.
How dare he do this to me. How dare he make me fall for him and then act like we’re strangers.
My whole body burns with heat. I cherish that fire, stoke it soit won’t go out.
“Okay then...” The director seems unsure, but he doesn’t push. “We’ll start at the window.”
We move toward the window, which is open, allowing the early-evening breeze to sweep in and fill the room with the soft scent of spring. The drapes billow gently, and if I weren’t low-key enraged right now, I might think it beautiful, perhaps even romantic.
As it is, I move with angry purpose, following the director’s instructions as he stages me in front of the window.
“Look out the window with a soft gaze,” he says, “as if you’re daydreaming about something. When Mr. Reid comes up behind you, I want you to turn into him, just a bit, and smile like it’s the first time you’re seeing him all day.”
