Page 11 of Butterfly

I return to my seat but shift close enough that I can talk to her without raising my voice. “When I first auditioned for D’Artagnan, I wasn’t chosen.”

“What?” Her lips part. “I can’t imagine another actor playing that role. Why didn’t they choose you?”

I scratch the stubble on my chin. “They said I was too tall and looked too old for the role. The fact that I’ve been lifting weights since I was fifteen didn’t help. So they chose another actor. Dylan Matthews,” I whisper the last two words.

Her brow furrows again. The blanket slips further down as she props on her hip to turn to me. “Isn’t he a ballet dancer who does films as well?”

“Yep. Coincidentally, he’s from the Peak District as well.”

“I don’t see him as D’Artagnan at all. What happened after that?”

“On his very first day of shooting, Dylan threw a tantrum on set and stormed off. Something about his bottle of mineral water being too warm, rumour has it. He hoped the director, Rebecca Pace, would call him back and go after him. She never did. She decided to replace him and chose me instead.” It shouldn’t be difficult to mask the sudden tightness in my chest at the mention of Rebecca, but somehow, in this quiet conversation with Sienna, I can’t completely remove the anxiety from my voice. Sienna isn’t a journalist hungry for gossip. She showed me a vulnerable side of herself. It seems only fair that I return the favour. Although I’m not sure Sienna wants to hear about how Rebecca preyed on me and how I let her do it. “I was still lingering around the studio to audition for another role, a small one in the same film, when she called me and asked me, ‘Do you still want to be D’Artagnan?’ I reply, ‘Hell, yeah.’ She ordered me to go to the costume department, and that was it.” I shrug. “So I got the role. No big audition. No heartbreaking performance. No one was impressed by my incredible talent. Just sheer, dumb luck. Rebecca didn’t even like me at first.” But she changed her mind rather quickly.

“You proved that though. That you have impressive talent. Because you have. I cried during the last scene. Loved the emotions.” She smiles with only one side of her mouth, maybe because the other side is injured, but the result fires heat south.

Her praise rings with honesty. I like that. I bow my head. “Thank you. I didn’t feel that confident at that moment.”

“But what’s the embarrassing part?” A little frown wrinkles her forehead.

“Ah, that.” I rub my knuckles. All that sword fighting forPaladins of Shadowsleft calluses on my skin. Like my dad had. “During my first scene, I started a fire. Accidentally,” I add when she gasps. “I was so nervous, I tripped over one of the braziers that were burning with real fire on set. It was chaos. Smoke everywhere. People screaming. Horses going mad. Curtains catching fire. I’m glad no one got hurt. The water came out, and it was a sodding mess.”

She pulls her upper lip down in an attempt not to laugh. “Ms Pace mustn’t have been too happy. I mean, first one of her main actors storms out of the set, then a fire. It doesn’t sound like a promising start, and actors and directors are famous for being superstitious.”

“Damn right. She wasn’t pleased. I still remember the murderous look she gave me. Her hair was soaked. The equipment was drenched. I thought I was going to turn into stone at any moment, or worse, that my career was going to end before it had the chance to start.”

She smiles again, a real smile, and it lights her face with a glow from within. “But then, she didn’t sack you. Did you two become friends?”

I stare at the carpeted floor and its boring pattern. “More or less, yes.” I’ve never told anyone about that afternoon in Rebecca’s trailer where she asked me again if I wanted to be D’Artagnan.

When I replied, ‘Yes’ for the second time, she asked me how much I wanted that ‘yes’ to become real. She told me she could find another actor in an hour. It was up to me to show her my determination, my grit. Show her everything. And after all, everyone did it. That was the way actors became famous, she said. An exchange, a business. Nothing more.

I was seventeen. She was thirty-eight.

I can’t say it was disgusting, but I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know the meaning of what was happening. The mechanics, yes, but the moral implications? Not really. She took something from me that day and the days after, turning me into her slave, and—I jolt when Sienna’s hand covers mine. I gaze up, aware that my thoughts are reflected in my eyes. Gate of the soul and all that. No amount of training can help me hide my emotions when they’re so raw and burning. Our gazes lock, and for a moment, I’m not a bloody celebrity whose life seems damn perfect. I’m just some guy staring at a pair of kind blue eyes that understand too much about me.

As absurd as it sounds, my heart tells me I can trust her with my secret. Secret she probably guessed. But I’d be a fool to blabber to someone I’ve just met about the hottest director of the moment having assaulted a minor. My reputation is Rebecca’s assurance that I’ll stay silent. We’ll go down together if the story comes out. She, as the predator; I, as the actor without talent who was rejected at first and got the role by shagging the director. People are always hungry for scandals.

But Sienna isn’t waiting for me to talk. Her touch says it all. She closes her fingers around mine but doesn’t say anything. It’s nice. The simple contact from someone who only wants to offer comfort and doesn’t want anything from me.

I clear my throat when an attendant passes by with yet another trolley of food. Sienna withdraws her hand and puts some distance between us.

“Tea, coffee?” the attendant says with a tired smile.

“Tea, thank you.” I accept the cup, and Sienna takes hers.

We sip in silence for a few moments. Someone is snoring loudly enough to cover the noise of the fan, and someone else is frying their brain by listening to a film at the top volume. I can hear bits of dialogue even though the person is wearing a pair of earphones.

“I’m sorry for how I behaved towards your friend.” I scrub the back of my neck. Regret leaves a bitter aftertaste on my tongue. “I didn’t mean to get between you two.”

“Tyler might be rough, but his heart is in the right place. And he meant to make me understand he was serious.” She chuckles. “Mission accomplished.”

“Is he right to be worried?” I’m crossing a line, but I need to know. For the sake of my own peace of mind.

The smile vanishes. A long breath blows out of her. “No, he doesn’t need to be worried. It’s not like…I’m not going to do anything.”

That gives me some hope. She’s wringing her hands, discomfort causing her fingers to twitch. But she stays there, on the verge of saying something else, or waiting for something to happen. On pure instinct, I take her hand, the one with the scar on the wrist, and trace the long faint line going up towards her inner elbow. Her breathing comes out a little quicker as I trail my fingertips up her silky skin. A phantom pain is mirrored on my wrist.

“How did you survive?” I ask.

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