Page 7 of Let it Ignite (Playing with Fire #2)

Cassie

The city looms ahead like a living thing. Towering buildings, glass and steel and endless motion. I used to dream of this. Of being right here. Of getting my shot.

Now that we’re actually here, I can barely breathe.

I sit in the passenger seat of Byron’s truck, my fingers clutching the printed script so tightly the pages are crumpled. My knee bounces. My lips move silently as I mouth the lines again and again. I’ve practiced these words a hundred times, but suddenly, they leak out of my head.

“You okay, baby?” Byron glances over at me, his voice soft, grounding.

I nod, but I don’t speak. My throat’s dry. My stomach’s doing somersaults.

I sneak a look at him, at the way his massive hands grip the wheel, the way the muscles in his jaw flex like he’s holding something in.

He hasn’t said much since we left Silvertown Hollow, but his silence doesn’t bother me.

He’s here. He’s driving me to an audition because I asked him to. Because I needed him.

That alone says everything.

“I know this city looks loud and messy,” he says, sensing the shift in my mood as we hit bumper-to-bumper traffic, “but none of that noise matters. Just focus on you. You’ve got this.”

His words are simple. But they land heavy in my chest.

“You don’t have to go in alone, baby.”

That’s the first thing Byron says as he pulls the truck into a side street just off the busy avenue. His hand hovers over mine, like he’s trying to stay cool—but I can see it. The heat under his skin. That ever-present need to protect me.

I squeeze his hand. “I got this. I need to do this alone.”

He nods. “You’re the bravest woman I know.”

God, that makes my stomach flip.

I open the door, and just stepping onto the pavement feels like a slap in the face.

The city is loud . Not just noisy—chaotic.

Honking horns, jackhammers, sirens wailing like the whole block is on fire.

The air smells like grease and hot concrete, and people keep bumping into me without even saying sorry.

This isn’t what I imagined. I miss the quiet of our small town already.

I hug the folder with my lines to my chest, weaving through crowds, trying not to lose it.

I thought this would feel electric, like I’d finally made it .

But instead, all I can think about is how sore my thighs are.

How raw my nipples feel under this thin blouse from Byron’s mouth last night.

My body still hums with the memory of his rough hands on my skin, his voice in my ear, his body pounding into mine over and over until I cried out for mercy.

And now I’m here, pretending like I didn’t spend the entire night getting absolutely wrecked by a man who makes me feel more real than any audition ever has.

I miss him already.

The casting office is on the eighth floor of a grimy old building.

The elevator stutters as it climbs, the lights flickering above me.

I check my reflection in the mirrored panel.

Hair down. Loose curls. A tight red tank tucked into a flowing skirt.

I look the part. Sexy but professional. Confident. Collected.

But I feel none of those things.

The elevator dings and I step out into an empty hallway. No other actresses. No lines of girls running their scenes or fluffing their hair in compact mirrors. Just sterile silence and a locked door at the end of the corridor.

I swallow the knot in my throat.

When the door finally swings open, a man pokes his head out. Grey at the temples. Red in the face. Too much booze or too much power. Maybe both.

“Cassie Royal?” he asks, already raking his eyes over me like I’m a slice of meat.

“Yes.” My voice is steady. My insides? Not so much.

“Come on in,” he says, smiling like a snake.

His office is fancy. The city stretches out beyond the glass walls, skyscrapers glittering in the sun like the set of a movie.

But it doesn’t impress me. Not like the way Byron’s hands felt last night wrapped around my thighs.

Or the way he pulled me onto his lap, growling into my ear how I was his. That I belonged to him.

The director—Peter something—motions me to sit across from him.

“So,” he begins, leaning back, “we had over four hundred women audition for this role. You should feel lucky.”

“I feel honored,” I say. “It’s a great role. A smart, layered woman. It would be a dream to bring her to life.”

But he just shrugs. “Sure, sure. But honestly? It’s about presence. About sizzle. You’ve got that… natural sex appeal. That’s what sells.”

I freeze.

He leans forward, eyes glued to my chest. “Tell you what, Cassie. Let’s run a scene. Do one you liked in the script.”

I start. I give it everything I’ve got—voice, posture, heart. I pretend he’s not looking down my blouse. I pretend he’s not checking out my legs when I shift. I pretend I can’t feel my skin crawl.

“Hm,” he mutters when I finish. “Let’s try something else. A romantic scene. With me.”

I blink. “With you?”

He leans forward, hands steepled, eyes zeroed in on my chest. “Chemistry test. Gotta see if you can fake it. Pretend I’m your love interest.”

My stomach turns.

Still, I stand. Because I came here for a reason. Because I’m not some delicate flower.

We start the scene. His hand finds my hip. I tense.

“Loosen up, sweetheart,” he says, smiling like a predator. “How are you gonna make a believable hooker if you won’t even let me touch you?”

His thumb brushes under the hem of my skirt.

That’s it.

I step back. “I think we’re done.”

His smile fades. “Excuse me?”

“I came here to act. Not… whatever this is.”

He stands too. “You walk out now, you’re finished. You’ll be back in your little small-town nowhere in five seconds flat.”

“I’d rather be there,” I say, my voice trembling with rage, “than here, with you.”

I turn for the door.

He follows. “You think you’re better than this? You’re not. You’re just a stupid, desperate girl who’s never gonna make it.”

I yank the door open—ready to bolt.

But I stop.

“Cassie.” Byron’s voice is a low growl.

He’s in the room in two long strides, towering over Peter Cannon like an avenging beast. His flannel sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing. Chest heaving. Eyes burning with murder.

“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” Byron snaps.

Peter straightens, but he’s pale now. “This is my office—”

“I don’t care.” Byron steps between me and him, his body a wall of protection. “You look at her like that again, I’ll break every bone in your body.”

Peter Cannon stumbles back like he’s been struck. “Hey now—this is a misunderstanding—”

“No,” Byron snarls, stepping forward. “The misunderstanding was you thinking she’s alone. That no one would come for her. That she’s some desperate, stupid girl you could pressure into spreading her legs to chase a dream.”

My heart slams against my ribs. My breath catches.

“She’s not desperate,” Byron says, stepping beside me, shielding me with his body. “She’s talented. She’s worth ten of you. And she doesn’t need this bullshit to prove it.”

The air feels electric. No one speaks. The room practically vibrates with Byron’s fury—and I drink it in like oxygen.

I reach for his hand. Grasp it hard.

Peter sneers. “You think that small-town girl gonna be somebody now? Because you showed up playing hero?”

Byron doesn’t flinch. But his voice turns cold. Calm.

“She already is somebody. She’s mine.”

And just like that, everything inside me locks into place.

The dream I thought I wanted—the lights, the fame, the roles—it all feels dim now compared to this.

Compared to him.

Byron turns to me. “You ready to go, baby?”

I nod, heart full. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

Because I’m not walking away in shame. I’m walking out with my head high, my hand in his, and a future that finally makes sense.