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CHAPTER

TWO

ANNALISE

T he bright lights make the suede skirt against my body feel suffocating on the warm set. I’ve lost all feeling in my feet. The heels provided by costume design are a half size too small and pinch my toes. One would think my feet would be used to such abuse after a lifetime in the industry, but they’re not.

The director raises his hand in the air, and the various conversations in the room halt, the space now silent. I run my hands down my brown skirt, roll my shoulders back, and take a deep breath.

“Action!” he calls out.

Holding the manila folders to my chest, I walk down the drab hallway adorned with its 1970s decor.

My costar, Simon, walks toward me from the opposite direction. He raises a hand to stop me. “Hey, Amelia, did you have a second to go over those files?”

I plaster a fake smile on my face. Much like myself, my character doesn’t think too highly of this man. Some acting is easier than others. “Sure, Ralph.”

Simon—as Ralph—takes a step toward me.

“What are you doing?” My body stiffens.

“We need to talk about last night,” he answers.

“There is nothing to say about last night. It was nothing.” I avert my gaze, dropping my chin to my chest.

In the scope of the movie, Simon’s character misread a situation, his small brain unable to comprehend that a strong, beautiful woman wouldn’t be attracted to him. From the moment I read this script, I was drawn to this project. I’m playing the first woman CEO of a major corporation, and my character is based on a real woman, Annabelle Lighthouse. She had to fight her way past every chauvinistic pig in her industry, working ten times as hard as them to prove her worth and claim her position.

“It meant something to me.” His hands find their way to my hips, and he pulls me closer. The very real smell of alcohol on his breath increases my disdain for this man.

“Don’t—” I whisper, an air of fear weighing heavy in my voice.

“Everyone’s gone for the night,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave.

I put my hand against his chest, creating distance between us. Lifting my face, I hold his gaze. “Ralph, it’s just not a good idea.”

Ignoring my protests, he dips his face to the crook of my neck.

“Cut!” the director calls.

My body relaxes, and I move to step back. But I’m startled when Simon places his lips against my exposed skin, supplying me with a soft kiss.

“What was that?” I whisper-shout.

He shrugs and gives me a coy smile. “Just improvising.”

I roll my eyes. “There is no improvising needed on this scene, Simon. Stay on script.”

He squeezes my hip. “Some of the best parts of movies are when the actors go off script.”

I push his hand away and take another step back. “Well, don’t go off script on my neck.” Irritation saturates my words. “Not to mention, you can hear, right? You heard the cut ?”

He shrugs. “Eh, I might have missed that.”

Ignoring our argument, the director says, “Let’s call it for today. It’s all feeling”—he waves his hands around in a chaotic circle—“forced. We’ll finish the scene tomorrow, then move right into the boardroom scene. I think we’re spent. It’s been a long day.”

With a nod, I supply a smile of acknowledgment.

He turns around, raising his voice so everyone can hear. “Remember, if you signed up for the charity meet and greet tonight, make sure you’re here at seven o’clock sharp.” With that, he motions for the lighting engineers to join him, and the group steps off to the side. Let’s hope they’re discussing how to light the space so that the gaudy orange-and-brown decor running rampant makes me look less yellow. The shots I’ve seen thus far aren’t flattering.

My publicist, Miranda, likes to remind me that female actresses that ugly-up —her words, not mine—for a role tend to get more recognition come awards season. While there seems to be some truth to that statement, I’d prefer not to get recognition for my role as a grown woman with jaundice.

Turning, I walk away from the drab hallway, its wall adorned with mock-ups of unfortunate art from the seventies, and head toward the back of the set. Simon follows in step beside me. “I’m sensing some annoyance,” he says.

“You think?” I snap. “We’ve been filming for two weeks, and you still can’t seem to follow the script.”

He raises his hands, palms out—his fingers rapidly moving back and forth in the classic “spirit fingers” move. “Oooo, so sorry, Queen of Film, if I’m not living up to your standards.”

“I never proclaimed to be the queen of anything, but I do know how to follow simple instructions. I’ve had it with you adding things into every scene.”

“Stop taking everything so seriously.”

“This is a serious film.” My tone moves toward shrill. “It’s based on real events, a real woman’s life. It has to go a certain way. Annabelle is not rising to power to become the first woman to take over this Fortune 500 company just to throw it all away by kissing up on some guy in the hallway. You can’t just improvise like that.”

“You need to chill out, Annalise,” he counters, obviously annoyed.

“Oh, like you? I can smell the alcohol on your breath. Is it possible for you to show up to work sober?” I snap.

“I find that it makes it easier to deal with you.”

I simply roll my eyes and hurry toward my trailer, leaving Simon behind me. I slam the trailer door and release a groan.

Sprawled across the sofa in my trailer, Miranda looks up from her phone. She’s startled, and her eyes widen. “You okay there, Anna?” Sincere concern dwells within her big green eyes, and it brings my anger down a peg. I adore Miranda and don’t know what I’d do without her. While she’s technically my publicist, she’s so much more. She’s my best friend, assistant, and right-hand woman. More than anything, she truly loves me—and having someone in this industry of vultures at your side who does is priceless.

I release a frustrated sigh. “I can’t stand him.”

“Another day in paradise with the jackass, Simon Blackwood, huh?” She sits up.

“It’s utterly impossible for him to take anything seriously. He’s going to ruin the project!” With the index finger on my right hand, I begin ticking my points off on the fingers of my other hand. “He’s not right for the part. He changes the script. He’s constantly drunk. He has no work ethic. Oh, and he randomly kisses me on my neck!”

“What?” she gasps, leaning forward. “He kissed you on your neck?”

“Yeah, and it wasn’t part of the scene. The camera wasn’t even rolling.” I wave my hand in front of me. “Whatever, I don’t want to talk about it. It’s a long story. It’s just... I just can’t stand him.”

She supplies a small smile. “Well, there’s only another month of shooting, and then we’re done.”

“This cannot be another fiasco like the last movie. It has to be good.” My voice quivers.

“Anna, your last movie was incredible. It had the biggest box office release out of any movie you’ve made.”

“Yeah, but apparently, it was trash.” I plop down in a chair.

“According to your dad,” she huffs, rolling her eyes. “And who is he to say, anyway?”

In terms of numbers, my last movie was my most successful. It had the biggest opening weekend box office earnings out of any other project I’ve been involved in. It even grossed more than a highly successful superhero franchise in its second week at the box office. Yet…when I look back at that project, I hate that all I feel is shame.

“You know it only made as much money as it did because of the motorcycle scene.” I blow out a puff of air.

“Well, it was hot.” She grins, wagging her eyebrows.

I pull a bobby pin from my hair and throw it at her with a laugh.

“It wasn’t supposed to be that type of movie,” I protest through a smile. “It was supposed to be a serious, award-worthy film, and it turned into light porn.”

I’ll never forget the way I felt when those words came out of my father’s mouth. The disgust in his voice as he compared me to an adult film star hurt at a deep, soul-crushing level. I hadn’t protested when my director at the time came to me with adaptations to the original script I’d signed on for. He felt that the intimate relationship between the main characters had to be seen on film. Who was I to argue with a director’s vision? Plus, my father is Hollywood elite. He’s been an actor his whole life. He knows how these scenes work. Nothing about them is sexy or enjoyable. It’s a well-choreographed dance. An intimacy coordinator comes in and teaches us the moves, the body placements, and the angles. It’s all very clinical. In that way, it’s the furthest thing from porn. From what I can tell, at least some of those women actually enjoy themselves.

She throws her head back and laughs. “It was not light porn!”

“Well, it definitely didn’t rack up any awards.”

“So what?” she quips. “You are more than the awards you are or are not nominated for. Plus, that movie had a lot of reasons it wasn’t nominated for an Oscar, the least of which had to do with your flawlessly executed scene on the motorcycle.”

I hold her gaze in mine, willing her to understand. “But this one has to be good. It has to. You know how my parents are.”

Frowning, she rolls her eyes. “Oh yeah, I know how your parents are.”

“I just want to make them proud. This film has potential. It’s a great story based on a real woman. It’s the kind of movie that gets nominated for the Oscars—but not if that dumbass Simon doesn’t fall in line.” Sighing, I let my head fall back against the chair. “I just don’t want to be one of those nepo baby actors who never lives up to their parents’ legacy. I want to have earned my privilege in life. I want my films to mean something.”

“You have, and they do! You’re a great actress, Annalise. You’ve put in the work. You are beautiful, smart, and incredible at your craft.”

My eyes fill with unshed tears, and I hate that they do. It angers me that I’m not stronger. I loathe that I allow my father’s opinions to affect me the way they do. “I just want him to be proud.”

“He is proud… I’m sure, in his own way,” Miranda mutters, the last part said in a low whisper.

“No, he’s not,” I say on an exhale.

“Annalise, can I talk to you as a friend and not just your publicist?”

“Sure,” I say with a scoff, knowing this is going somewhere I’m not going to like.

“You’re a grown-ass adult who cares too much about what your parents think. You’re so preoccupied with it that it’s become an obsession for you. You’re not present in the moment, in your own life, and you have an incredible life. You get to travel all over the world and film amazing movies. Plus, you’re every guy’s wet dream.”

“Ew!” I grab a stack of Post-it Notes from the table and throw them at her. “That is not my biggest ambition in life!”

“You’re not going to be able to stick your daily affirmations to your mirror if you mess these up.” She holds up the stack of Post-it Notes, laughing. “And I know…it’s gross, but it’s true.” Her smile fades as her tone becomes serious. “Not only are you gorgeous but you’re kind, funny…cool even.”

I raise a brow because I’m far from cool. I’m uptight and pessimistic—hence my obsession with daily Post-it Note affirmations. I have to rewire my brain to think more positively.

Miranda continues, “You are. People love you. Life is good. Just be happy. Do your best because that’s all you can do. Then just be okay with it. When all is said and done, these will be some of the best years of your life, and you’re missing them, drowning under a cloud of worry.”

“If you were my father’s daughter, you would understand.” My lip trembles, and I pull in a deep breath through my nose, willing my tears to stay at bay. This whole downward spiral started with Simon, but I’ll be damned if I let him affect me so.

She shrugs. “Yeah, I know. I don’t get it, but I still think you have a pretty incredible life and are a remarkable person despite your parents. As someone who loves you, it makes me sad that it’s all passing you by, and you’re not enjoying it. You deserve to be happy.”

“I am happy,” I respond.

“I don’t think you are.”

I blow out a breath and clap my hands. “Well, I’m happy about the charity event today.” Standing, I tug at the hot suede skirt, pulling it down. “Raising funds and awareness for breast cancer brings me joy.”

“Yeah, I know,” she deadpans, “because it’s important to your mother.”

“And to me, Miranda. My mother beat cancer. That’s a big deal. Anyway…” I move the conversation away from my parents. “I feel like I really should complain about Simon. He crosses the line every day. He doesn’t follow the intimacy coordinator’s directions. He’s always adding things to the scenes, and they’re always inappropriate. I get that he’s just some drunk jackass. But unlike him, I take this job seriously.”

“No.” She shakes her head. Standing from the couch, she starts picking up my discarded clothes.

“Stop.” I chuckle. “That is not your job.”

“Taking care of you is my job.”

I stand before Miranda in my bra and underwear. At this point in our relationship, modesty has left the building. “Simon had his sweaty hands all over that skirt,” I tease.

“Ew!” She drops the clothes with a dramatic flair, causing me to laugh. “In all seriousness, Anna. You can’t file a complaint against him. You know how these things go. You’ll be labeled a bitchy actress who’s difficult to work with, and it will make it harder for you to get jobs. Simon’s an idiot, but he’s harmless. Just get through this movie, and you won’t have to think about him again.”

“Fine. You’re right, but I really just can’t stand him.” I finish pulling the rest of the pins out of my hair.

“I get it, but you’re lucky because he’s so damn selfish that he refuses to do the charity event tonight. So at least you get the night off from him.” Miranda retrieves a freshly laundered bath towel from the linen closet and tosses it to me.

Opening the bathroom door, I step in. “Well, there’s another reason I’m excited to go to this event,” I say over my shoulder before closing the door.

“There you go! Now we’re being positive!” Miranda shouts.

“Just finding the joy, my friend,” I say loud enough for her to hear me through the door before I step into the shower to wash away the stress of the day.