AFTER CONCLUDING THE DAY'S SCENE...
The elevator doors slid open with an expensive hush...gold trimmed, mood lit, entirely too quiet for Tyra Hathaway's comfort. She hesitated just long enough for her nerves to catch up, then stepped inside, heels tapping like whispers against the black marble floor.
She thought she was alone, until the soft ding came again, and he entered.
Iren.
Tall, composed, dressed in a suit so sharp it might've been tailored with malicious intent. His eyes caught hers the moment he stepped in...slow, deliberate, like he'd been waiting for this.
Tyra stiffened, he smiled.
"Late dinner?" His voice was velvet, casual, dangerous.
"Private one." she replied, eyes forward, no expression. Breathe in, breathe out.
The elevator began its smooth ascent, the silence between them humming like a taut string.
"Your assistant was quite loud." he added, glancing sideways. "What was her name again...Bione? She was arguing with someone down the hall."
Tyra didn't answer, just nodded slightly, her throat was dry.
Iren leaned against the wall, posture too relaxed, like he owned the space. Like he'd scented her discomfort and was intrigued by it.
"You seem tense." he murmured.
She swallowed. "Long day." Her reply was curt.
"Mm." His gaze dropped, lingered a moment on her exposed collarbone before returning to her face. "Or maybe the company?"
She turned to him slowly. "Excuse me?"
His smirk was maddeningly soft. "Nothing, just an observation. You don't seem like the kind of woman who's ever afraid, not of anything."
"I'm not."
"Then why are you looking at me like I'm a ghost?"
That landed.
Tyra's breath hitched...small, almost undetectable, but he caught it.
"You don't know me." she said, her voice low.
"True..." he said. "...but I'm learning."
The elevator slowed.
Tyra took one step toward the doors before they opened, her movements too precise to be casual, she didn't glance at him, not once.
But Iren stayed behind, just watched her walk out like he was reading the first page of a puzzle he intended to solve.
Tyra walked into the hallway, it was dim, trimmed with gold sconces and soft orchestral music drifting from invisible speakers.
Tyra's heels clicked a rhythm she couldn't quiet, no matter how steady she tried to walk. Her pulse refused to calm, humming at her throat like a warning.
She felt him still...Iren...as though he hadn't stayed behind in that elevator, as though he were lingering just out of sight, watching her back with those cool, unreadable eyes.
But when she reached the end of the hallway and the velvet lined doors parted with a polite sigh, it wasn't Bione waiting on the other side like she'd thought.
It was Ryan, and Rebekah.
She thought it was a private dinner setting for her and her assistants as Gary said...but looks like some unwanted rats slipped into the setting.
The private dinner room was a velvet trap of wine colored walls, low chandeliers, and a single long table dressed like a king's last meal. Candles flickered in crystal holders, champagne sweated in ice buckets.
"Finally." Rebekah drawled, voice soaked in something between irritation and delight. She leaned back in her chair, long legs crossed, wine glass raised. "We were about to send out a search party, or an undertaker."
Tyra wanted to roll her eyes so badly and tell at her asking 'what the fuck are you doing here?' , but she just smiled tightly. "Elevator delay."
Ryan stood as she entered, the subtle instinct of a man caught between good manners and worse ideas. His eyes flicked over her quickly...checking, measuring... before settling into something unreadable, not quite smirking, not quite sincere.
She hated that he looked concerned, she hated more that it felt... kind.
"Sit." Rebekah said, gesturing to the open seat between them. "Before the duck confit goes cold and I start questioning everyone's loyalty."
Tyra sat, smoothing her dress as she did. She didn't miss the flick of Ryan's eyes, the way they dropped for a split second to the exposed line of her thigh before darting back up, casual as breath. But nothing about him was ever casual.
The silence at the table stretched like sugar glass...shiny, brittle, and liable to crack with the wrong word.
"So..." Rebekah finally said, swirling her wine. "...what a day, hmm? Tyra, your last scene with Ryan...divine, very girl next door turns girl on fire. It's what the tabloids eat up."
Tyra had to shoot another scene with Ryan so that they won't lag behind while promising that she'll work on the romantic ones before the week ends.
Tyra offered a gracious nod, her voice smooth. "Thank you, and your balcony shot was gorgeous."
Rebekah grinned...sharp, feline. "Oh, that? Please, that was all wind machine and good lighting."
Ryan cleared his throat softly. "Still impressive." he murmured, reaching for his champagne. "You owned it."
Rebekah turned her full gaze on him, basking. "Why, thank you, Mr. Adams, always a pleasure being watched by you."
Tyra didn't flinch, didn't even react, but she reached for her water instead of wine, and godforsaken Ryan noticed.
The food arrived in slow, silver waves...duck, truffle risotto, something floral and French in tiny porcelain cups. Tyra barely tasted any of it, her mind was still in the elevator, in that humid space between Iren's mouth and her skin, in the way he smelled like sandalwood and trouble. She wasn't afraid of him, not truly, but she wasn't sure she wanted him looking at her that way again.
"Tyra."
She blinked.
Ryan had spoken her name, voice quieter now, the other two plates were being cleared.
He leaned in slightly, elbows on the table, posture more confidential than flirtatious.
"You okay?"
She stared at him, then smiled. "Fine."
He didn't believe her, not for a split second, but he nodded anyway.
Rebekah's wineglass clinked sharply against the rim of her plate. "Is it just me, or is the tension in this room thick enough to cut with a prop knife?"
"Just you." Tyra replied sweetly.
"Hmm...maybe." Rebekah looked down at her phone, then back up with a fake frown. "Although... rumor has it Iren's got a bit of a thing for you, Tyra. He's been asking the crew about your schedule."
Tyra stilled, barely. "Oh?" she chuckled nervously.
Ryan looked between them, stone faced.
Rebekah smirked. "Yes, said he was just being professional, but I do wonder what makes a man like that suddenly curious."
"I don't know." Tyra said, her voice pleasant and firm. "Maybe he just likes to micromanage."
"Oh, darling." Rebekah murmured, swirling the last of her wine. "That man doesn't micro anything."
Ryan exhaled, sharp and subtle, his fork clinked gently against his plate.
"Maybe we should keep the conversation off the crew." he said. "They've had a long day."
Rebekah's brow lifted. "Oh, look at you, the voice of reason."
"Somebody's got to be."
Tyra looked down at her hands, folded neatly on the table, they weren't shaking, good, that was something.
Rebekah rose gracefully. "I need to visit the powder room, don't conspire without me."
As she disappeared behind the velvet curtain, the silence left behind wasn't comfortable.
Ryan leaned toward Tyra again, voice low. "What happened? Really."
Tyra's mouth opened, then closed. "I don't know."
"But you looked scared."
"I wasn't."
"Then why did your pulse spike when Rebekah mentioned Iren?"
She turned to him slowly and sharply. "Are you monitoring my pulse now?"
"No..." he exhaled. "...but I notice things."
She held his gaze, so did he.
It was a standoff made of memories neither of them were allowed to say aloud, not here, not with so many eyes.
"Don't..." she whispered finally.
He nodded once, slow. "Okay."
And yet something in his eyes didn't agree.