The corridor outside the dressing room buzzed with movement—producers shouting into headsets, assistants weaving through racks of costumes, makeup artists swarming like bees around the talent. But none of it registered for Logan Mason. Not the flashing camera outside the back door, not the impatient knock from the director, and certainly not the assistant calling his name for the fifth time.
All that existed for him in that moment was Aurora Sage.
She stood in front of him, her jaw tight, her eyes defiant. Still in black, always in black, like armor that cloaked the woman beneath. But Logan could see the fire flickering behind her restraint, and it made his blood burn.
"You think I can't see what you're doing?" he said, voice low, edged in disbelief. "You walk in here like you don't belong to anyone, like none of this matters."
"Because it doesn't," Aurora replied sharply. "Not the shoot. Not your assistant. Not the spotlight you're so addicted to."
