The production lot looked like someone had taken a slice of paradise and spray-painted it with neon.
Fake palm trees lined the driveway. A sprawling villa with glass walls and infinity pools gleamed under the California sun, though Sasha already knew most of the interiors were temporary sets. The cameras perched like vultures on cranes and tripods gave away the truth: nothing here was real.
She adjusted her oversized sunglasses, trying to look casual while Gloria chirped beside her.
"Smile when we go in. You're not Sasha Leigh, the actress who can't land a role anymore—you're Sasha Leigh, America's favorite chaos grenade. Own it."
"Fantastic," Sasha muttered. "Do grenades get catering breaks?"
Inside, production assistants buzzed like ants. A cheerful woman with a headset handed Sasha a packet. "You'll be in Bedroom Three. Unpack quickly—we start B-roll interviews in an hour."
Sasha forced a polite nod. Her palms were clammy. Every step closer to the villa felt heavier, because she knew who she'd eventually have to face.
And then, as if conjured by her dread, she heard his voice.
Low. Familiar. Too familiar.
"Excuse me—where's the mic check station?"
Sasha froze. Slowly, she turned her head.
Ethan Hale stood ten feet away, taller than she remembered, dressed in a crisp white T-shirt and black jeans that did unfair things to his frame. His hair was shorter now, sun catching in the dark strands, but his face—sharp jaw, steady eyes, that faint scar near his temple—was burned into her memory.
Her chest tightened.
He hadn't seen her yet.
For one brief, cowardly second, Sasha thought about ducking behind the nearest potted plant. But then he looked up. Their eyes locked across the crowded set.
Recognition flickered instantly. Followed by shock. Then something sharper.
He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He just stared, as though cataloguing every reason he should've expected this betrayal too.
Sasha's throat went dry. The last time she saw that face, she was walking out his door without looking back.
And now?
Now she was supposed to flirt with him on national television.
"Ethan Hale," Gloria hissed under her breath, clutching Sasha's arm with the delight of someone watching a train wreck in real time. "Wow. Didn't know he was still this hot. You two know each other?"
Sasha swallowed. "You could say that."
Ethan blinked once, slow and deliberate, before turning away—leaving her standing in the middle of the set, knees weak, stomach twisted into knots.
The cameras hadn't even started rolling yet, and already, Sasha Leigh was in trouble.