The red light blinked in the shadows, steady and merciless.
Sasha froze mid-breath, her heart plummeting. Every word she'd just whispered—her panic, her plan, her trust in Ethan—it was all being fed straight into the producers' hands.
Ethan didn't flinch. Didn't even look at the camera.
Almost like he already knew it was there.
Sasha's stomach twisted. "You knew," she whispered.
Finally, his eyes flicked toward the shadowed corner, then back to her. Calm. Controlled. "Lower your voice," he murmured. "Smile. Laugh. Make it look like we're flirting."
Her body went cold. She forced a hollow laugh, tilting her head as though he'd just told her a joke. "Tell me I'm wrong, Ethan. Tell me you didn't know."
He leaned closer, close enough that his words brushed her ear. "If I told you the truth, would you even believe me?"
The cameras would see a man whispering sweet nothings. They wouldn't hear the storm underneath.
Her pulse thundered. If he had known, then every ounce of vulnerability she'd given him was another scene in the producers' script. If he hadn't, then why wasn't he angrier? Why wasn't he fighting back like she was?
The balcony door slid open suddenly, light spilling out. A producer leaned out, grinning. "Beautiful, guys! That balcony shot is gold. Keep it up."
The door shut again.
Sasha's hand curled into a fist, nails biting her palm. She wanted to scream, to tear the cameras down, to demand answers—but Ethan's gaze held hers, steady, unreadable.
"You're playing a dangerous game," she said under her breath.
His mouth curved into the faintest ghost of a smile. "So are you."
And in that moment, Sasha realized the truth might be worse than betrayal.
Ethan wasn't just surviving the script.
He might be writing one of his own.