The next morning felt heavier than the previous ones.
The crew's chatter buzzed in the background, but Layla hardly registered it. Her eyes were shadowed with sleeplessness, her jaw tight, her lips pale against the makeup she barely applied.
The director's assistant called for them before she had finished her coffee.
"Layla Hart, Cole Hart! Please be on set in five minutes!"
Layla's stomach flipped.
Five minutes wasn't enough time to rebuild the mask she desperately needed.
Today's scene required them to film a private dinner where their characters—two lovers hiding a forbidden relationship—finally confessed their feelings.
The irony was suffocating.
The dining set, more elaborate than ever, shimmered like a stage crafted to tempt and ensnare. The table glittered with fake candlelight and silverware polished for the camera's glare. Every rose petal was placed with precision to heighten intimacy.
Layla's hands shook as she adjusted the folds of her gown.
Across the room, Cole stood motionless, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, but his expression held a tension that mirrored hers.
The director clapped once.
"Let's keep it real. They're lovers, hiding from the world."
"Action!"
Layla's scripted line: "I've tried to stay away, but I can't anymore."
She spoke the words softly but her eyes betrayed the truth. She had tried. She had fought. But the pull was undeniable.
Cole's response: "I feel it too. I'm tired of pretending."
His eyes locked on hers, warm, vulnerable—too vulnerable to be acting.
A spark ignited between them instantly.
The camera zoomed in.
Layla's breath hitched.
The crew watched in silence, waiting for the next beat.
The script instructed them to lean toward each other, exchange rehearsed lines, and end the scene with a kiss staged just for the audience.
But when Cole's fingers brushed hers, something inside Layla snapped.
The spark that had lingered for days now exploded.
Her eyes locked onto his.
"I don't want this to end with acting," she whispered, voice barely audible but burning with conviction.
The crew froze.
Cole's eyes widened.
The director's headset crackled briefly, but he said nothing.
Layla's hand tightened around his.
His breath hitched.
For a moment, time seemed to stop.
Cole leaned closer.
No cues.
No scripted lines.
No pretense.
His lips brushed hers softly, testing the boundary.
Layla didn't pull away.
Instead, she closed her eyes, letting the moment stretch, letting her heart explode like fireworks behind her closed lids.
The cameras continued to roll, capturing every second.
Neither actor broke character, yet the scene had spiraled far beyond what the script demanded.
It wasn't performance.
It wasn't fantasy.
It was raw.
It was real.
"Cut! Cut! Cut!" the director shouted, though his voice trembled.
The entire set seemed to come alive again—lights blaring, cameras shifting, assistants running.
But neither moved.
Layla and Cole remained locked in the embrace, suspended between desire and fear.
The director, flustered but oddly exhilarated, raised his hands.
"Uh… well… that… was… something."
The host's face, half-hidden behind the camera, struggled between horror and delight.
Damien stormed toward them like a hurricane the moment the scene ended.
"What the hell are you doing?" he snapped, his eyes bloodshot.
"This isn't a romance film!" he hissed at Layla. "It's reality entertainment! You can't go off-script like this!"
Layla's chest heaved. "It wasn't acting," she spat before she could stop herself.
Damien's mouth froze.
Cole stepped between them without a word.
"I'm done pretending too," he said quietly, his eyes locked on the manager's.
The air froze again.
No one spoke.
By lunchtime, rumors had already begun swirling around the set.
A few contestants whispered excitedly, some with envy, others with curiosity.
"Did you see that kiss?" one murmured.
"Off-script!" another hissed.
The host smiled wide for the cameras during the afternoon shoot but her eyes darted nervously toward Layla and Cole whenever the cameras cut away.
The crew buzzed with tension.
But none dared question the director, who seemed too thrilled by the publicity spike to intervene.
As the day wound down, Layla sat alone in the empty lounge, staring at the untouched salad in front of her.
Her hands trembled.
Her lips still tingled from the kiss.
Part of her wanted to run, to hide from the exposure, from the fallout, from the fear of losing everything.
But another part—stronger, fiercer—stared back at her with burning eyes.
This is the truth, that part whispered.
Not a role.
Not a performance.
Not a lie.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Cole appeared.
"Are you alright?"
She stared at it for several long seconds.
Then she typed:
"No. But I'm not running."
She hit send before fear could stop her.