The door clicked shut, cutting off the noise of the studio.
Sacha, still riding the high of his victory over Sienna, did a little victory dance. He spun around, clapping his hands.
"Did you see her face, Mommy?" he blurted. "She was all red! Like a tomato! I won!"
He looked up at Anaïs, expecting a high-five.
Instead, he saw Anaïs standing with her arms crossed, her masked face tilted down. The vibe wasn't Proud Manager. It was Mommy is counting to three.
Sacha's dance stopped mid-spin. He slowly lowered his hands.
"Uh oh," he whispered.
Anaïs walked over and knelt down so she was eye-level with him. She pulled off his sunglasses and looked him dead in the eye.
"Sacha," she said, her voice stern. "What was that out there?"
Sacha blinked, rocking slightly on his heels. "The show?"
"No," Anaïs said firmly. "That was bullying."
Sacha's mouth dropped open. "But she started it! She called me a stray! She tried to hit me!"
"And you defended yourself. That was good," Anaïs said calmly. "But then you attacked her looks. You made fun of her age. You called her a vase."
"'Cause she's mean!" Sacha argued, stomping his foot. "And she's fake!"
"I don't care if she is the Wicked Witch of the West," Anaïs said, gripping his small shoulders gently. "We do not attack people for things they cannot control. We do not mock women for getting older. That is weak, Sacha. It's cheap."
Sacha pouted, staring hard at his shoes. "But… I wanted her to feel bad."
"Then beat her with talent," Anaïs said. "Beat her with logic. If you stoop to her level and start calling names, you aren't a genius anymore. You're just a brat. And do you know what brats get for dinner?"
Sacha's eyes widened in horror. He knew the answer.
"Not..." he gasped.
"Steamed broccoli," Anaïs sentenced him mercilessly. "With no cheese."
Sacha let out a wounded noise, clutching his chest as if he had been shot.
"No! Not the trees! Mommy, please, they're yucky!"
"Then act like a gentleman," Anaïs said, smoothing down his collar. "You are Sacha. You are smart. You don't need to be cruel to win. Do you understand?"
Sacha sniffled and nodded quickly. "Yes, Mommy. I'll be good. I'll win… the nice way."
Anaïs smiled behind her mask. She kissed his forehead. "That's my boy. Now, wipe your face. You have grape juice on your chin."
---
Outside the door.
Bastian stood in the hallway, his hand hovering over the doorknob.
He had come to tell Eve about a schedule change. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop.
But he had heard everything.
He leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the door. His heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"We do not mock women for getting older."
"Beat her with talent."
That wasn't how a manager spoke to a client. That was how a mother raised a son.
And it was exactly—exactly—how Anaïs used to talk.
He remembered a night, years ago, when he had mocked a rival director for being short. Anaïs had looked at him with those disappointed blue eyes and said, "Bastian, you are a giant. Don't act small."
The woman in that room was raising Sacha with Anaïs's morals. Anaïs's fire.
"Who are you?" Bastian whispered to the closed door.
He wanted to kick it open. He wanted to rip the mask off and demand the truth.
But he couldn't. If he was wrong, he was a madman harassing an employee. If he was right… why was she hiding? Why did she run?
He stepped back. He needed more proof. He needed to catch her when her guard was down.
He turned and walked back to the set, his mind racing.
---
An hour later, the set was prepped for the next scene: The Accident.
In the script, the orphan boy (Sacha) is supposed to run down the grand staircase to beg the Stepmother (Sienna) not to send him away. The Stepmother is supposed to turn her back on him cold-heartedly.
It was a simple scene. No stunts. Just running.
Sienna stood at the bottom of the stairs. She had touched up her makeup. She looked calm. Too calm.
"Are we ready?" the Assistant Director called.
"One moment," Sienna smiled sweetly. "My heel is wobbly. Can someone check the carpet on the stairs? I don't want to trip when I walk up later."
A prop master ran over, checked the carpet runner, and gave a thumbs up. "It's secure, Miss Sienna."
"Good," Sienna said. Her eyes flickered to the third step from the top.
She hadn't messed with the carpet. That was too obvious.
Instead, while everyone was at lunch, she had dropped a handful of clear, silicone styling beads onto the third step. They were invisible against the white marble pattern.
If a child ran down those stairs in smooth-soled loafers, he wouldn't just trip. He would slide. He would tumble down ten feet of marble steps.
It would look like a clumsy accident. The brat would get a few bruises, maybe a sprained ankle. Production would be halted. Sacha would be sent home to recover, and Sienna would have a week of peace without him.
A painful lesson, Sienna thought, adjusting her diamond ring. But necessary. He needs to learn that gravity applies to everyone.
"Sacha to position one!" Bastian called out.
Sacha walked to the top of the stairs. He looked down at Sienna.
He remembered his mother's lecture. Be a gentleman.
"Ready, Miss Sienna!" Sacha called out politely. "I won't step on your dress!"
Sienna blinked. The brat was being nice?
A pang of guilt pricked her chest. But then she remembered him calling her a vase. The guilt vanished.
"Action!" Bastian yelled.
The cameras rolled.
Sacha took a deep breath. He scrunched his face into a look of desperation.
"Wait!" Sacha shouted, stepping forward. "Don't leave me!"
He started to run.
One step.
Two steps.
Anaïs was standing behind the camera monitor, next to Bastian. She was watching the screen intently.
Suddenly, she saw something.
A glint of light on the third step. A tiny sparkle that shouldn't be there.
Her eyes narrowed.
She looked at Sienna. Sienna wasn't looking at Sacha. She was staring at the third step with predatory anticipation.
The beads.
Anaïs's brain didn't process it as a theory. It processed it as a fact.
Sienna had booby-trapped the stairs.
Sacha's foot was lifting, aiming for that third step.
"SACHA!"
The scream tore from Anaïs's throat. It was raw, primal, and terrified.
She didn't think. She didn't check if anyone was watching.
She bolted.
She sprinted from behind the monitors, knocking over a lighting stand.
"STOP!" she screamed, rushing onto the set.
Sacha froze mid-run, balanced on the second step. He looked up, confused. "Mommy?"
He wobbled. His momentum was carrying him forward.
Anaïs didn't stop. She reached the stairs and lunged. She threw her body upward, grabbing Sacha around the waist and shoving him backward onto the safe landing of the second floor.
"Oof!" Sacha landed on his butt, safe.
But Anaïs had thrown her weight forward.
Her foot came down hard on the third step.
Crunch.
Her heel landed squarely on the silicone beads.
There was no friction. No grip. Her leg shot out from under her as if she were on ice.
"Ah!"
Anaïs pitched forward. She flailed, trying to grab the railing, but she missed.
She fell.
She tumbled down the marble staircase. Her body hit the hard steps with sickening thuds. Thump. Crack. Thump.
She rolled all the way to the bottom, landing in a heap at Sienna's feet.
The silence on the set was absolute.
"MOMMY!"
Sacha's scream shattered the world.
Bastian stood frozen by the monitors. He watched the woman in the trench coat fall. He watched her hit the ground.
And then he saw it.
In the violence of the fall, her oversized sunglasses had flown off, skittering across the floor. Her black face mask had snagged on the railing, pulling down to expose her nose and mouth, though her eyes were still squeezed shut in agony.
Bastian moved. He didn't run; he sprinted.
He reached her in two seconds, dropping to his knees.
"Eve?" Bastian shouted, reaching out to check her head. "Are you okay?"
But the moment his hand touched her shoulder, Anaïs reacted with pure, panicked instinct.
She realized her face was exposed. She realized who was touching her.
She didn't look at him. She threw her hands over her face, curling into a tight ball, hiding her features in her arms.
"Don't look!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "Don't look at me!"
Bastian froze.
He remembered the file Ken had shown him.
Rumor has it she has facial scarring. That's why she hides.
He looked at the woman trembling on the floor, desperately covering her face as if she were a monster. Guilt washed over him. He thought she was protecting a secret disfigurement, not a secret identity.
"I'm not looking," Bastian said gently, his voice softening. "I'm not looking at your face. But you're hurt. You took a hard fall."
"Just... give me my mask," Anaïs sobbed into her hands, her ankle throbbing with fire. "Please."
Sienna, standing nearby, looked down with a mixture of shock and annoyance. "Oh, for heaven's sake, it's just a fall. Stop being dramatic."
"Shut up, Sienna," Bastian snapped, not looking up.
He grabbed the mask from the floor. He tapped Anaïs's shoulder.
"Here," he whispered. "It's here."
Anaïs snatched the mask blindly, fumbling to put it back on while keeping her head turned away. Once the fabric was back in place, covering her nose and mouth, she finally slumped back against the stairs, letting out a shaky breath.
She looked up. Her blue eyes were wet with tears of pain.
Bastian stared into those eyes.
Blue.
Just like Anaïs.
His heart skipped a beat. But before he could analyze it, Sacha came sliding down the banister, landing next to them.
"Mommy!" Sacha wailed, throwing his arms around her neck. "You saved me! Does it hurt? I'll blow on it!"
"I'm okay, baby," Anaïs whispered, hugging him tight. "I'm okay."
Bastian watched them. He saw the way she held the boy. He saw the fierce, protective love.
"We need to get you to a hospital," Bastian said, standing up. "Your ankle is swelling."
"No," Anaïs said quickly, trying to stand. "I'm fine. I just need ice. We'll go back to the hotel."
She put weight on her left foot and gasped, collapsing.
Bastian caught her before she hit the ground.
He didn't ask for permission this time. He swept his arm under her knees and lifted her up into his arms, bridal style.
Anaïs stiffened. "Put me down!"
"You can't walk," Bastian said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "And I'm not letting my lead actor's mother crawl out of my studio."
He held her close to his chest.
And then it hit him.
The scent.
It wasn't just the studio air. Up close, with her face pressed against his neck, he smelled it clearly.
Rain and vanilla.
It was the exact same perfume Anaïs wore on their wedding day.
Bastian walked toward the exit, his face stony. But inside, his mind was screaming.
He looked down at the woman in his arms. She was refusing to look at him, staring stubbornly at his lapel.
Is it you? Bastian thought, his grip on her tightening. Are you playing a game with me, Anaïs? Or am I just a desperate man seeing ghosts?
"Ken!" Bastian shouted over his shoulder. "Get the car. We're going to the private clinic."
"The... private clinic, Sir?" Ken stammered. "That's for family only."
"Did I stutter?" Bastian growled.
He carried Anaïs out of the soundstage, past a fuming Sienna, past the whispering crew.
He didn't know if she was his wife or a stranger. But he knew one thing.
He wasn't letting her go until he found out.