"Cut!"

Robby didn't shout, but his voice barked through the compressed atmosphere of the suite like a sudden, sharp whip crack. The word sliced through the electricity building between them, dissolving the raw tension of the previous moment with a violent, jarring force. Pat gasped, a involuntary breath that was cut short in her throat, her body jerking back as if she had been slapped. The character of the lonely novelist vanished, replaced instantly by the young, vulnerable actress who had just been brutally rejected.

She looked at Robby, her eyes wide with a shock that was entirely raw and unscripted. He wasn't looking at her; he was staring intently at the large monitor that displayed the live feed from the vertical cameras. His massive back was to her, a wall of dark fabric and hidden muscle, his hands—the same tattooed, strong hands that had just hovered near her skin—griped the edge of the rolling table with white-knuckled intensity. The monitor bathed his silhouette in a cold, blue glow, highlighting the tension in his broad shoulders and thick neck.

The silence that followed was suffocating. It was a heavy, pressurized silence that pressed down on Pat’s chest, making every shallow breath feel like a conscious effort. She could hear the hum of the LED panels, the soft whirring of the cameras, and the frantic, disorganized hammer of her own pulse against the silk of her robe. She smoothed the fabric over her hips with trembling hands, a useless gesture against the internal earthquake of her own insecurity.

Robby grunted, a low, frustrated sound that echoed in the quiet room. He finally turned around, his movements sharp and impatient, his dark eyes ablaze with a turbulent, angry light. He crossed his arms over his barrel chest, his biceps straining against his dark shirt, his tattoos looking like snakes winding through a dark forest. He didn't look like a director; he looked like a disappointed god who had just witnessed an imperfect creation.

"It's not working, Pat," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that made her knees feel weak. He took a step toward her, his shadow enveloping her, plunging her back into the warm, intimate gloom of his presence. "It's pretty. It's technically proficient. But it's dead. I don't believe your character’s happiness, and I don't believe her loneliness." He leaned closer, his chest brushing against hers, the heat from his large body pressing against the cool air.

Pat felt a surge of hot, frustrated tears stinging her eyes. She wanted this so badly—the fame, the power, the validation of this powerful man. But she couldn't give him what he wanted, and the shame of her failure was crushing. "I don't know what you want from me, Robby," she whispered, her voice cracking with the strain of holding back her tears. She looked up at him, her eyes dark with a mix of despair and defiance, her lower lip trembling.

"I don't want 'pretty,' Pat. I want raw," he retorted, his voice a low, melodic purr that made her skin prickle. He reached out and grabbed her chin with his massive, calloused hand, his fingers applying a gentle but unrelenting pressure that forced her to look directly into his eyes. "I want to see the hunger, the need, the desperation of a woman who has just realized her own power—and her own loneliness. I want to see the spark."

His gaze dropped to her lips, and then down to where the silk of her robe met her collarbone. The touch of his hand on her chin was electric, a tactile jolt that sent a wave of liquid fire down her spine. He was analyzing her, judging her, looking for the flicker of potential beneath the polished exterior. Pat felt a dangerous, reckless adrenaline coursing through her veins, a primal urge to do whatever it took to make this giant of a man satisfied.

"I can give you raw, Robby," she said, her voice dropping to a low, demanding hum that surprised even her. She didn't flinch; she leaned into his touch, her eyes dark with a newfound determination. She didn't want his approval anymore; she wanted his submission, his acknowledgement of her power. She arched her neck slightly, a silent challenge, a silent dare. "Just show me how big you want it to be."