I hear his phone buzz. The sound cuts through the quiet like a blade, sharp and sudden, and I feel my whole body tense waiting for what comes next.
"What." His voice is flat. A pause. "Now?"
Another pause. I press my ear to the door without meaning to, holding my breath.
"Fine. Give me ten."
Footsteps. Receding. The creak of a floorboard farther down the hall. Then nothing.
I count to sixty. Twice. Three times. My legs have gone numb from sitting on this cold tile, and when I finally push myself up, my knees scream at me. I press my ear to the door again. Nothing. Not even the hum of the house settling.
He's gone.
I turn the lock. It clicks loud in the silence, and I wince. But no footsteps come back. I crack the door an inch. The hallway is empty, the light from the master bedroom spilling across the floor like a golden tongue. I slip out, closing the door soft behind me, and I don't look toward that bedroom. I can't. Not yet.
I go downstairs because I don't know what else to do. The house feels wrong now, charged, like the air after a storm when the electricity hasn't fully grounded. Every shadow seems to hold a shape. Every creak could be him.
The kitchen is empty. I fill a glass of water, drink it too fast, and grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles go white. My reflection stares back at me from the dark window over the sink — red dress, messy hair, eyes too wide, too bright. I look like a woman who's been taken apart and put back together wrong.
I hear him before I see him. His footsteps are distinctive — heavy, deliberate, the tread of a man who doesn't hurry for anyone. I freeze, the glass still in my hand, and then he's there in the doorway, filling it, his grey eyes finding me like I was the only thing he was looking for.
"You came out."
His voice is low. Not accusatory. Just stating a fact.
"You got called away."
"I did." He steps into the kitchen, and the space shrinks. "Doesn't mean I stopped waiting."
My throat goes dry. I set the glass down, needing my hands to be doing something, anything. "I didn't know what else to do."
"You could have waited for me."
I look at him then, really look. His shirt is still rumpled from the scene, his hair disheveled, and there's a faint sheen of sweat on his skin. He looks used. Wrung out. But his eyes are clear, fixed on me, and there's a hunger there that hasn't dimmed.
"I needed —" I stop. Swallow. Start again. "I needed a minute."
"You needed more than that." He takes another step, and I don't back up. My spine hits the counter, and I let it. "You needed to hide. To think. To pretend you didn't just come apart while I watched."
The words land like a slap. Or maybe they land like a caress. I can't tell anymore.
"Why are you doing this?" The question comes out smaller than I meant it.
"Doing what?"
"This." I gesture between us, the air thick with everything unsaid. "The games. The tests. The — the watching."
He's close now. Close enough that I can smell him — salt and skin and something sharper. Adrenaline, maybe. Or want.
"Because I'm trying to figure out what to do with you," he says. "And the only way I've ever known how to figure someone out is to push until they break or bend."
"And which am I doing?"
He reaches out, slow, and his fingers brush the collar of the red dress. "You're still standing. So I haven't found the edge yet."
His hand drops. He turns, walks to the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water. The spell breaks, and I can breathe again.
He's gone again before I can find my voice. Just like that. Leaves me standing in the kitchen, heart hammering, a live wire in silk.
—
The kitchen fills up slowly over the next hour. Crew members drift in, grabbing water and energy bars, talking in low voices about the shoot. I find a corner near the coffee maker and make myself small, but I can't stop watching the door.
He doesn't come back.
But he's everywhere. In the way the crew glances at me, then away. In the low murmur that seems to follow me. That's his wife. The one who was on set today. I keep my eyes down, my hands busy, pretending I don't notice.
It's almost an hour later when I hear the wheels of Margit's chair in the hall. She rolls in, and the crew parts for her like she's a ship cutting through water. Her grey eyes find me immediately, and she smiles — a small, knowing smile that makes my stomach flip.
"Dagmar." She waves me over. "Come. Sit with me."
I cross to her, and she reaches out, takes my hand. Her fingers are cool, her grip light but sure.
"You look tired," she says.
"I'm fine."
"No. You're not." She pats the arm of her wheelchair. "Walk with me. The garden is lovely this time of evening."
I hesitate. But she's already turning, and I have no choice but to follow.
We roll out onto the patio. The air is cooler here, the sky a bruised purple smeared with orange. She stops at the edge of the stone path and looks out at the roses.
"My son has a way of consuming everything in a room," she says. "He doesn't mean to. Or maybe he does. I've never been able to tell."
I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing.
"You've been wound tight for days," she continues, turning her head to look at me. "Even tighter than usual. Something happened today."
It's not a question. But I find myself nodding anyway.
She sighs. "I saw the scene."
My blood goes cold. "You —"
"Marta wheeled me past. I didn't mean to watch. But I saw enough." Her voice is soft, weary. "He uses sex like a weapon. He always has. It's the only language he learned."
"He's very good at it." The words come out bitter before I can stop them.
"He is." She doesn't argue. "But he's also blind. He thinks he's the one holding the weapon. He doesn't see when it's pointed right back at him."
She reaches out, touches my hand again.
"You're the first thing that's ever made him look uncertain, Dagmar. Don't let him convince you that's a weakness."
I open my mouth to answer, but a voice cuts through the evening air, light and musical.
"There you are!"
I turn. Amanda is walking toward us, a glass of wine in her hand, her hair loose around her shoulders. She's changed out of her robe into a silk caftan that drapes off one shoulder. She looks effortless. She looks like she belongs here.
"I was hoping I'd catch you," she says, ignoring Margit completely. "You disappeared pretty fast after the wrap."
I don't know what to say. She was just having sex with my husband. On camera. While he stared at me. And now she's here, smiling, like we're old friends.
"I needed some air."
"Of course you did." She steps closer, and I catch the scent of her perfume — floral, expensive. "That was intense. I don't know how you did it. I'd have been a mess."
There's a pause. Margit clears her throat. "I think I'll go inside. It's getting chilly."
"I can push you —" I start.
"No. Stay." Her eyes meet mine. "I'll find Marta."
She wheels herself inside, and I'm alone with Amanda.
"She's protective of you," Amanda says, watching the door close. "That's sweet. Kaelen's mom doesn't warm up to anyone."
I don't answer. I don't know how to talk to this woman.
Amanda takes a sip of her wine. "You're tense. Your shoulders are up by your ears."
"It's been a long day."
"It has." She sets her wine down on the patio railing and turns to face me fully. "I get tension in my back too. Especially when I'm stressed." Her eyes drop to my chest. "With your build, you must get it in your shoulders all the time."
I flush. It rises up my neck, across my cheeks, and I hate that she can see it.
"I manage."
"Do you?" She steps closer. "I could help. A good massage works wonders. I have training — you have to, in this industry. Body work is essential."
Her hand reaches out, touches my shoulder. I flinch, but she doesn't pull back.
"You're tight as a wire," she murmurs. "Here. Let me."
Her fingers dig into the muscle at the base of my neck, and I can't help it — I groan. It hurts. It aches with a deep, building pressure that I've been ignoring for weeks. She works the knot, slowly, insistently, and I feel something in my shoulder give, heat flooding the muscle.
"There," she says, satisfied. "You needed that."
I don't answer. I can't. Her hands are moving now, working down my shoulder blades, pressing into the tension where my back meets my neck. Each press is a small relief, a small surrender. I hate that it feels good. I hate that she's touching me. I hate that I can't stop her.
She's behind me now, both hands on my shoulders, and I've closed my eyes without meaning to. Her thumbs dig into the space between my shoulder blades, and I lean forward, gripping the railing.
"You carry so much here," she says, her voice low, almost hypnotic. "Your chest is heavy. It pulls on your whole spine. No wonder you're in pain."
Her hands slide down my back, pressing, finding the knots. I feel my breath come easier, the tension unwinding in slow waves. I hate it. I love it. I don't know the difference anymore.
And then the patio door slides open.
The air changes. The temperature drops.
I open my eyes.
Kaelen is standing in the doorway, his face a mask of cold fury. His grey eyes are fixed on Amanda's hands — on my shoulders — and I see his jaw tighten, a muscle pulsing in his cheek.
"Amanda." His voice is ice. "What are you doing?"
She doesn't remove her hands. "She was tense. I was helping."
"I didn't ask." He steps forward, and the space between us vanishes like smoke. "Get your hands off my wife."
The words land like a blow. I feel them in my chest.
Amanda drops her hands, takes a step back, her smile never fading. "I was just being friendly, Kaelen. No need to get territorial."
"I don't need your help." He's looking at me now, and his eyes are burning. "Either of you."
He reaches out, grabs my wrist, pulls me away from the railing. His grip is too tight — not painful, but close. A warning.
"We're going inside."
He doesn't wait for my answer. He just pulls, and I follow, stumbling over the threshold as he drags me through the door and into the house, leaving Amanda alone on the patio with her wine and her smile.
He pulls me down the hall, past the kitchen, past the stairs, past the crew who pretend not to see. He doesn't stop until we're in the library, the door shut behind us, the only light a single lamp on the desk.
He lets go of my wrist, and I rub it, staring at him.
"What the hell was that?" I say.
He doesn't answer. He's pacing now, running a hand through his hair, his jaw working.
"Kaelen." I step toward him. "She was just giving me a massage."
"I saw what she was doing." His voice is rough, scraped raw. "I saw her touching you."
"So?"
He stops. Turns. Looks at me like I've grown a second head.
"So?" He repeats, incredulous. "She was all over you, and you're asking me why I'm pissed?"
"She said I was tense. She was trying to help."
"She was trying to get under my skin." He steps close, close enough that I have to tilt my head up to meet his eyes. "And it worked."
I stare at him. The truth hits me like cold water.
"You're jealous."
"I'm not jealous."
"You're jealous," I repeat, and something shifts inside me. Something dangerous. "Of a woman. Touching me."
His jaw tightens. The silence is his confession.
I laugh. I can't help it. A short, sharp burst of disbelief. "You fucked her. On camera. While I watched. And now you're jealous because she touched my shoulders?"
His eyes narrow. "That's different."
"How?"
"Because that was work."
I shake my head. "It's not different. It's exactly the same." I step closer, my body humming with something I can't name. "You can't have it both ways, Kaelen. You don't get to fuck her and then act like I'm yours."
He doesn't back down. "I didn't fuck her. I performed."
"Don't." The word comes out sharp, knife-edged. "Don't play that game with me. I saw your face. I saw hers. That wasn't performance. That was —" I stop, my voice cracking. "That was everything you've never given me."
The silence between us is a living thing, breathing, hungry.
He reaches out, slow, and touches my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone, feather-light.
"You're right." His voice is barely a whisper. "It wasn't performance. Not all of it. But it wasn't what you think."
"Then what was it?"
He leans in, his forehead pressing against mine, and I feel his breath on my lips. "It was me trying to get her out of my system."
The words land like stones. "Did it work?"
"No." His lips brush mine. "It made it worse."
He kisses me then. Hard. Desperate. Like he's drowning and I'm air. His hands find my waist, pull me against him, and I feel the heat of him through silk. I kiss him back because I'm too weak not to, because I've been waiting eleven years for this, because I don't know how to stop.
But when his hand slides to my throat, when his thumb presses against my pulse, I pull back.
"No."
He freezes. "What?"
"You don't get to do this." My voice shakes. "You don't get to fuck her, watch me lose my mind, ignore me for an hour, and then claim me because someone else touched me."
I step back. My legs feel unsteady. My heart is a war drum.
"You want me? Then miss me. Until then."
I leave him standing in the library, his grey eyes dark, his hands empty.
And I don't look back.