You cross your arms, shifting in the plush velvet chair that probably cost more than your entire apartment. “I told you, I’m not doing it.”
He sighs dramatically, as if your refusal wounds him deeply. “I know, I know. It’s just—” He pushes the script an inch closer, fingertips drumming on the cover. “You have this… gravity. Anyone else, and the audience will see right through it.”
You raise a brow. “You mean they’ll see right through you.”
He chuckles. “Is it so bad to want the best?”
Your apartment has become a graveyard of unwanted bribes. Flowers, boxes stacked by the door like barricades you never asked for. Your manager curses under their breath as they haul the last armful of jewelry cases back to the car.
*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒
You’re watching the street from your window, half-expecting to see him lurking in some ridiculous disguise again.
Because he would. He has.
It started with the voicemails. The last straw was him showing up at your fan event, hidden under a cheap hoodie and sunglasses. “I’m your biggest fan. Can I get your autograph?”
His cologne gave him away before he even pushed the photo across the table. When you looked down, there was no photo — just the script, printed on glossy paper, your name scrawled over the title page.
And now your phone buzzes again. Another voicemail. He’s relentless — if he weren’t Mr. Reca, celebrated director and studio tyrant, you’d think he was just another obsessive fan.
You think of his last words at the event
“If I have to stand at your doorstep every day, I will. If I have to buy every seat in this industry until there’s no one left but you — I will.”
*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒
The studio lot hums with chatter and camera rigs clattering over concrete. You’re half hidden behind your script when you catch sight of him in the middle of a gaggle of fresh-faced actors clinging to his every word.
You roll your eyes and tug your costume tighter around your shoulders. It’s just a cameo role — two scenes, easy money.
You’re steps away from the soundstage door when you feel him before you hear him. “Your collar’s crooked.” he murmurs. He’s so close you can see the faint stubble he missed shaving this morning. He smooths the fabric with precise fingers, careful not to look you in the eye until he’s done.
“There. Perfect.”
You don’t thank him. You don’t look back. But you feel his eyes on you the whole damn scene.
*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒
You almost refuse his invitation. But something about the way he’s ditched the entourage makes you curious.
A bar, what could go wrong?
He orders you a drink without asking what you want.
“If you want it me you can have it. Body. Soul. Every breath, every heartbeat.”
You study him across the rim of your glass.
“And what do I do with your soul, Mr.Reca? Hang it on my wall? Put it in my pocket?”
“If that’s what it takes. If it makes you stay.”
You push your glass away and lean back. “So this isn’t about the scene anymore.”
He shakes his head.
*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒
The bar closes behind you like a sigh when he gestures for you to follow him. Maybe it’s the faint haze of the single sip you did take or the low, lulling hum of his voice weaving promises through your resolve like threads through fabric.
“I want to show you something.”
You hate yourself for stepping into the car with him. Hate yourself more for not asking where you’re going. When the elevator doors part on the top floor of a hotel that costs more per night than your rent in a month, you stand there blinking while he slips the keycard in with a casual flick of his wrist.
You stand near the window while he tosses his coat aside, loosening his tie with a careless tug. For a heartbeat your mind jumps to something darker, but he just drapes it on a hanger, turning back to you with that same calm insistence.
You flick the AC on because it’s easier than asking why you’re here at all. You scan the coffee table — scripts stacked in neat piles, new covers, fresh annotations in his looping scrawl. You pick one up, thumb through the pages, realizing quickly this is not the same story you refused before. Your fingers freeze on a margin note: It must be Y/N L/N. No stand-ins.
You don’t notice him behind you until the faintest heat of his breath grazes your neck. Then his teeth press into the curve of your ear, a fleeting nip that makes your pulse trip. His fingers ghost over your waist, pulling you back just enough for your back to brush his chest.
The whisper spills out in that same honeyed tone you’ve grown to dread: “Play it... just once... and I’ll never ask again.”
You shove him away, the script slipping from your hands. “Enough, Reca!”
He stumbles back, a ghost of surprise flickering through that perfect mask, then it’s gone.
“You must take the role. You have to —”
But the words melt away because the suite dissolves around you like sugar in water. One moment you’re standing by his designer couch, the next you’re staring at your own bed.
The pages of his script flutter onto your nightstand, exactly where you don’t remember placing them. He’s still there, impossibly standing in the corner of your room. You wondered if it's something like bending reality. Just like in the films he created — illusions so real they leave you doubting which door you stepped through.
“There’s nowhere you can run from this. Or from me. You must take it, because this story doesn’t exist without you.”
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