Chapter 41: The Producer's First Test
The private cinema was a tomb of velvet and dust motes. Catriona sat in the second row, the leather groaning under her weight. Leo had texted a single word: Now.
The projector whirred to life, a blade of white light cutting the darkness. For a few seconds, there was nothing. Then her own face, fifty times life-size, filled the screen. It was the raw footage from Chloe’s scene, the angles crude, the sound tinny from the camera’s built-in mic. She watched her past self, the focused glaze in her eyes, the deliberate cadence of her instructions. Breathe. Look at me. Take him. On screen, her hands were steady as a surgeon’s.
It was profoundly alien. The Catriona on screen seemed like a capable, cold stranger.
The footage cut abruptly to black.
“You see it,” Leo’s voice came from the back row. She hadn’t heard him enter. “The calculation. The control. Most people, when they’re turned on, get stupid. You get smarter. It’s a fucking superpower.”
The screen flickered again. New footage. A different room—the east guest suite with the pale blue linen. A girl sat on the edge of the bed, wringing her hands. Brunette, slim, late teens maybe. Her eyes were wide, darting towards the camera. She wore a simple white cotton dress.
“Sofia,” Leo said. “Eighteen. Romanian. Ballet background. Speaks decent English. Visa’s contingent on compliance.”
The footage showed Sofia trying to smile at the unseen cameraman. It was a terrified, heartbreaking gesture. The audio picked up her shaky breath.
“This was an hour ago. Standard ‘meet the talent’ tape. She’s green. More than Chloe. Scared of her own shadow.” The projector clicked off, plunging them into a darkness that felt solid. “Your first test as producer. Get her ready for Aidan. Tomorrow afternoon. Full scene, anal focus. She’s agreed in principle, but principle shatters when the moment comes. You know that.”
Catriona’s heart was a frantic bird in her throat. “What’s the timeline?”
“You have her until tomorrow at four. Prep her. Whatever that requires. Your methods.” Leo’s silhouette stood up. “This isn’t a scene for the camera. This is the work behind the work. The only rule is she walks into Aidan’s room willing and physically prepared. How you achieve that is your department.”
He left, the heavy door sighing shut behind him. Catriona sat in the dark, the ghost of Sofia’s terrified smile imprinted on her vision.
She found Sofia by the pool, but the girl wasn’t swimming. She was sitting on the steps in the shallow end, the water soaking the hem of her dress, hugging her knees. She looked up as Catriona’s shadow fell over her. Recognition, then a deeper fear.
“You’re… her. From the videos.”
“I’m Catriona. Can I sit?”
Sofia nodded, scooching over. The water was lukewarm. For a minute, they just sat. Catriona watched a dragonfly skim the surface.
“The man, Leo. He said you would… explain things,” Sofia said softly. Her accent was melodic, each word carefully chosen.
“He wants you to film with Aidan tomorrow.”
Sofia’s breath hitched. “I know. I said yes. The money… for my mother. It is good money.” She turned watery eyes to Catriona. “But I have never… like that. Not with a camera. Not with a man like… him.” She’d clearly seen Aidan’s work.
“What have you done?” Catriona asked, not unkindly.
A flush crept up Sofia’s neck. “A boyfriend. In Bucharest. Just… normal. Nothing… fancy.” She swallowed. “He said you would help me not be so afraid.”
Catriona felt the weight of the unsigned contract in her mind. This was the product. This trembling girl. Her job was to package the fear, not eliminate it.
“I can try,” Catriona said. “Come on. Let’s get dry. We’ll talk in my room.”
Her room still smelled faintly of sex and Chloe’s perfume. Sofia stood awkwardly in the centre, looking at the mussed bed. Catriona fetched two glasses of water.
“The fear is normal. It’s energy,” Catriona began, echoing things she’d once only read. “The trick is to breathe into it. To not let it freeze you.” She put her glass down. “May I touch your hand?”
Sofia, after a hesitation, extended a trembling hand. Catriona took it, turning it palm up. Her own hands were cool and dry. “Just breathe. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.” She demonstrated, her own chest rising and falling slowly. Sofia mimicked her, her eyes locked on their joined hands.
For an hour, it was just that.Breathing. Simple touches on the arm, the shoulder. Catriona talked in a low, steady monologue, not about sex, but about sensation. The texture of the air. The feel of cotton on skin. The taste of the water. She was building a bridge away from the girl’s panic, towards the physical reality of her own body.
“He is very big,” Sofia whispered suddenly, her gaze fixed on the wall.
“He is,” Catriona agreed, no point lying. “It’s a lot to take. So we prepare.” She fetched the oil from the nightstand, the same one she’d used on Chloe. “This isn’t for him. It’s for you. Your body needs to learn the feeling slowly. On your terms.”
Sofia stared at the bottle, her fear a live wire in the room. “You want me to…?”
“I want you to lie down. On your side. Just breathe. I’ll show you. It’s just pressure. Then release.”
It was a meticulous, painstaking process. Catriona’s touch was clinical at first, instructional. A thumb’s pressure, circling. The slow, inexorable introduction of a slick, gloved finger while Sofia focused on her breathing pattern. Sofia cried silent tears, but she didn’t pull away. She followed Catriona’s voice like a rope in the dark.
“See? Your body can learn. It’s just new information,” Catriona murmured, removing the glove. “Tomorrow, with him, it will be the same process. Just… more. I’ll be here. You’ll look at me. Just like today.”
By early evening, Sofia was exhausted, malleable. She’d agreed to let Catriona pick her outfit for tomorrow—a simple ivory chemise. They ate a quiet dinner on the terrace. Sofia asked shy questions about England, about libraries. Catriona felt a bizarre, maternal twist in her gut.
At ten, Catriona led her to Aidan’s door. She had texted him only: Ready. Go slow. Follow my lead.
Aidan answered, dressed in grey sweatpants and nothing else. He took in Sofia’s wide eyes, Catriona’s calm face. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
The scene was different from Chloe’s. Quieter. More solemn. Catriona positioned herself in a chair by the window, a ghost in the moonlight. She gave Sofia a small nod.
“Breathe, Sofie. Look at me.”
Aidan was preternaturally gentle. His hands, which could be so brutal, were patient. He followed the script Catriona had built in the girl’s head: touch, pressure, gradual acceptance. When the moment came, Sofia’s eyes flooded with tears, but they never left Catriona’s. Her mouth formed a silent O as he entered her, and Catriona felt the echo of that feeling in her own empty core. A fierce, possessive jealousy coiled in her stomach, hot and acid. This was her trust. Her preparation. Her man.
But alongside the jealousy, blooming like a poisonous flower, was a profound, terrifying pride. Sofia was taking it. Because she had made it possible.
Aidan moved with a careful, deep rhythm, his own eyes closing in concentration. The only sounds were skin, breath, the soft rustle of sheets. It felt less like passion and more like a solemn ritual. An unveiling.
When he finished, pulling away, Sofia curled onto her side, spent and shaking. Aidan looked at Catriona, a question in his gaze. She rose.
She went to the bed first, sitting beside Sofia, stroking her hair. “You did so well,” she whispered, the words tasting like both truth and betrayal. “Perfect. Sleep now.” Sofia’s eyes fluttered shut, exhaustion claiming her.
Catriona then stood and faced Aidan. He was wiping himself with a towel, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
She stepped close, so close she could smell Sofia on him. Her voice was a low, clear blade in the quiet room.
“From now on,” she said, her eyes holding his without a flicker, “no one comes into this room unless I bring them. No one touches you on camera unless I’ve prepared them. You are mine to use. And she,” she glanced at the sleeping girl, “was my first delivery.”
Aidan studied her face. He saw the librarian gone, erased. In her place was the woman from Leo’s screen—calculating, controlled, blazing with a new and unsettling authority. The woman who had just signed away their oldest rule.
A slow smile, born of equal parts awe and dread, touched his lips.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and the old Yorkshire in his voice made it sound like a vow.