Chapter 15: The Coffee and the Stunt
The coffee was perfect. Black, two sugars, placed exactly where his script had been ten minutes earlier. Dasha didn’t look at him as she did it. Her movements were economical, silent. She’d been like this for three days—a ghost in impeccable tailoring, leaving no trace but corrected schedules and replenished supplies.
Matt watched from the leather chair, his arms crossed. He hadn’t touched the coffee. He was tracking her, the way she avoided the patch of sunlight near the trailer door, the precise angle she held her tablet. A predator’s observation, quiet and relentless.
“The dialect coach rescheduled for four,” she said, her eyes on the screen. “He’s insisting on the camel theory. I told him you’d be open-minded, but privately, I’ve sourced a voice coach from Marrakesh for a second opinion. Just in case.”
He didn’t answer.
She finally glanced up, her expression cool. “Was that incorrect?”
“No,” he said. “It’s flawless.”
“Good.” She turned to leave.
“Dasha.”
She stopped, hand on the doorframe, but didn’t turn back. The line of her shoulders was rigid.
He uncrossed his arms, leaning forward. The words felt like gravel in his throat. “About Friday.”
“It’s on your calendar. The restaurant is confirmed. Security is aware. Her dietary restrictions are on the shared drive.” A beat. “Is there a particular champagne you’d prefer? Or shall I choose?”
He heard it then, the finest crack in her veneer. The slightest over-clarity in her pronunciation. It was the only tell she had.
“Choose,” he said, the word tasting like ash.
She nodded once and was gone.
The afternoon sun was a hammer on the backlot. The air smelled of hot dust and fried circuitry from a nearby effects rig. Matt leaned against the fender of a decommissioned fire truck that served as a period prop, his sunglasses hiding his eyes. He was supposed to be running lines with Lila, but his focus was shot.
He saw Dasha first. She was twenty yards away, speaking with the head electrician, pointing at a lighting diagram on her tablet. The breeze caught a strand of her hair, pulling it free from its knot. She tucked it back with an impatient swipe.
Then he saw the electrician’s gaze slide past her, his eyes widening slightly. A low whistle came from a grip pushing a dolly track.
Chloe arrived like a luxury car—sleek, noticeable, and utterly out of place. She wore a simple white dress that cost more than most of the crew’s weekly salaries. Her sunglasses were oversized, her smile was wide and practiced. She spotted Matt and her whole demeanor shifted into a performance of intimate delight.
“Darling!” she called, her voice cutting through the set’s murmur.
Matt pushed off the truck. He didn’t look at Dasha. He couldn’t. He fixed his own smile in place, the one he used for talk shows and premieres. “You’re early.”
“I was eager,” Chloe purred, closing the distance. She slipped her hands around his arm, leaning into his side. Her perfume was a cloud of tuberose and amber, overwhelming the scent of dust. “This is so fascinating. All the little lights and people.” She tilted her head up, her manicured fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “You look tense. Long day?”
He caught the movement in his periphery. Dasha had turned. The tablet was held against her chest like a shield. She wasn’t moving. She was just a silhouette against the glare of the sun-bleached soundstage wall.
“The usual,” Matt said, forcing his attention back to Chloe. He placed his hand over hers on his arm, a gesture that felt both possessive and false. “Let me show you to my trailer. It’s quieter.”
“Perfect.”
As he guided Chloe past the clusters of crew, he felt every eye on them. The celebrity and the model. A predictable tableau. He kept his gaze forward, his smile easy.
He couldn’t resist. Just as they passed the bank of generators, he looked.
Dasha was still standing there. But she was no longer frozen. She had looked down at her tablet, her fingers moving quickly, swiping something away. Then she turned and walked, not toward the production office, but down a narrow alley between two storage warehouses. A route that led nowhere.
“Who’s that?” Chloe asked, following his glance.
“My assistant.”
“She looks very serious.”
“She’s very good at her job,” Matt said, and the words were a barb he turned on himself.
He spent twenty minutes in the trailer with Chloe, making hollow conversation about her recent shoot in Bali. He poured her a mineral water he didn’t offer. He laughed at a joke he didn’t hear.
“You’re distracted,” Chloe said, pouting playfully. “Is it the movie? I can be a very good listener.”
“It’s just technical stuff. Boring.” He checked his watch. “I have to get back to set. The car will take you wherever you like.”
The dismissal was smooth, polished. Chloe accepted it with the grace of someone used to abbreviated attention. She kissed his cheek, leaving a faint, sticky imprint. “Until Friday.”
He waited until the town car pulled away, its tires crunching on the gravel. Then he walked. He didn’t go back to the set. He followed the path Dasha had taken.
The alley between the warehouses was narrow and shaded, littered with forgotten props—a plastic suit of armor, a stack of fake books. At the far end, a chain-link fence blocked the way. And there, sitting on an overturned crate with her back against the sun-warmed metal wall, was Dasha.
She had her heels off, her feet flat on the cool concrete. Her head was bowed, and in her hands was a crumpled piece of paper. He recognized the blue ink bleeding through. It was the note. As requested—handled.
She wasn’t crying. She was just sitting, perfectly still, staring at the words as if trying to decipher a code in her own handwriting.
Matt stopped at the mouth of the alley. The generator hum was a distant throb here. A fly buzzed lazily around the plastic armor.
She didn’t look up. “Your call is in seven minutes. You should be on mark.”
“Dasha.”
“The model left? She seemed nice. Very tactile.” Her voice was flat, drained of all its sarcastic music.
He took a step forward. “This was a mistake.”
“Which part?” Now she looked up. Her eyes were dry, brilliantly clear, and utterly devastated. “The part where you slept with me? Or the part where you made sure I watched you replace me, less than three weeks later? Didn’t matter, mr Boxer. Enjoy”
He had no answer. The justification—the pride, the frustration, the cowardice—withered in his throat.
She stood up, smoothing her skirt. She slipped her feet back into her shoes, a small, vulnerable act that felt more intimate than anything they’d done in Dubai. She walked toward him, stopping an arm’s length away. She held up the crumpled note.
“You wanted it handled. It’s handled.” She let the paper fall. It landed on the oily concrete between them. “We’re handled.”
She walked past him, her shoulder brushing the warehouse wall to avoid touching him. He didn’t turn. He listened to the sharp, even click of her heels fade back into the hum of the set.
He looked down at the note. The word ‘handled’ was creased, almost torn. He bent, picked it up, and smoothed it against his thigh. It wasn’t just a note. It was a receipt. And he was the cost.
From the main lot, the assistant director’ voice crackled over a loudspeaker. “Bomer! We’re waiting on you! Let’s go!”
He folded the paper, tucked it into his pocket, and walked back toward the lights, the camera, the waiting performance. Each step felt heavier than the last.