Chapter 22
Besides, I didn’t have time to deal with Belinda right now. The endless back–and–forth with her had drained my patience to the core, and with my audition just minutes away, my mind was already buzzing as I quickly tried to remember the lines I needed to deliver.
The scene was set three days after the death of a wealthy old man–an influential figure whose passing sent shockwaves through his empire. But as the world mourned, his illegitimate son was off drinking and partying as if he hadn’t a care in the world. The female lead, the illegitimate son’s stepmother who had always been poised and composed in the face of scandal, had to drag the young man back home in the dead of night.
What I didn’t expect, and certainly wasn’t prepared for, was to see Alaric as my scene partner.
A wave of shock hit me the moment I saw him standing under the harsh studio
lights, casually leaning against the fake brick wall of the set, already in character, His tousled hair caught the light just right, and the way he lazily adjusted his jacket as if he’d done this a million times sent a shiver down my spine.
When did he become an actor? Why was he here?
But there was no time to ask or think. Director Osbourne–known for his
impossible standards–wasn’t going to wait for any personal pleasantries. “Action,”
he called, his voice echoing across the silent room.
I took a deep breath, reminding myself to focus on the role. The woman I was
portraying, the widow, was strong and unshakable. She couldn’t let herself get rattled by this rebellious child of her late husband–much less by the actor playing
him.
Alaric slid into character effortlessly. His eyes darkened, carrying the exact blend
21:31
The Ex–Husband’s Regret: I Shot to Fame Overnight After Our Divorce
77.3%
Chapter 22
of impatience and rebellion that the role demanded. It was as if a switch had been flipped. Gone was the man I knew, replaced by the cocky, insolent persona of the drunken son, a man bent on testing every boundary and breaking every rule.
I fought to keep my composure as I manhandled his character into the backseat of
the old worn–out taxi. The prop car was battered and dirty, a perfect symbol of the
mess this young man had become. His body was heavy and slack with drunkenness, and I struggled under his weight, pushing him awkwardly onto the seat. His head lolled to the side, landing on my shoulder, the heat of his breath startling me.
The smell of whiskey and expensive cologne mixed with the faint scent of cigarette smoke lingered in the air around him, and for a second, my pulse quickened–not because of the scene, but because of the man beneath the
character.
I shook off the feeling and snapped back into the moment. “Today was your father’s funeral,” I said sternly, my voice tight with exasperation. “You’ll be of age next year. There has to be a limit to your recklessness.”
The words came out harsher than I intended, but that was what the scene needed–a sharp, maternal tone, one that demanded attention.
But Alaric, in character as the spoiled, arrogant son, merely scoffed. His half–lidded eyes opened slightly, and he raised an eyebrow, a smirk curling on his lips. “Who do you think you are?” His words slurred, dripping with mockery. “What right do you have to lecture me?”
I stiffened, both from the intensity of his gaze and the biting tone in his voice. The way he looked at me now was different–less like a spoiled brat rebelling against authority and more like someone who found amusement in pushing boundaries, in seeing how far he could go. His gaze lingered on me, like a predator toying with his prey.
“I’m your stepmother,” I shot back, pressing him down into the seat with more force than before. The leather squeaked beneath him, but he didn’t resist–yet.
Chapter 22
“Your legal guardian. I’m following your father’s wishes to take care of you.”
A soft laugh rumbled in his throat, low and taunting. “I don’t need your care.” He lazily waved his hand, slapping away my arm like I was nothing more than a nuisance. “At best, you’re just my dad’s mistress.”
I blinked. The insult cut through the air like a knife. He leaned back, stretching out his arms along the top of the seat, lounging like he owned the world, his expression smug and dripping with superiority. His blue eyes, so piercing and clear, glimmered with something far more dangerous than defiance. He was enjoying this.
A beat passed. I held my breath, waiting for him to continue.
Alaric moved fast, suddenly snapping out of his lethargy. He broke free from my grip with surprising ease, his movements fluid, and before I knew it, he had me pinned against the back of the taxi. His body loomed over mine, the scent of alcohol strong between us. His arms caged me in on either side, and his breath was hot against my neck.
His brows furrowed with youthful arrogance as he muttered, “That old man just won’t leave me alone, not even when he’s dead.”
His voice was bitter, full of contempt, but that wasn’t what unsettled me. It was the way his eyes–those intense, wolfish blue eyes–never left mine. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and I could feel the heat radiating from him as the space between us seemed to shrink. The tension was palpable, suffocating even.
His gaze roamed over my face, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “But I’ll give the old man credit for one thing,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower. “He had good taste. Don’t you think?”
My throat went dry. Every instinct screamed at me to push him away, to snap back with a sharp retort. But I couldn’t. My body refused to move.
