She’s fine. She’s an actress. She can handle this.
There’s no reason that this scene should be any different than the others.
Except there’s something in the back of my head telling me that it is.
The music blares suddenly, hard rock pouring through the speakers. My attention snaps to the giant screen above the stage, displaying a live feed of the action and a close-up on Rhiannon’s face.
Rhiannon and Rebel are in the car, mid fake argument. Her expression is raw, her movements restrained yet intentional and she looks fucking stunning despite the seriousness of the video.
Even though the second car is CGI, when it hits, the hydraulic jolts and the visceral sound effects make it feel disturbingly real and the emotion on her face is either pure talent or genuine fear.
I’ve been on set with plenty of my clients, and anyone who saw Rhiannon wouldn’t have a clue that she only does this on the side for extra cash.
The car makes a sharp jolt, causing a sudden flash of panic across her face.
My hands ball into fists at my sides as I watch, horrified that I can’t stop this.
It’s just a scene. It’s acting. She’s not really hurt.
But each violent shake of the car simulation only drives my nerves up higher and the expression on Rhiannon’s face morphs into panic. And suddenly I realize just how much she’s putting herself through for a couple hundred extra dollars.
“Cut!” Liam calls out, striding forward towards the vehicle. He then bends over, gives them a few pointers that I can’t hear before resetting the scene for another take. The cameras whirl around the windows, capturing new angles and when it finds Rhiannon’s face again, I’m gutted because she looks terrified.
I watch as she presses a hand to her chest, likely steadying her heart and taking a few deep breaths. Rebel whispers somethingto her and she nods back, giving a thumbs up to Liam through the window.
“Action!”
They run through the scene again. And again.And again.Until my stomach is rolling with nausea, each unguarded scream from her feeling more and more believable.
I want to throw up. I want to reach in and tear her out of the car and hold her against my chest. Rhiannon is forced to act out what looks like might be one of her worst nightmares as she reenacts a collision five more times.
On the final take, her voice cracks as she screams at Rebel, her face streaked with tears now, makeup long forgotten.
“Passionate acting!” Liam exclaims, clearly thrilled with the rawness of this performance. “You’re doing amazing!” he encourages her.
But I know better. This isn’t just acting. There’s something haunted behind Rhiannon’s tears, something far too real. I remember what she shared with me. That she lost her parents years ago tragically. And all I can wonder is if it was in a car accident like this.
My gut twists as I watch her scramble off set when she’s finished, her portion of the scene complete. She disappears into the back, and I’m left rooted to the spot, torn between wanting to help and not calling attention to the raw emotions she was just experiencing.
What the hell do I do?
I’m not her boyfriend—not even her friend, really. She’s made that much clear. But the part of me that wants to be so much more and is desperate for a chance can’t focus on anything else.
The third model’s scene begins, but I don’t see it. All I can think about is Rhiannon, probably crying alone in the bathroom, overwhelmed by the scene she just endured in the name of “art.”
“Hey,” Rosie says, sliding up next to me again. “Are you good?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
Her eyes narrow. “Because your jaw’s doing that thing, your fists are all balled up, and it looks like you’ve burst a blood vessel in your right eye.”
I try to relax my fingers, but they curl right back into a fist. “Will you please go check on that model that just left the set? See if she needs any help.”
Rosie raises a brow. “The woman that you sued?”
“Yes.”
“Is she a client of ours?”
