Quickly, however, reality set in.
A chill skated over my body, and grief clawed at my throat.
North released a long exhale that shivered across my skin. He squeezed my hips before raising his head to look at me.
When I lowered my eyes, unable to bear the feelings he wouldn’t hide from me, North muttered a curse and pulled out.
“I didn’t wear a condom,” he said as he pulled my skirt down to cover me before fixing himself.
My heart raced, but not at the news we’d forgone protection. “I’m on the pill, remember? And I’m sexually healthy.”
“So am I.” He exhaled shakily. “Aria, please look at me.”
I owed him that. To not be a coward. Pushing off the desk, I smoothed my dress, ignoring my underwear lying on the office floor or the feel of his cum between my thighs.
North shook his head, fists clenched at his sides. “Walking away from this is a big fucking mistake.”
“I would end up hurting you, or you me,” I whispered, too emotional to speak louder. “I’d rather it end now like this.”
“I don’t want it to end,” he stated simply.
Heartbreakingly.
A huge part of me wanted to fly into his arms and beg him to forgive me so we could just go on as we were.
Yet I knew how drastically things were about to change once he started filming again. I knew all my bitter insecurities would destroy us. Or … my faith in him would be misplaced and he’d hurt me. As long as he was acting, my old wounds wouldn’t allow me to believe he wouldn’t eventually try to use me. Or cheat on me with a future beautiful leading lady.
Rational or not, I didn’t trust him.
And my distrust would come between us.
Staying strong, I lifted my chin and looked him square in the eye. “It’s over, North.”
His expression was winded, like I’d just punched him in the gut.
Self-flagellation gripped me tight as his eyes brightened, seconds before he gave me an angry nod and slammed out of my office.
The sound of the door banging against the jamb seemed to echo and echo inside the space that I’d used as a cage to protect me.
Locked up tight.
Where no one could hurt me.
Except myself.
I covered my mouth with my hand to silence the sobs that wracked my body.
Twenty-Five
NORTH
Usually when I’m on stage or when the camera is on me, I can slip into character like a superhero outfit. Suddenly, I’m no longer North but the very soul of someone else entirely.
To start, we were shooting the film in sequence, and in London where my character, Daniel Stone, has his carefully cultivated life as an intelligence officer blown up. Daniel is not spy thriller suave. He’s a frosty motherfucker, assassin-level emotionally shut down, and part of his character journey over the franchise will be him reluctantly beginning to be part of the world again. Tofeelagain.
All I felt, however, as I delivered my lines was panic.
I had not slipped into Daniel like a well-fitting outfit this morning. To be honest, Daniel chafed. Daniel was the equivalent of wearing a mohair suit infested with fire ants. Okay, maybe that was a slight exaggeration, but today’s scenes weren’t going well.
