PROLOGUE
Rowan King rolledher shoulders and exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the tension that had settled there hours ago.
You’re stiff, Rowan. Completely unbelievable.
As she sat in her dressing room, she stared back at her reflection in the mirror.
Director Vince Furlough’s voice echoed in her mind, sharp and dismissive.
She closed her eyes, no longer wanting to see her own image. Her flaws were too easy to pick apart.
Vince’s words shouldn’t have this kind of power over her. She’d heard worse in this industry. She’d told herself that a hundred times today alone.
But this movie set was different.
Vincewas different.
He was legendary in the business, and his words cut deeper than others.
Anyone ever tell you you’re not pretty enough for the close-up?
You’re replaceable. You know that, right? You’re nothing special, Rowan.
Rowan’s jaw tightened. She wasn’t new to this industry, nor was she fragile. And she certainly wasn’t replaceable.
Not when she was the lead inSilent Witness—the project Vince himself had called “career-defining.” The director had a reputation for being condescending and hard to work with—but the payoff was usually worth it. She simply had to endure him for the next year of her life. Then when her career took off, she could move on.
But four months into filming, something had flipped, and Vince made it sound as if he’d made the wrong choice when casting her. Rowan had thought he actually might fire her at one point.
The tension on the set was palpable. Other people—cast members and crew—had watched Vince humiliate her. It had become bad enough that she’d gone to her doctor, who had given her some meds for the anxiety she experienced from Vince’s humiliation.
Something about his criticisms made her feel like she was back in high school again, second-guessing everything and trying to prove she belonged.
Tonight, that would stop.
She reached up and absently touched one of her earrings—small, gold teardrops. They’d been a gift from her mother years ago. Rowan wore them when she needed to be reminded of her roots . . . something that felt long forgotten at times.
Her life today was night and day to that from her upbringing. Guilt filled her at the thought. How had she gone astray so badly?
She drew in a breath to calm herself.
You’re going to walk into Vince’s office and say what needs to be said. You’re going to stand up for yourself—and any other woman Vince has cut down this way.
She glanced at the far hallway that led to the production offices. Most of the overhead lights had been switched off, leaving only a dim path of illumination from a few glowing fixtures. The rest of the cast and crew had left probably an hour ago, but Rowan had lingered in her dressing room, trying to sort her thoughts and calm her trembling hands.
If she didn’t talk to Vince now, she wouldn’t do it at all.
Rowan squared her shoulders and stepped toward his office. Her footsteps echoed as she walked down the corridor, each thud filled with purpose.
She reached the admin wing and slowed.
Vince’s door stood slightly ajar at the very end. A line of light spilled from his office, cutting across the dark floor.
She was right—he was still here. That was what she’d been counting on. He was generally the last one to leave.
Rowan hesitated.
This was ridiculous. She’d faced down live audiences, critics, and on-air interviews designed to trip her up. One difficult director shouldn’t make her feel this kind of self-doubt.
