You’re not doing this for yourself, she reminded herself.You’re doing it for every actress who will eventually sit across from Vince, for every actress who might hear the same cutting rebukes, absorb the same dismissals, and go home feeling like a failure.
It wasn’t right. His words were a power move. His statements were designed to make people feel small so he could feel bigger. That made him one of the worst kinds of bullies. Though he had a reputation, he was far worse than she’d ever anticipated.
Drawing in a deep breath, Rowan continued forward.
As she got closer to Vince’s office, voices drifted through the opening.
She froze. Everyone else hadn’t gone home after all.
“You can’t just brush this off,” a familiar male voice said, the tone tight and strained.
She took another careful step, keeping to the shadows along the wall.
Vince answered, his words low but edged with irritation. “You’re overreacting.”
“I’m not overreacting. I’m telling you this isn’t right.”
Rowan’s pulse kicked up. She knew that other voice. It was Thayer Holt, the director of photography. He’d always been a calm and steady presence on set.
Unlike Vince.
Thayer had asked Rowan out a few weeks ago. She’d told him no, told him that the timing was wrong. He’d seemed to understand and hadn’t held any ill feelings.
Rowan hesitated. She should leave.
This wasn’t her conversation or her business.
But something about what these two men were saying felt off, and her feet remained rooted in place.
“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” Vince snapped.
“I think you’re crossing a line,” Thayer shot back. “And if this gets out?—”
“It won’t.”
A beat of silence followed, heavy and charged.
Rowan edged closer to the door, just enough to see inside but remain undetected.
The office lights were bright, casting sharp shadows across the room. It was larger than it had any right to be for a working production office—more like a carefully staged display of power. A wide desk dominated the center, flanked by high-end artistic prints of Vince’s most celebrated films. Behind-the-scenes photographs featuring Vince with famous actors. Trophies and movie props lined a bookshelf.
Along the far wall sat a deep leather couch, the kind that had probably witnessed more than one conversation that never made it into anyone’s official account. Several pieces of equipment from the set were scattered near the door as if Vince himself were examining them. She’d heard before signing on that he was a control freak.
And he was.
Vince stood behind his desk, his posture rigid and his expression hard. Thayer faced him from a few feet away, hands braced on the back of a chair as if holding himself in place.
“This isn’t just about the production anymore,” Thayer said. “You’re going to get people hurt. That’s not okay. The fact is that no one wants to stand up to you because you’re vindictive and you like humiliating people. There’s so much wrong with that.”
Vince let out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re being dramatic. Maybe you should have gone into acting instead of lighting.”
“No. I’m beingcareful. Something you should try sometime.”
Rowan felt the subtle change in the air, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Vince stepped around the desk, his nostrils flaring. “You don’t get to lecture me.”
Thayer straightened but remained locked in place. “Someone needs to.”
