“Hour, maybe less. Traffic depending.”
I nod. Try to look like this information doesn’t affect me.
But the moment he turns toward the elevator, something in my chest pulls tight. A hollow feeling I’ve only started recognizing recently—the specific absence of Elias Stone from a room, and how noticeably different the air feels without him in it.
I watch him go until the elevator doors close behind him.
The set feels louder and colder without him here. My omega, which has been calm all morning, notices the change immediately and grows restless in response.
A week ago, I wouldn't have noticed the difference.
Now his absence leaves a space behind.
I sigh heavily as I turn back toward my station.
The afternoon passes. Setups. Resets. The warehouse sequence runs long, as warehouse sequences always do. Adrian checks onme twice without making a show of it—once with water, once with a protein bar he slides onto my station without comment. Bash drifts through my peripheral awareness every twenty minutes or so, his presence a constant even when he’s across the room. Elias texts once:On my way back. ETA 30.
I am, against every instinct for self-preservation I’ve ever had, relaxing into them. My body calms whenever they’re near. My thoughts clear. The constant tension I’ve been carrying since this started eases more each time one of them enters my awareness.
It should comfort me.
It terrifies me.
Because the more I relax into them, the more visible I become to everyone else. And the more visible I become, the less I’m Maya-the-production-coordinator and the more I’m Maya-the-omega, the woman the alphas are paying attention to, the person everyone is suddenly careful around.
By four o’clock, the weight of the realization has built into something I can feel in my shoulders, my jaw, the particular tightness behind my eyes that means I’ve been clenching without realizing it.
The director finds me by the monitors.
James Chen. Early fifties. Beta. We’ve worked together on three projects over the past five years. He’s good at his job—precise, collaborative, the kind of director who treats the crew like colleagues rather than subordinates. I respect him. I’ve always trusted his judgment.
The expression on his face tells me something is wrong before he speaks.
“Maya,” he says. His voice is gentle. Careful. The particular tone people have been using around me all day feels worse when it comes from him. “Do you have a minute to meet with me in my office?”
My stomach drops.
“Sure,” I say. My voice comes out steadier than I expect.
We walk to his office together. He doesn’t attempt to fill the silence. He just leads me down the hallway, his pace measured, his body angled slightly away from mine in a way that feels deliberate.
His office is small. Windowless. A desk, two chairs, the particular clutter of a director’s workspace—storyboards, script pages, coffee cups that never quite get cleared away. He closes the door behind us. Sits and gestures for me to take the other chair.
I remain standing.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
He studies my face for a long moment. Something in his expression shifts—regret, maybe. Or concern he doesn’t know how to voice.
“Production has become increasingly concerned about your situation,” he says finally. His words sound practiced. “About your safety within the environment on set. Given that we’re nearing the end of principal photography, and given the... timingof everything, there’s a general consensus that it would be safer and less stressful for you not to finish the final days on set.”
The air leaves my lungs.
“The remaining responsibilities can be redistributed,” he continues. His tone is measured, professional, genuinely kind beneath the delivery. “We have more than enough material to complete the production. Your work has been exceptional, as always. This isn’t about your performance. It’s about making sure you’re supported during a difficult transition.”
I stare at him.
My worst fear, spoken aloud by someone I trust, in a caring tone that somehow makes the devastation worse.
