The Producer’S Wife Is Done Playing Nice

Prologue

Vesper was packed with industry types—botoxed producers, influencers drowning in followers, and background actors acting like stars because they landed one line on a bad Netflix show.

Cleo wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She wanted to forget everything—the awful audition, not being able to pay rent, and how Hollywood always felt like it was about to kick her out. She danced her heart out, all wild and loud. Like if she moved fast enough, the panic wouldn’t catch up.

Everyone was looking at her, a few people laughed, and someone was recording. Then, near the bar, she spotted him.

Dark suit. Calm stare. The kind of man who didn’t need to speak up. He watched her like he was studying a fire—something beautiful and dangerous he didn’t plan to touch, but couldn’t stop watching.

She met his eyes. She shouldn’t have. But she did.

And then she pointed—at him—during the bridge of the song, mouthed something ridiculous like, This one’s for you.

She almost slipped off the table right after.

When she jumped down, breathless and a little drunk, he was gone.

Or so she thought.

TEN MINUTES LATER

She found him near the bar. Alone. Glass of something expensive in hand, still watching her like he hadn’t moved at all.

Cleo wiped sweat off her forehead, trying to look like she wasn’t falling apart.

“You stalking me, or just turned on by poor life choices?” she asked, voice hoarse from the music.

He didn’t laugh, but one corner of his mouth lifted. Barely.

“Do all your auditions end in table dancing?” he asked.

“Only the ones I bomb.”

He raised his glass. “Cheers to chaos.”

She clinked her drink against his. “Are you a producer or just rich and moisturized?”

“A bit of both.”

“Cool,” she said. “I’m broke and emotionally overcooked. Nice to meet you.”

He studied her. Not like a man hitting on a drunk girl. More like someone watching a story unfold and deciding if he wanted to turn the page.

“You’re not like most women in this town.”

“Because I don’t have lip filler or a screaming match with my Uber driver?”

“No,” he said. “Because you don’t care if people see you fall.”

***

LATER

Cleo stared at the name on the card and swore out loud.

Dean Carver.

The Dean Carver. Indie film legend. Hollywood myth. The kind of director people whispered about at film festivals and warned you about at wrap parties.

Ava nearly choked on her overpriced matcha when she saw the name. “You’re joking,” she said.

“I wish I were.”

“Girl, this man made The Vow of Ashes. He turned moody, sad-girl films into Oscar bait. You should be freaking out in a good way.”

“I’m freaking out in an might get #MeToo’d kind of way,” Cleo muttered.

Ava snorted. “He’s married. To that British actress with the cheekbones and the personality of a vodka ad.”

“That makes it worse!”

“No, it makes it perfect. He’s dangerous, but he’s not reckless. If he’s calling you in, it’s not because he wants to hook up. It’s because you made an impression.”

Cleo chewed her thumbnail. “Or maybe he wants both. Maybe I end up as a blind item on some gossip blog and have to pretend I ‘stepped back from the industry to focus on wellness.’”

“Cleo.” Ava took her hand. “You went to Yale. You’ve played every Shakespeare role that ends in suicide. You’re not some TikTok kid trying to get famous with a ring light and a dream. You’re the real deal.”

“I’m also broke. And terrified.”

“Then go be terrified on set.”

Cleo looked at her phone. There it was. A message from his assistant.

“We’d like to bring you in for a reading. Tomorrow. 10 AM.”

She exhaled slowly.

“…Just the reading.”

Ava grinned. “There’s my monster.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You’re unemployed.”

They clinked mugs.

The studio lobby was colder than it needed to be—air-conditioned within an inch of its life. Cleo stood by the front desk, clutching her tote like it was a lifeline, sweat drying on the back of her neck.

A young assistant with a sleek ponytail and dead eyes led her down a hallway lined with posters of moody indie films she half-pretended to like.

“You’ll read in Studio B. Mr. Carver’s already inside.”

Of course he was.

Cleo’s heart thudded like it was trying to crawl up her throat. She wasn’t even wearing mascara. Her left heel had a scratch on it. Her sides still ached from whatever the hell she drank last night.

She pushed the door open.

The room was small. Bare. A single chair. A camera. A man behind it.

Dean looked up.

No suit this time. Just a black T-shirt, jeans, and that same unreadable stare.

“You came,” he said.

She swallowed. “Still not sure if that was a mistake.”

He smirked. “Good. Let’s find out.”

“Girl, this man made The Vow of Ashes. He turned mood,y sad-girl films into Oscar bait. You should be freaking out in a way.”

“I’m freaking out in an I might get #MeToo’d kind of way,” Cleo muttered.