The set of Midnight Crown shimmered with expensive lighting and curated glamour, but all Aurora Sage saw were threats in silk suits and red-lipped smiles.
She stood near the director's tent, face partially hidden behind tinted sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat, her arms crossed as Logan Mason gave another flawless performance beneath the glare of three boom mics and four cameras. The producers circled like sharks—eyes on numbers, not lives.
"Cut! Beautiful, Logan. That was clean. One more take for safety," the director called.
Logan didn't even glance toward the crew. His gaze flicked straight to her.
As always.
Aurora wasn't sure how long this version of reality would hold—Logan smiling on camera while being stalked off it, posing for press while his name bled red onto a hitlist curated by a man she once called brother.
He was still pretending like it didn't scare him. That made it worse.
"Aurora, right?" A voice piped beside her.
She turned.
The new assistant.
