Page 100 of The Viper
Benji watched me for a moment, then said, “You don’t believe that.”
I didn’t answer. Because how could I explain that safety had become an illusion? That Lucas had shown me what real protection felt like—and how fleeting it was?
“I’ll be fine,” I said instead. “We both will.”
He nodded, but his eyes said he didn’t believe it, either.
Carrie finished with my lipstick and stepped back. “There. Back to flawless.”
“Thanks.” I stood, smoothing the soft dress wardrobe had chosen—a pale pink thing that made me feel more fragile than I wanted to.
Franklin clapped his hands. “Let’s move, people! Places!”
The words hit like muscle memory. The crew shuffled into position. Cameras whirred. Someone called for silence.
And just like that, I became her again—the character who wasn’t scared, who didn’t love a man who killed for a living, who wouldn’t lie awake wondering if her sister was the enemy or the victim.
“Rolling,” the first AD said.
Benji and I moved to the balcony set, where a warm breeze drifted through the open doors. I was supposed to deliver a monologue about forgiveness—a line about letting go of fear, about trusting love to survive.
The irony burned.
When the camera rolled, I found the mark and delivered the lines, but something in me cracked halfway through. The words felt too real. Too close.
“Cut!” Franklin snapped. “You lost focus.”
I swallowed hard. “Sorry.”
“Again. From the top.”
We reset. I drew a deep breath and tried to quiet the noise in my head. Lucas’s voice came back to me instead:You don’t owe anyone the version of you they made up.
I didn’t push it away. I let it settle inside me like a truth I’d been too afraid to say out loud.
That was the realization—small, simple, seismic.
I’d spent my whole life playing versions of myself for other people: the good girl, the starlet, the survivor. Even my strength had been a performance. But with Lucas, I’d been real. Raw. Unguarded.
And maybe that was what love really was—being seen, completely, and not running from it.
“Action!” Franklin barked.
This time, I didn’t move.
The silence stretched a few beats too long. Franklin frowned, his headset slipping down around his neck. “Lexi?”
I blinked, but the words that were supposed to come out weren’t there. All I could feel was the weight of my own exhaustion pressing down like a hand on my chest. I’d been running on fumes—fear, adrenaline, obligation—but standing there under the hot lights, it finally hit me: I couldn’t do this. Not right now.
I needed a break from acting. Not gone. Not forever. But a break. To build what was real, and figure out the rest.
“Cut,” I said quietly, lowering my hands. “I’m sorry, Franklin. I can’t.”
He blinked. “You can’t what?”
“Do this scene. Any scene. Not today.”
His mouth opened, but for once, he didn’t speak right away. Around us, the set went still. A grip froze mid-step, Carrie’s eyes went wide, and Benji’s hand found my shoulder in quiet support.
