Page 101 of The Viper
“I just …” My throat tightened, but I forced the words out. “I need a break. I thought I could come back and make it work, but it’s too much. Everything with Hannah, the attacks, the press—it’s all bleeding into this. And I can’t pretend it’s fine.”
Franklin dragged a hand through his hair, looking torn between anger and understanding. “Lexi, the studio?—”
“I’ll work something out with them,” I said before he could finish. “With you. I’ll make it right. Hell, I’ll shoot extra scenes later if that’s what it takes. But I need some time to remember who I am when I’m not acting like someone else.”
Benji gave my shoulder a small squeeze. “She’s earned that,” he said. “Hell, we all have.”
Franklin exhaled, long and low. “You’re serious.”
I nodded. “Completely.”
The room felt different now—lighter somehow, even as the tension thickened. For years, I’d built my world around otherpeople’s schedules, other people’s stories. But the life I wanted—the one that had been quietly blooming inside me since Lucas—didn’t fit inside a call sheet.
I wanted mornings without makeup chairs and long hours pretending to be someone else. I wanted coffee in bed and laughter that wasn’t scripted. I wanted to find out who I was when the cameras stopped rolling—and maybe, if I was brave enough, build something real with him.
I could already imagine the conversation with Lucas. He’d give me that look, the one that saidYou already know what you need to do, and I’d laugh, pretending I didn’t. But I did. I wanted a life, not just a career.
“Take a few days,” Franklin said finally, his tone resigned. “I’ll smooth it over with the execs. Don’t make me regret it.”
“You won’t,” I said softly. “Thank you.”
I turned to Carrie, who was pretending not to tear up, and gave her a small smile. “Keep my chair warm?”
“Always,” she said.
Benji leaned in and kissed my temple. “Go figure out your happy ending, Montgomery.”
The words caught me off guard, and I had to swallow past the lump in my throat.
I stepped off set and into the hallway, the hum of production fading behind me. Each step felt like peeling back layers of someone I used to be. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t walking toward a scene. I was walking toward myself.
Toward him.
I’d just reached for my phone to text Lucas when a sound shattered the quiet—an unmistakable crack that didn’t belong anywhere near a film set.
Then came the scream.
High. Sharp. Real.
The kind that sliced straight through the air and lodged in your bones.
The crew froze. My coffee hit the floor, spilling dark liquid across the polished wood as I turned toward the noise.
“Everyone stay put!” someone yelled, but my body was already moving. I ran back toward the set, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Smoke drifted from somewhere near the side entrance. A light rig had crashed to the floor, sparking against the tile. Security rushed past me, shouting orders. And through the chaos, I heard Franklin’s voice—strained, panicked.
“Call 9-1-1! Somebody’s hurt!”
Benji was kneeling beside one of the grips, blood seeping through the man’s sleeve.
But that wasn’t what made me stop cold.
Near the doorway, half-shadowed by the smoke, was a single red rose. Not from the props department. Not plastic. Real.
And tucked beneath it—a note scrawled in black ink.
YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED AT DOMINION HALL.
