Page 99 of The Viper
Franklin’s voice sliced through the hum of the room. I turned as he strode in, headset askew, a scowl already forming.
“Please tell me we’re rolling soon,” he said. “I’ve got studio execs breathing down my neck about the revised schedule, and the press is circling like sharks.”
I forced a neutral smile. “Morning to you, too, Franklin.”
He ignored that. “We’ll run the balcony scene first. Benji’s already blocking. Try to keep the emotional tone consistent with what we’ve shot so far—same level, no big shifts.”
“You mean when my sister hadn’t been attacked,” I said before I could stop myself.
That earned me a hard look. “And yet the scene’s the same, which means you’ll have to act like she wasn’t. That’s your job.”
Carrie’s brush froze midair. Benji, who’d appeared in the doorway, frowned.
Franklin exhaled sharply and rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I’m not heartless. I know this isn’t easy. But the studio doesn’t care about your personal life—they care about theirrelease date. So, can we please keep the drama on camera today?”
The silence stretched.
Finally, Benji crossed the room, draping an arm over my shoulder in a gesture that was half comfort, half camaraderie. “Hey, Franklin, maybe you could dial it down a notch. The world’s a mess right now. We can still hit our marks without being robots.”
Franklin glared at him, but Benji’s easy grin disarmed him, like always.
“Fine,” Franklin muttered. He stalked off toward the monitors.
I let out a slow breath. “Thanks.”
Benji shrugged. “Somebody has to keep him from combusting.”
He looked better than he had the last time I saw him—the bruises along his jaw fading, his usual swagger dimmed but not gone. Still, I caught the tension under his smile. For a moment, I thought he might bring it up again—how the headlines about me and Lucas had dragged the whole production into chaos, how the attack on him had felt like fallout from my life bleeding into his. But instead, he just sighed.
“Guess we were all targets, huh?” he said quietly. “After what happened to your sister … I don’t know.”
Something in his tone—soft, resigned—told me he wasn’t angry anymore. Just tired.
“You good?” he asked, his voice lowering as the crew reset lights. “I mean, really?”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Just feels strange. Being here. Acting like it’s another day.”
He leaned against the vanity. “Yeah. Like waiting for a cue in a scene you didn’t audition for.”
That made me smile despite everything. “Exactly.”
He tilted his head, his reflection meeting mine in the mirror. “Except in real life, there’s no director yelling cut when things go sideways. You just keep rolling, even when you’re bleeding.”
I huffed out a soft laugh. “And no guarantee the next take will be any better.”
“Yeah,” he said. “No lighting resets. No second chances. Just the one shot, and half the time, you don’t even know who’s holding the camera.”
We fell quiet for a beat, the truth of it sitting between us—how much easier it was to pretend on cue than to survive unscripted.
“I guess that’s the difference,” I said finally. “On set, I know what’s coming. Out there …” I gestured vaguely toward the world beyond the studio walls. “Out there, I don’t even know what story I’m in anymore.”
Benji’s gaze softened. “Maybe none of us do.”
He smiled faintly. Then he pushed off the vanity, shaking it off like an actor slipping out of character.
“I heard they’ve doubled security,” he said. “That’s good, right?”
“Sure.” The word came out flat.
