Scripts, Lenses, and Rumors

POV SIENNA

It took exactly three minutes for my heartbeat to settle back to normal, three minutes spent walking slowly, breathing deeply, trying to scrub the weight of his gaze and the brush of his touch from my skin.

I climbed the stone steps of St. Jude Academy, fully aware that eyes followed me, and whispers rippled outward in my wake, soft but impossible to miss. Two girls clutching art folders to their chests scanned me from head to toe with a mix of poorly hidden envy and morbid curiosity. As I passed, I caught fragments of their conversation, "Who was that?", "He looks like a runway model or a dangerous heir", "Do you think he is her boyfriend?".

I tugged the neck of my green top higher and cursed myself silently for not shoving my backpack straight into Killian’s face right there in front of everyone.

Inside the building the air shifted completely. It smelled of old celluloid, coffee left simmering too long, fresh paint, and studio wood, a human, chaotic, wonderful scent that finally began to cut through the cloying mix of bergamot and burnt cedar my stepbrother had left clinging to my skin.

The Screenwriting and Directing III workshop was a small amphitheatre lined with worn wooden tables and a central projector casting soft shadows across the walls. I chose the seat farthest away, pressed against the side wall, and opened my laptop. I pretended to review notes, but really I just double‑checked that my most private window was fully closed, nobody here would ever know I was Nyx_V, the writer behind half a million reads who penned dark fantasy romance stories late at night to pay the bills no one else would cover. It was my most guarded secret, locked behind layers of passwords and anonymity I had no intention of risking.

"Welcome to the semester where theory falls away and the real work begins," announced Professor Donovan as he walked in without fanfare, a retired director with silver hair and a frayed scarf he had worn for decades. "The project is straightforward, a fifteen‑minute short film, original script, direction, and production entirely your own. Anyone who does not turn in their first cut in ten weeks repeats the class."

A collective murmur of unease rippled through the room.

"And to keep you from retreating into your own private creative worlds," he added with a smile that held a hint of mischief, "you will work in randomly assigned pairs. No changes. Learn to build something alongside someone who does not think exactly as you do."

He began reading names aloud, matching them at random. I stared out the window, crossing my fingers for someone calm, sensible, and respectful of my time.

"Sienna Hayes paired with Liam Vance."

I blinked, surprised to hear my name called so soon.

Seconds later the scrape of a chair beside me pulled me from my thoughts. A tall, broad‑shouldered guy with messy light brown hair slid into the empty seat next to mine. He wore a faded denim jacket plastered with indie band patches, a plain white T‑shirt, and an analogue camera slung over one shoulder. He smelled of cherry tobacco, old paper, and recent rain, soft, steady, and unhurried, without the crushing, suffocating pressure that always surrounded Killian and others like him. He was a Beta, and it showed.

"Hi there, partner in destiny," he said with an easy smile that deepened dimples in his cheeks, offering a large, long‑fingered hand. "I am Liam. I promise not to be a tyrant on set, unless you try to fill the whole film with star transitions, in which case I will have to intervene."

A genuine smile broke across my face before I could stop it. I shook his hand.

"Sienna. And if anyone suggests star transitions, I will drop out myself."

Liam laughed, bright and unguarded. He pulled off his jacket, draped it over the back of his chair, and leaned slightly toward my screen.

"Great, I already like you. What genre do you lean toward? I tend to gravitate toward psychological thrillers and unflinching drama, but I will adapt if you already have something in mind."

"I write stories built around tension, secrets, and bonds that refuse to break even when they hurt," I said, feeling a quiet relief at last speaking with someone who understood what this was really about. "I have ideas about people tied together by circumstances they cannot escape, drawn to those they would rather hate… something heavy and unresolved between two people who should not be together but cannot walk away."

Liam raised his eyebrows, genuinely interested.

"That sounds incredibly powerful. Sharp, honest dialogue is my absolute favourite thing to work on. Hey… was it you who stepped out of that black Porsche this morning at the front entrance?"

My blood cooled just a fraction. I gripped the edges of the table.

"Yes," I said evenly, bracing myself for the inevitable line of questioning.

Liam studied me for a moment then let out a low whistle.

"The guy driving looked ready to destroy anyone who stepped within ten metres of you. A group of first‑years were actually betting, are you a billionaire’s daughter, in witness protection, or does he just take his job way too seriously?"

I rolled my eyes and breathed out a long, tired sigh.

"He is just my stepbrother. He has a ridiculous protector complex and zero manners. Please pay no attention to the rumours."

"Fair enough, I do not judge people by their families," Liam replied with a knowing grin. "My own uncle is fully convinced aliens set global coffee prices. Anyway… do we have time to go over your outline today? We could head to the café on the corner after four, map out the structure before the library closes."

I glanced at the clock in the corner of my screen: 11:30 a.m.

And then his voice returned, sharp and unmistakeable in my head, "Five o’clock sharp, right there on the kerb. Do not make me wait."

I closed my eyes briefly. I pictured it, me sitting somewhere bright and open talking about stories, then Killian arriving exactly on time, imposing, furious, and ready to demand answers I did not owe him.

A spark of pure defiance flared in my chest. Why should I arrange my life around the whims of someone who claimed to want nothing to do with me yet acted as though I belonged entirely to him?

I met Liam’s gaze.

"That sounds perfect," I said firmly. "Four o’clock at the café. I will tell you the story and show you what I have written so far."

"Deal, Hayes," he grinned, opening his notebook. "We are going to leave Donovan speechless with this one."

For the first time in years I felt like I was reclaiming something that belonged to me. But as Liam and I began sketching out ideas, a quiet, persistent voice in the back of my mind kept glancing at the time. I knew Killian Thorne was not the kind of monster who took being stood up well.