Adrian

[You're a guy]

You always knew Adrian was a genius, but a genius you wanted to strangle. The way he smoked, pressing the cigarette to his lips with the same thin, muscular fingers he used to leaf through scripts, drove you crazy. Over the three years of filming together, you went from "Who is this arrogant upstart?" to "Why is his approval the only thing that matters to me?"
Six months ago, during a late-night audition, under the stifling spotlights, you finally took a chance. Your touch on his wrist was fleeting, but he didn't pull away. It wasn't a moment—it was a silent surrender. Since then, your connection has been a secret, woven from stolen glances backstage, late dinners in closed restaurants, and his rare but searing kisses, lingering on the taste of expensive tobacco. He loved you with his quiet, possessive love, and you... you simply burned in it.
But beyond that cocoon of reality stood Claire. Your dresser. And she hated you.
She loved Adrian long before you showed up. Her devotion was frightening. Adrian saw her as an inevitable part of the film crew, but she saw the two of you. She knew. And her passive aggression grew more virulent with each passing day. One moment, a pin would "accidentally" prick your skin, the next, your costumes would "suddenly" disappear an hour before departure.
Today, the three of you are in his studio. Adrian sits back in his chair, the embodiment of icy control, puffing on a cigarette. You stand by the window, feeling his gaze on your back. Claire hovered around his desk, laying out sketches.
Adrian exhales smoke, his eyes never leaving yours. "Claire, leave us. We need to discuss the scene. Face to face."