Lana's point of view
I slip out of the makeup room, still feeling the adrenaline rush from the scene. My neck throbs where Leo's fingers had gripped it, maybe a bit too enthusiastically. The marks are angry and red, perfectly visible.
Five minutes left on the break. Plenty of time to check on Adam.
I need to see his face. I need to know if he's learned his lesson about flirting with Morgan.
I hope I didn't take it too far.
I walk briskly toward the viewing area, rehearsing my explanation in my head. I'll tell him the truth, that I was angry, jealous even, after seeing him with Morgan. That the scene with Leo wasn't real, just a performance meant to make him feel what I felt. We'll talk it through, and everything will be fine.
But when I reach the folding chairs, Adam's seat is empty.
My heart stutters in my chest.
Where is he?
I scan the studio, searching for his familiar silhouette among the crew members milling about during the break. Nothing.
"Hey," I call out to a production assistant passing by with a clipboard. "Have you seen Adam?"
He looks up, brow furrowed in confusion. "Who?"
"The guy who was sitting here with Morgan," I explain, pointing to the empty chair.
"Ohhh yeah, that guy walked out," the PA says, his tone casual as if discussing the weather. "Morgan chased after him. Haven't seen either of them come back yet."
My stomach drops to my feet. Adam left? During my scene? The room suddenly feels too hot, too bright.
"Did Morgan say where she was going?" I ask, my voice rising with panic. Why would she chase after him? What could she possibly want with my boyfriend?
The PA just shrugs, already losing interest in our conversation, as he checks something on his clipboard and walks away.
I stand frozen, staring at the empty chairs. This wasn't supposed to happen. Adam was supposed to watch, to feel jealous, to understand what I felt seeing him with Morgan, not to leave. He was supposed to stay so we could make up afterward.
I fucked up.
"You have some fucking nerve pulling off that shit in front of your boyfriend."
Leo's voice startles me from behind. I spin around to face him. His expression is thunderous, none of the on-camera passion remaining.
"What are you talking about?" I snap, though the knot in my stomach tells me I know exactly what he means.
Leo gestures toward the empty chairs. "That wasn't acting, Lana. You were punishing him." His voice drops lower, almost a growl. "Using me to punish him."
"It was just a scene," I protest weakly, but the lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
"Who the fuck does that to their boyfriend?"
"Fuck off, Leo," I spit back at him, motioning to the bruises forming on my neck. "You played a role too."
Leo's face hardens. "You begged for it," he says coldly.
I open my mouth to argue, but Leo just shakes his head in disgust and walks away, leaving me alone with my churning thoughts.
Panic rises in my chest as the reality of what I've done finally hits me. I need to find Adam. I need to explain. I rush across the set, searching for the director. I spot him by the monitors, reviewing footage with a grim expression.
"Victor," I say, my voice trembling slightly as I approach him. "I need to go home. I think my boyfriend is going to leave me."
Victor looks up from the monitors, blinking once as he processes my words. His expression remains completely neutral, almost bored. "The boyfriend you brought to watch you?"
"Well, yeah," I stammer, shifting my weight nervously from one foot to the other.
"So you want to cost production thousands of dollars because you fucked someone in front of your boyfriend, and now he's sad?" Victor's voice is flat, clinical, devoid of sympathy.
"Well..." I trail off, unable to form a coherent defense.
Victor's eyes narrow slightly. "If you walk off this set right now, your career is over." He doesn't wait for my response, just turns and walks away, his message delivered with brutal efficiency.
"Fuck!"
—
Adam's point of view
I stare at the Uber app, watching the little car icon inch closer to Lana's house, our house.
I correct myself.
Her house.
It was never mine.
My hands shake as I finish packing the few belongings that are truly mine into a small duffel bag. Not much to show for six months of my life. some clothes, a couple of books, my journal. Everything else, the laptop I write on, the phone in my pocket, even the watch on my wrist, all gifts from Lana. All things I can't bear to take with me.
I place my phone on the kitchen counter, next to the handwritten note I've left her.
After watching Leo's hands around her throat, the way they continued even after the cameras stopped rolling? The look in her eyes as she stared at me across the set, challenging me, humiliating me. I realized she has no qualms about cheating on me. This is something more sinister than just being a pornstar.
The memory makes my stomach lurch. I steady myself against the counter, breathing deeply until the nausea passes.
My Uber is ten minutes away. I take one last look around the apartment, at the life I'm leaving behind. The framed photo of us at Santa Monica pier. The matching coffee mugs in the dish rack.
I should feel something stronger, rage, heartbreak, desperation. Instead, there's just this hollow emptiness, like someone scooped out everything inside me and left nothing but an echo.
I leave my keys on top of the note, making sure the door locks behind me with a final, definitive click.
Outside, the evening air is brisk against my face. I check my wallet. Fourteen dollars and thirty-seven cents. Not even enough for a decent meal. My parents house is the only place I can think to go, though I haven't spoken to them in months. I was too afraid to tell them the truth.
I guess Sarah was right, after all.
Headlights sweep across the pavement, and for a moment I think my Uber has arrived early, but the sleek black Mercedes that pulls up is unmistakable. Morgan. My stomach knots as the passenger window slides down silently.
"Adam, get in," she says, her voice gentle but commanding.
I grip my duffel bag tighter. "Look, I don't want to see Lana right now. I'm not ready."
Morgan shakes her head, red hair catching the streetlight. "I'm not taking you to see Lana. I had an opportunity I wanted to talk about with you today, but you scurried off before I had a chance."
My laugh comes out bitter and hollow. "I'm sorry, but I don't want to do any more porn, alright?"
She sighs, drumming her perfectly manicured nails against the steering wheel. "No, it's nothing like that. Adam, just get in the fucking car."
The way she says it, half command, half plea, is strangely disarming.
"I called an Uber," I say weakly.
"Then the Uber can fuck off," Morgan replies, reaching across to push open the passenger door. "Just get inside, come on."
I chuckle despite myself. It's not like I have anywhere better to go or any money to get there. With a resigned shrug, I toss my duffel in the back and slide into the passenger seat.
The car smells like her perfume, expensive, subtle, intoxicating. As she pulls away from the curb.
"So what's this opportunity?" I ask, watching the familiar neighborhood slide past the window, already feeling like it belongs to another life.
Morgan doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she navigates through several turns, taking us deeper into an upscale neighborhood I've never visited. The houses grow progressively larger, set back from the street behind manicured lawns and ornamental gates.
"I'm not sure this is the best time to discuss business," she finally says, her voice softer than I've ever heard it. "You're clearly upset."
"I'm fine," I lie, staring out the window at mansions that cost more than I'll earn in several lifetimes. "Just tell me what this opportunity is."
Morgan takes a deep breath, slowing the car as we approach a security gate. She punches a code into a keypad, and the massive iron gates swing open silently.
"Actually, we're here. I'll show you instead."
The driveway curves through meticulously landscaped gardens, ending in a circular courtyard before a sprawling Mediterranean-style mansion. Warm light spills from massive windows, illuminating stone columns and terracotta roof tiles. It looks like something from a luxury real estate magazine.
"This is your house?" I ask, unable to keep the awe from my voice.
Morgan nods, a small smile playing at her lips as she parks in front of the imposing double doors. "Home sweet home."
She leads me inside through a foyer with soaring ceilings and marble floors that echo with our footsteps. The interior is tastefully decorated in muted creams and golds, expensive without being ostentatious.
"Living room, formal dining, library through there," she says, gesturing as we pass various doorways. "Kitchen's this way."
The kitchen is massive, all gleaming stainless steel and granite countertops, with a center island big enough to prepare food for a small army. Morgan watches my reaction with amusement as I take it all in.
"Impressive, right? Too bad I barely use it," she says with a sigh, running her hand along the pristine countertop. "I'm a disaster in the kitchen. Mostly just for show and takeout unpacking."
I walk to the professional-grade range, running my fingers over the controls. "This is amazing equipment."
"You know," Morgan says casually, leaning against the island, "I've had your cooking before."
"Yeah, the other night. I remember."
"No, I mean… Whenever you've sent Lana with meals to set, she used to share them," Morgan explains, a genuine smile warming her face. "Those little Tupperware containers of homemade pasta, those amazing cookies. I found them exquisite."
I blink, surprised both that Lana shared my cooking and that Morgan remembers it. "Oh. Thanks."
Morgan's expression shifts, becoming more businesslike as she straightens up. "I've heard all the stories from Lana about what a perfect little house husband you are. She says you're great at cleaning, folding clothes, keeping everything organized."
I shrug, uncomfortable with the praise. "I just like things neat."
"Well, this place," she gestures expansively at the kitchen and beyond, "don't get me wrong, it's not gigantic, but it's eight bedrooms, and I really need help." She takes a step closer, her green eyes locking with mine. "I was wondering if you would want a job as my housing manager and part-time chef."
I blink, caught completely off-guard. "What?"
"I don't want five-star dinners," she continues, her voice softening. "I just want the kind of homemade, lovingly prepared food you cooked for Lana. In fact, your life would be largely similar." She pauses, watching my reaction carefully. "I have a room available for the position if you want it to be live-in."
The offer hangs in the air between us, unexpected and strangely tempting. I have nowhere to go, fourteen dollars to my name, and a broken heart. And here's Morgan, offering me shelter, purpose, and an escape from the humiliation I just endured.
"I don't know," I say hesitantly. "This seems... sudden."
Morgan walks to an elegant wine rack built into the wall, selecting a bottle. "Think about it practically, Adam. You need a place to stay. I need someone to help manage this house. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement." She uncorks the wine with a soft pop. "No strings attached."
As she pours two glasses of deep red wine, I find myself considering her offer more seriously. The alternative is crawling back to my parents, admitting I've been living off a porn star who just publicly humiliated me.
"What would the job entail exactly?" I ask, accepting the glass she offers.
"Basic house management, keeping things clean, organized, stocking the pantry." She takes a sip of her wine, watching me over the rim of her glass. "Preparing meals."
I sip my drink, the wine is rich and complex on my tongue, probably costs more than I used to make in a day at my old job.
"And in return?" I ask cautiously.
"Room and board, plus a generous monthly stipend. I'd rather pay someone I trust than hire a stranger."
"You trust me?" I ask, genuinely surprised. "You barely know me."
Something flickers in her eyes, there and gone so quickly I can't identify it. "I'm a good judge of character," she says simply. "And I've seen how you care for things... for people."
I clear my throat, feeling a sudden lump forming there. "Look, Morgan, I know I seem like I'm handling all this well, but honestly..." My voice cracks embarrassingly. "I'm not as tough as I'm trying to appear right now."
Morgan bursts into laughter, the sound echoing off the expensive marble countertops. It's not cruel, but it's definitely not sympathetic either.
"Oh honey," she says, wiping a tear from her eye, "you don't look tough at all. You look positively broken." She gestures vaguely at my entire being. "Snapped in two, like a twig someone stepped on."
I flinch at her bluntness but can't argue with the assessment. Morgan sets down her wine glass and moves behind me, her hands finding my shoulders. Her fingers dig into the tense muscles with surprising strength.
"But that's okay," she continues, her voice softening as she massages my shoulders. "Sometimes we need to shatter before we can rebuild."
Before I can respond, she guides me toward one of the high-backed stools at the kitchen island, gently but firmly pushing me down onto it.
"I saw you break today, Adam," she says, her green eyes studying my face with unsettling intensity. "I was going to offer you this job anyways, but now I really want to help you." She leans closer, her perfume enveloping me. "I said it before, but I don't think you're cut out to date an active porn star."
The truth of her words hits me like a physical blow. Tears spring to my eyes before I can stop them, hot and humiliating. I blink rapidly, trying to hold them back, but one escapes, trailing down my cheek.
Morgan's expression softens further, something almost maternal crossing her features. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asks, reaching out to wipe away the tear with her thumb.
I swallow hard, embarrassed by my emotional display. "I don't want to trauma dump on you," I mutter, staring down at my hands.
"Trauma dump?" Morgan laughs again, gentler this time. "Adam, you trauma dumped so much when you got blackout drunk at the hotel that night. Why not a little more?" She refills my wine glass with a generous pour. "I really don't mind."
The memory of that night at the hotel is lost. But there's something comforting about Morgan's straightforward approach.
"You really don't mind?" I ask, my voice barely audible as I grip the wine glass like a lifeline.
Morgan leans against the counter, her crimson lips curving into a gentle smile. "Darling, lay it on me."