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And yet . . .
She couldn't shake the memory of Eden's smile, the way her eyes had lit up when Genevieve praised her performance. The warmth of her skin under Genevieve's hands as she'd adjusted her posture. The subtle scent of her perfume, floral and intoxicating.
Genevieve groaned, burying her face in her hands. This was ridiculous. She was being ridiculous. Eden was her lead actress, nothing more. Genevieve needed to focus on the play, on bringing her masterpiece to life and earning the green light for her student program. Not on impossibly blue eyes and a smile that could outshine the stage lights.
But even as she tried to convince herself, Genevieve knew it was a losing battle. The seed had been planted, taking root in her gut despite her best efforts to smother it. She was attracted to Eden Rowley.
The sound of voices in the hallway jolted Genevieve from her reverie. She stood, smoothing her clothes and schooling her features into their usual stern expression. She had a play to direct, after all. She couldn't afford to be distracted by inappropriate feelings for her lead actress.
It was just a crush, she told herself. It would pass. It had to.
6
EDEN
Eden's racing heartbeat seemed to echo through the empty corridors of the theatre as she made her way to the rehearsal space. The building always felt different at night, a hushed anticipation hanging in the air. It was as if the very walls were holding their breath, waiting for the next burst of creativity to fill the space.
She clutched her script tighter, her knuckles white against the worn pages. Weeks had passed since that first tumultuous read-through, and yet the nervous flutter in her stomach refused to subside. If anything, it had only grown more furious with each passing day.
Genevieve Howard was . . . intense. Brilliant, of course. Eden had never worked with a director who could dig right into her soul, who could pull such raw emotion from her performances. But there was something else there too, a friction between them that prickled across her skin whenever Genevieve got close. Eden found herself both terrified and in awe of the older woman in the same moment, desperate for her approval and yet always feeling as if she were teetering on the edge of catastrophic failure.
Nevertheless, this second private rehearsal Genevieve had insisted on had Eden holding herself back from skipping through the building. Though she barely had five seconds to breathe between daytime rehearsals and shifts at the pub, Eden couldn’t wait to be alone with her striking lioness of a director again.
As she approached the rehearsal room, Eden took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. She'd been over the script a thousand times, practicing her lines until her roommates threatened to move out if they heard one more soliloquy. She was ready for anything Genevieve would demand from her. She had to be.
The door creaked open, revealing the intimidating director already inside. She was bent over a table strewn with notes, her brow furrowed in concentration. She didn't look up as Eden entered.
"You're late," Genevieve said, her voice clipped.
Eden glanced at her watch, confused. "I'm actually five minutes early-"
"And I've been here for an hour," Genevieve interrupted, finally looking up. Her dark eyes were sharp, glinting in the harsh fluorescent light. "When I say be here at eight, I expect you to be warmed up and ready to work at eight. Not just walking through the door."
Eden felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment and a touch of indignation. She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. Instead, she simply nodded. "I understand. It won't happen again."
Genevieve held her gaze for a moment longer, then gestured impatiently to the centre of the room. "Let's get started. I want to run through Act Two, Scene One. From Beatrice's entrance."
Eden moved to her mark, shaking out her limbs and taking a few calming breaths. As she began to recite her lines, shefelt herself slowly slipping into Beatrice's skin. The nerves and uncertainty of Eden Rowley fell away, replaced by the sharp wit and barely contained fire of Pearson's reimagined heroine.
But something was off. Genevieve's eyes bore into her, unblinking and critical. With each line, Eden could feel the director's dissatisfaction growing, a palpable weight hanging in the air between them.
"Stop," Genevieve commanded, pinching the bridge of her nose. Eden had grudgingly become accustomed to the director’s displeased tone. "What are you doing?"
Eden faltered instantly, the character slipping away like sand through her fingers. "I . . . I'm doing the scene as we discussed last week. Beatrice is putting on a brave face, hiding her true feelings behind her wit?"
"No," Genevieve cut her off, stalking toward her. "You're playing her as if she's made of glass, about to shatter at any moment. Where is her strength? Her defiance?"
"But I thought?"
"Don't think," Genevieve snapped. "Feel. Beatrice isn't some wilting flower, Eden. She's a force of nature. She's using her wit as a weapon, not a shield. Again, from the top."
Eden took a steadying breath, trying to force some strength into limbs that felt like jelly. She began again, infusing her words with more fire, more bite. But still, Genevieve shook her head.
"More," she demanded. "I need to believe that you could eviscerate a man with nothing but your words. Make me believe it, Eden."
They went back and forth like this, Genevieve pushing and prodding, Eden struggling to meet her ever-shifting expectations. With each repetition, Eden felt herself growing more frustrated, more desperate to please this impossible woman. All the while, the creeping self-doubt threatened to drown her completely.
Just as she felt she might scream, a shrill ring cut through the tension. Genevieve's phone, vibrating insistently on the table beside her notes.
