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Genevieve raised an eyebrow, scepticism clear on her face. "Oh? And what might that be?"
Eden took a deep breath, steeling her nerves. "In the book, Pearson explores Beatrice's relationship with Hero in a new light. What if we incorporated some of that interpretation into this monologue?"
The perfectionist director's eyes narrowed, but Eden could see a glimmer of interest there. "Go on," she said, her voice carefully neutral.
"Well, later in the play, Beatrice goes on to have her . . . awakening," Eden explained, her words coming faster as her excitement grew. "She realizes her feelings for Hero go beyond familial love. It adds this whole new layer to her anger and frustration . . . not just at the world and its constraints, but at her own conflicted emotions."
Genevieve nodded slowly. "And how would this change show itself in this monologue?"
"It would add depth to her fury," Eden suggested. "Not just righteous anger on behalf of her cousin, but a more personal anguish. The pain of watching someone you love be hurt,coupled with the frustration of not being able to express those feelings openly."
As she spoke, Eden could see the idea taking root in Genevieve's mind. The director's eyes were alight with possibility, her earlier irritation forgotten in the face of this new creative challenge.
"Show me," Genevieve demanded suddenly.
Eden nodded, her heart pounding. This was her chance to prove herself, to show Genevieve what she was truly capable of. When she began to speak, her voice was lower, charged with a more subtle anger. She brought forth the deep-rooted frustration of Beatrice’s sexual uncertainty that she could relate to only too well. The words poured out of her, raw and passionate. But now, there was an undercurrent of something else. A personal anguish that went beyond mere indignation.
As she continued, Eden let all the complicated emotions she imagined this Beatrice might feel colour her performance. The disappointment in Benedick and fury at Claudio, yes, but also the ache of hidden love, the fear of discovery, the frustration of being unable to truly defend the woman she adored. She tried hard to ignore how naturally the quiet anguish came to her as she channelled this alternate perspective.
Once she delivered the last line and fell silent, Eden watched Genevieve’s face carefully, desperately trying to determine what conclusions were whirring behind those piercing eyes. "You continue to surprise me, Miss Rowley,” the director eventually admitted.
The use of her surname sent an unfamiliar heat licking down Eden's spine. There was something in Genevieve's tone, in the intensity of her gaze, that made the actress’ heart race.
"I'm glad," Eden said softly. "I just want to do justice to your vision."
Genevieve took another step closer. "You spoke like someone who knows what it feels like to guard a secret.”
Eden's breath caught in her throat. The tension between them, always simmering beneath the surface, now felt like a living thing, electric and dangerous.
"I . . ." Eden began, but found herself at a loss for words. How could she articulate the maelstrom of emotions swirling within her? The admiration, the fear, the longing?
Genevieve's eyes searched her face, seeming to read every micro-expression, every fleeting thought. Eden nodded, not trusting her voice. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure Genevieve must be able to hear it.
And then, before she could process what was happening, Genevieve’s lips were on hers.
The kiss was fierce, almost desperate. Eden gasped in surprise, and Genevieve took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, her tongue sweeping into Eden's mouth.
For a moment, Eden was too shocked to respond. But then instinct took over, and she found herself reacting with equal fervour. Her hands came up to tangle in Genevieve's perfectly styled hair, eagerly pulling her closer.
Genevieve's hands were everywhere, cupping Eden's face, trailing down her sides, gripping her hips. Each touch sent sparks shooting through Eden's body, igniting a fire she hadn't dared acknowledge, but which had been gently glowing all these weeks.
All too soon, they broke apart, both gasping for air. Eden's mind was reeling, trying to process what had just happened. She stared at Genevieve, wide-eyed and breathless.
The director looked equally stunned, her perfect hair mussed, her perfect lipstick smudged. For once, she seemed at a loss for words.
"I . . ." Genevieve began, then stopped, shaking her head as if to clear it. "Eden, I . . ."
But whatever she was going to say was cut off as Eden surged forward, capturing Genevieve's lips in another hungry kiss. This time, there was no hesitation. They came together like two halves of a whole, hands greedily grasping at each other, bodies pressing close.
Eden felt as if she were drowning and flying all at once. Every touch, every taste was electric, sending shockwaves right down to a throbbing ache between her thighs. She had never felt anything like this before, this all-consuming passion, this desperate need for the woman in her arms. Her pitiful experiences over the years had been distinctly lacklustre.
As the realisation barrelled into her, Eden pulled back. Her legs felt weak and she gripped Genevieve's shoulders to steady herself.
"Well," Genevieve exhaled, her voice husky. "That was . . ."
"Bold of me. Sorry . . ." Eden finished for her, a small, nervous laugh escaping her lips.
Genevieve nodded, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "To say the least."
