The Paparazzi Trap

The happiness lasted exactly twenty-four hours.

Clarissa Sterling, the ex-fiancée, was not blind. She saw the dailies. She saw the chemistry between Sebastian and the "nobody" assistant. More importantly, she saw that Sebastian was suddenly... popular. The crew liked him. The internet was responding to leaked photos of him in the blue hoodie with comments like *"Wait, is Malakor cozy now?"*

Clarissa wanted her accessory back.

She cornered Sebastian outside his trailer the next morning.

Penny was walking up with two coffees, smiling, rehearsing a joke she wanted to tell him.

She rounded the corner just in time to see Clarissa throw her arms around Sebastian.

It was a trap. A photographer—tipped off by Clarissa—popped out from behind a grip truck. *Click. Click. Click.*

Sebastian stood there, frozen, his arms stiff at his sides. But in the photo, it would look like an embrace.

Clarissa pulled back, smiling. "We look good together, Seb. The fans miss us. Maybe we should give it another shot? For the ratings?"

Penny stopped. The coffees felt heavy in her hands.

She looked at Sebastian. He was the star. He was the wealthy, talented, beautiful actor. Clarissa was the beautiful, famous co-star.

And Penny? Penny was the 3rd AD. The invisible girl. The fixer.

She had deluded herself. She thought she was the love interest, but she was just the training montage. She was the one who fixed the hero up so he could go back to the princess.

Sebastian pushed Clarissa away. "Clarissa, no. I—"

He looked up and saw Penny.

"Penny!" he called out, stepping toward her.

Penny dropped the coffees into a trash can. She put up her emotional walls—the ones she used to survive twelve-hour shifts and screaming producers.

"I have to get to set," she said, her voice flat. "The 1st AD needs me."

"Penny, wait," Sebastian said. "It wasn't what it looked like."

"It doesn't matter," Penny said, refusing to look at him. "You got what you wanted, Sebastian. You're approachable now. You’re desirable. You don't need a coach anymore."

"I don't want a coach," Sebastian said, panic rising in his voice. "I want—"

"I'm busy, Mr. Vane," she said, using his last name. It hit him like a slap.

She turned and walked away.

For the next three days, she was a ghost. She avoided his trailer. She sent a runner with his coffee. She stayed on the other side of the soundstage.

Sebastian tried to approach her, but his "Villain" reputation worked against him. When he marched toward her with intensity, security guards stepped in, thinking he was having a method-acting breakdown.

He was alone again. And the blue hoodie didn't feel cozy anymore. It felt cold.

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