Chapter 81 – Harry POV
I look in the mirror and I can't believe it.
The costume fits perfectly—tailored to look like the soft domestic life my character once had. This is still a minor role in the grand scheme of the film, but it's not insignificant. Not when Mason Greene is the lead.
The Mason Greene.
Alpha, A list Celebrity. One of the hottest and most successful actors alive. He's tall, with that effortlessly disheveled brunette hair that curls just right at the ends, and a smile that should be illegal. Broad-shouldered, long-legged, the kind of man who makes standing in a room feel like a cinematic moment.
And he's known for being kind. Genuinely, sincerely kind.
Which makes all of this even more terrifying.
Because, apparently, I'm supposed to seduce him.
Not in real life. Just in the context of this production. My role? His character's dead husband. A retired spy who gave up everything for love—until his past came back to destroy it.
So I'm the ghost. The soft memory. The one that haunts him.
It's a dream role. Small, yes. But meaningful.
And all I can think about is what Ivan said when he handed me the script: "Make him remember you."
I splash cold water on my face and exit the bathroom, still reeling from the moment. The script reading is already underway by the time I slide into my seat.
Everyone's here. The producers. The director. Half the cast. There's murmuring as I walk in—soft and cutting.
"That's him."
"Isn't that Dorian's omega?"
"Thought he disappeared."
"He must've gotten here through him."
I keep my chin up. My stomach knots, but I pretend not to hear it. This is fine. This is what Ivan warned me about.
Mason Greene walks in a few moments later. The room stills.
He's just as commanding in person, dressed in a simple black shirt and jeans, like he doesn't need the costume to play the role. His presence alone carries the weight of a star.
And then he walks directly toward me.
My heart leaps into my throat.
He extends a hand with a smile that's devastating in its softness.
"You must be Harry. I've heard a lot about you."
I stand, stammer something that sounds like a greeting, and shake his hand.
His palm is warm. His grip is firm.
We sit. The script reading begins. I manage to get through my lines without combusting. I'm not even the focus today, and yet people keep whispering.
It starts again.
"His sponsor probably pulled some strings."
"That kind of role? It's too polished for him."
Before I can shrink into myself, Mason sets his script down.
"Is there a problem with the casting?" His voice is calm, but it cuts across the table like a knife. Everyone quiets.
One of the crew members mumbles something vague.
Mason looks at me. "Harry's delivery was perfect. Better than most I've seen. He's here because he deserves to be. Let's focus on the work."
And just like that, silence.
My face burns. My hands are trembling under the table.
No one's ever done that for me before. No one's ever stood up for me like that.
After the session, as everyone slowly disperses, I pack up my things, still trying to process the rush of emotions.
Mason approaches.
"Don't let them get to you," he says gently.
I try to smile. It's shaky.
"Thank you," I say. "For earlier."
He shrugs like it's nothing. "They'll come around. People always do when they realize they're wrong."
He pulls out his phone. "Here, give me your number. That way we can run lines or meet up before the next table read."
I blink at him, stunned. Then fumble for my phone.
We exchange numbers.
He gives me a small wink before heading off with the rest of the cast.
And I just stand there, watching him walk away, my heart thudding wildly in my chest.