"Cut!"
"Cut!"
"Cut!"
The director yelled "Cut!" three times, but my actor husband was still locked in a kiss with his high school sweetheart.
As his assistant, I cleared my throat, but Olivia burst into tears, claiming she was "too deep in character."
In front of the crew, Ryan snapped at me, saying I had a dirty mind that saw scandal in everything. That night, TMZ caught them at the Four Seasons together.
In the past, I'd have been devastated, crying while calling our PR team. But now, I realized our five-year secret marriage meant nothing.
Right after meeting the divorce lawyer, I entered the green room. The moment Ryan saw me, his smile vanished. "Emma, you should know your place. This is the place for leads only. What are you doing here?"
I grabbed my thermos from the vanity. "Getting my things."
Ryan had started at five AM. I'd made the soup at three. The thermos was full – he hadn't touched it.
Seeing me leave, he frowned. "Don't bother cooking anymore. It's terrible." Not his first time saying that.
Before, I'd have exploded: "Didn't you want my cooking forever? When did it become so bad?" But now, I didn't care.
I just said "Fine" and left. Ryan called after me, "Production dinner tonight. Director wants me to review lines with Olivia."
I ignored his guilty tone and said, "Whatever."
Outside, I trashed the thermos. We'd filmed near home, so Ryan hadn't booked a hotel.
He came home at 1 AM. Finding me not waiting up, Ryan pushed into the bedroom. "Emma, you know I need my tea to sleep. Where is it?"
I pulled up my covers. "Ran out. You could order delivery."
Ryan slammed his office door – his way of showing anger. Before, I'd have spent the night worrying, then apologizing.
But that night, he waited till morning, and I never knocked.
Next day, filming moved to the mountains outside the city.
For once, Ryan let me ride in his car. As I got in, Olivia appeared in a revealing dress. "Ryan, got bug spray? Mosquitoes love me."
Seeing me, she changed tone. "Oh, Emma? Maybe I should take another car—"
Before she finished, Ryan cut in, "Emma, take a hint. Go to the crew van."
For the first time, I left without a word.
Watching me go, Ryan frowned. Five minutes later, I got his text:
[Olivia has a leg scene today. Don't misunderstand.]
[Ok.] I replied shortly.
Then I saw his typing bubble stayed on. I just closed the app and turned off my phone directly.
Without Ryan's demands, the scenery was more beautiful than before. We wrapped at eleven.
As we finished, a scaffold collapsed unexpectedly. In a second, Ryan pushed Olivia away, and they fell together, lips meeting as they landed.
The crew erupted in whistles and applause while Olivia melted into Ryan's embrace, playing shy.
"Oh guys, stop! There's nothing between Ryan and me," she gushed. Ryan just held her tighter, saying nothing.
I bit back a groan, pushing away the metal rigging that had slammed into my leg, yanking out a jagged piece that had buried itself in my calf. I hobbled away to patch myself up. By the time I made it back to set, everyone had ghosted.
The mountain darkness stretched forever, punctuated by coyote calls.
I huddled against a massive oak, clutching a broken branch like a lifeline, my injured leg throbbing. No sleep, just pure adrenaline keeping watch through the endless night.
Dawn finally broke, and I started my shaky descent. Halfway down, my phone caught signal.
Ryan's voice exploded through the speaker: "What's your deal, Emma? Dodging calls, slacking off! Olivia got eaten alive by bugs during the night shoot. Get your ass to Walgreens and grab her some cortisone!"
Everyone in Hollywood knew Olivia James as America's sweetheart – the A-lister who famously did everything herself, no entourage required. But the public didn't know Ryan secretly managed her life, with me as his ghost assistant.
When I didn't respond, he snapped: "Emma, are you deaf? Thirty minutes. Get back to set. Now!"
"I'm still on the mountain," I said quietly.
The line went dead silent before his voice returned. "You spent the night up there? Alone?"
Scanning the trees, I could've sworn I saw amber eyes watching me, waiting. Something in me cracked. Delayed terror hit me like a tsunami, tears burning my eyes.
Ryan's voice softened. "Don't move. I'll come get you. Give me an hour." The sun climbed higher, hours crawled by. But Ryan never showed.
I dragged myself back to set on my mangled leg. When Ryan stalked into the trailer, I was finishing a call with a potential new assistant.
His eyes zeroed in on my phone, suspicious. "Who were you talking to?"
"Nobody you know," I said flatly.
Ryan assumed spam call. He didn't push, I didn't explain.
"Figured you'd be starving," he muttered, dropping a takeout container on the folding table.
The box reeked, leftovers visible through the cracked lid.
Ryan snatched it back, clearing his throat. "Maybe there are catering mix-up."
Hah. With the kind of people who dined at the same table as a famous actor like Jacob, how could possibly take the wrong box?
I rolled over on the cot, facing away. "Whatever. My DoorDash is coming anyway."
Ryan's face darkened. "Since when do you order out? Emma, how many times do I have to say it? There's nothing between me and Olivia. It's all PR, creating buzz for the show. Why are you being so dramatic?"
I kept my voice ice-cold. "I'm not being dramatic."
The truth only pissed him off more. He trashed the takeout box. "Then why isn't Olivia's medicine here? You know I can't hit up CVS without getting mobbed. It's not rocket science, Emma. Why are you making this so difficult?"
Picking up meds was simple enough. But what about the other demands? Olivia's "germaphobia" meant all her designer stuff needed hand-washing.
Last winter, shooting in Montana's negative temps, Ryan had me washing her cashmere in ice water. When my frostbitten hands bled on her Hermès scarf, Ryan kicked me out of the heated trailer. Made me wash everything in the snow wearing just my thermal. All because Olivia casually mentioned, "Ryan, my aromatherapist says snow's great for circulation."
I'd always been Ryan's perfect little puppet, dancing to his every command. Five years of being his shadow servant had burned me out.
I yanked the blanket over my head. "I'm sick. I don’t want to go."
The trailer fell silent before Ryan stormed out. That night, #RyanAndOlivia broke Twitter.
The viral clip showed Ryan carrying Olivia bridal-style into Cedars-Sinai, yelling for help.
The comments exploded:
[OMG is this THE Ryan Mitchell finally going public???]
[Bridal carry! Dead. My 200lb ass could never]
[Wait why emergency room tho??? Is she ok???]
[Set insider here – girl had like a slight temp and mans SPRINTED her off her massage table straight to the ER]
[MY SHIP IS SAILING Y'ALL]
Mid-scroll, Ryan called.
Before I could speak, he rushed in: "Emma, Olivia mentioned feeling feverish, I only took her to get checked because we can't delay production. The Twitter storm means nothing. There's nothing between us."
"Got it," I said simply.
My casual response left him hanging. "What did you say?"
"It's just promo for the show. I get it. Don't worry, I'll handle the press."
His breathing turned heavy on the line – that familiar warning sign before a storm. I'd heard this pattern countless times over our five years together.
I hung up and turned off my phone.
Using my work phone, I contacted all the major entertainment reporters in the country. I told them to run with the story of Ryan carrying Olivia to the hospital, suggesting they dig deeper into their past connection.
"Ms. Mitchell, are you sure about this?" The reporters couldn't hide their shock. Their voices wavered between professional calm and barely contained excitement.
Can't blame them for being surprised.
For years, I'd been the one paying to bury these stories, always explaining them away as on-set chemistry for the cameras.
But now, with divorce papers waiting in my drawer, I needed leverage for our asset split. "One condition," I said firmly.
The reporters paused, their silence expectant. "Go ahead."
"Fifty percent of the profits. If you agree, we sign now, and I'll provide you with more insider details." My voice remained steady as I made the offer.
My confidence made them hungry. Nothing sells better than a star's secret romance, especially one with a history.
By morning, Ryan and Olivia's high school sweetheart story dominated entertainment news. Their reunion was everywhere, spawning endless speculation and fan theories.
Instead of running my usual damage control, I was interviewing potential replacements for my position.
That night, Ryan rushed home from his shoot in another city. The moment he walked in, I could smell Olivia's perfume clinging to his clothes, mixed with hospital antiseptic.
"Nothing to say for yourself?" he demanded, his voice tight with barely controlled anger.
His stare was cold and deadly, reminding me of the snake I'd faced on that mountain. Some predators, I'd learned, showed their true nature only when cornered.
"Do you realize what you've done to Olivia's career? Reporters are surrounding her house. She can't even step outside!" His voice rose with each word.
I kept watching TV and eating chips, not bothering to look up.
"Isn't this exactly what the fans want? Perfect publicity for the show. I made this decision after weighing the pros and cons," I said calmly, letting each word sink in.
Those were his exact words from two years ago.
Back then, Olivia was filming her first major scene – a dramatic cliff fall. Right before shooting, she'd turned on the waterworks about her fear of heights.
To keep production moving and make it look authentic, Ryan had volunteered me as her double, forcing me to jump from over thirty feet with no safety equipment.
"The crew has safety measures at the bottom. What are you waiting for?" he'd said, impatience clear in his voice.
"Ryan… I'm scared of heights too." I'd grabbed his arm desperately, only for him to shake me off like an annoying child.
"When did you get so difficult?" he'd sneered. "Olivia shows up and suddenly you're afraid of heights? Are you putting on an act?"
"But I really can't…" I'd sobbed, trembling at the edge.
"No more excuses! I've weighed the pros and cons." With those words, Ryan had pushed me off the cliff, my scream echoing against the rocks.
My face never even showed in the final cut.
Even now, fans praise Olivia for never using doubles in her stunts. That scene launched her career into the stratosphere.
Me? That fall without safety measures left me with a broken leg and six months in the hospital.
During my entire stay, Ryan visited exactly once – when Olivia needed a bandage for a cat scratch.
Even though I was in the next room, he wouldn't step inside, claiming it would dirty his shoes.
I'd listened to their laughter through the thin hospital walls, clutching my pain medication.
Now he stood speechless in our living room, my words finally hitting their mark. The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken accusations.
Silently, I pulled out the prepared divorce papers, placed them on the coffee table, and said with a calmness that surprised even me,
"Ryan, let's get divorced."
"What did you say?" Ryan stood frozen, staring at me like he'd misheard. "Emma?"
I picked up a pen, signed each page of the divorce papers, and pushed them toward him.
"I said, I want a divorce," I repeated.
Ryan loosened his collar, frowning. "Are you losing it? Who'd want you, a woman past her prime, after me?"
So in Ryan's eyes, I was "past my prime" at thirty.
I tossed the pen at him. "Ever heard 'thirty is the new twenty'? By the way, after the divorce, I won't be your assistant anymore. Give me a few days to brief my replacement on your schedule."
My directness drew a mocking laugh from him.
He pointed at me, eyes flashing with impatience. "Emma, you're playing with fire, and you're going to get burned!"
As if on cue, Olivia's ringtone filled the room. Ryan didn't answer, just fixed me with a threatening stare.
"Weren't you the one always talking about having a baby before thirty? I know you're ovulating this week." His voice turned calculating. "I'm giving you three seconds to take it all back."
Last year, on my 29th birthday, I'd turned my fertility tracking into a shared calendar event, scheduling our attempts at starting a family. Ryan didn't know I'd stopped marking those dates last month.
The ringtone echoed through the room like a countdown. Three seconds passed, and the last thread between us snapped.
"You've got nerve, Emma. Let's see how long you can keep this up!" He stormed out of the house.
The moment the door slammed, I picked up my phone and scheduled an appointment at the clinic for the day after tomorrow.
At the clinic, the doctor looked at the ultrasound and hesitated. "Ms. Mitchell, the pregnancy is progressing normally. Are you sure you don't want to discuss this with the father?" Just then, my phone lit up with a trending notification. A clip from last night's film gala.
The camera caught Ryan and Olivia sitting together, exchanging shy glances and secret smiles.
Then Olivia, emboldened by the crowd and cameras, kissed Ryan. He grabbed her neck, pulling her close. I muted the audience's screams by closing the video.
I accidentally opened a high-res photo from one of the reporters. There, on Ryan's throat, were two small bite marks.
On our wedding night, when Ryan was still a struggling actor, he'd pinned me to our bed, teasing me. He'd guided my head to his throat, his voice husky: "Emma, bite me."
Only when my teeth marked his skin did he finally hold me close, kissing my hair repeatedly.
"It hurts – this isn't a dream. Emma, I really married you." Back then, I was his dream come true.
I locked my phone and closed my eyes. "Go ahead, doctor."
It wasn't as painful as I'd imagined. Afterward, I felt strangely lighter. The next morning, post-discharge, I met my replacement at a nearby coffee shop. To ensure they wouldn't face the same treatment I had, I'd chosen a male assistant. I reviewed the final details with Max Phillips.
"Why are you leaving? Ryan's amazing. So many people would kill to be his assistant," he said.
I gave a slight smile. "I'm getting too old. This job needs someone young and hungry like you."
Max studied me, his expression a mix of confusion and respect. "You don't seem old at all. You've been with Ryan through everything, from nobody to star. You've been incredible."
I offered him a faint smile and tucked the signed contract away. "Maybe. Good luck, Max. I hope it goes well."
Back home, I found Ryan – who was supposed to be filming in another state – sitting on our couch. His bloodshot eyes fixed on me. "Emma, where were you last night?"
"Why do you care?" I shot back.
I changed my shoes and headed for the bedroom. How many nights had I asked him the same question? I'd called his friends one by one, desperate to find him.
Sometimes they'd cover for him. Other times, an angry Ryan would grab the phone and snap, "Emma, my whereabouts are none of your business! I'm grown. I need my privacy. Stop being so controlling!"
While I absorbed his verbal attacks, I'd plan my apologies, hoping he'd drink less. But behind my concern, I'd hear Olivia's soft voice: "Ryan, come dance…" He'd hang up before I could say more.
Now, hearing my own words thrown back at him, Ryan stiffened and followed me to the bedroom. He threw two photos at my face, eyes blazing. "Emma, who’s him?"
