Page 12 of Royal Crush
Camillo continued to pretend like I didn’t exist, but I wasn’t having that.
“Cool. I didn’t either. But hey, if you have any tips for me when?—”
“I don’t.” His voice was short, clipped, a carefully curated accent that most of the country attributed to the royal family. His was more muted than the rest of his family, like he’d been working on getting rid of it. That hadn’t surprised me with how little time he spent on royal duties.
“Okay, well, if you think of something?—”
“I won’t. Now, be quiet.” He gave me a pointed look, and in spite of myself, my jaw snapped shut. Fuck. I had never responded to someone’s glare like that before. I swallowed heavily as our gazes connected. His eyes bored into me, holding me almost like he had his hand around my throat.
My chest went hot.
“The only reason I’m here today,” he went on, “is because they asked me last minute so I could see what a table read islike. I’ll be on set telling you what a shitty job you’re doing once they begin filming.”
My throat went tight and burned as I swallowed. Why the fuck did I care what this man thought? Why did I suddenly want to cry and drop to my knees and beg him to teach me how to be good?
Something wasseriouslywrong with me. I cleared my throat loudly, then reached for the water bottle in front of my script and cracked the top, taking a long drink.
“I will say you shouldn’t show up to work high,” he added quietly.
My grip spasmed on the water, and I almost doused myself in it. “If one more fucking person says that to me, I swear to God?—”
“I’m here. Sorry.” Eamon strolled into the room, cutting off my words. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Camillo flush a little when Eamon winked at him.
Fuck. I mean, I didn’t blame Camillo for being thirsty, but his words had already cut me straight down to the core, and remembering Eamon thought the same thing—shit, maybe I should quit.
Maybe I should give up before I got started because this was going to be a mess.
No one was going to trust me, and I had a feeling no matter what I did, I’d never be good enough to prove I was anything other than some teenage junkie falling apart on set.
“Alright, now that everyone’s here, let’s get started.” That was the director, Christoph. He was young—a sort of up-and-coming with parents who had been in the business, but everything I knew about him said he was desperate to prove he wasn’t a nepo baby. Or, at least, he wasn’tonlya nepo baby.
It was relatable.
He smiled at me, eyes crinkled behind his black-framed glasses, but it wasn’t really a friendly grin. I had no idea what to make of him, so I brushed it off and grabbed my script when he picked up his own.
“We open with Prince Camillo, played by the returning silver-screen heartthrob Aleric King. He’s sitting at a table in front of his date. He’s nervous. It’s risky. He hasn’t been seen with a man in public since his accident.”
I had no idea if he’d called me a heartthrob because he could tell I was about ready to jump ship or if he was being sarcastic and cruel. But it was just enough to fill me with a sort of spite to prove myself and keep my ass rooted firmly in my seat.
I could do this, damn it. I couldearnthis.
I picked up the script and cleared my throat, affecting the voice I’d been using for Camillo. It was odd doing it right there in front of him, but the muscle memory of becoming someone else hadn’t entirely atrophied, and it was too easy to fall into the role.
“Thank you for meeting me. And sorry I didn’t stand up when you got in, but there was something I needed to tell you, and it only felt fair that I say it in person. My name is Prince Camillo, and I didn’t get up because I can’t.”
As every table read went, there was applause at the end, and we all collected our scripts, which were now covered in notes. Surprisingly, I had very few, and Camillo had been silent through the entire thing. I caught him staring a few times, but his face was entirely unreadable, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I felt really annoyed that I couldn’t tell what his tiny little face journeys were about, but I hoped I could figure him out in time. He had taken several sharp breaths, and I was waiting on edge for him to give me some sort of correction.
But he never did.
The silence was worse. The silence always meant I did something wrong, and I would be punished for it later.
Except that wasn’t true. Not anymore. I wasn’t a child under the care of some heartless studio predator who existed to sell my face and body to the masses while collecting a fat paycheck in my name. I wasn’t going to be locked in my dressing room and then fed crushed pills in my food to keep me compliant.
This time, I was my own man. I’d have to own my own fuckups, but I was safe.
I wassafe.
