A street interview had suddenly gone viral, setting the internet ablaze. In the clip, a Swiss doctor—someone I knew all too well—spoke a few candid sentences that sent Dominic West, the reigning king of the box office, straight to the top of the trending charts. The doctor spoke of a girl Dominic had loved while he was blind. A pregnancy. A devastating breakup. The rumors spread like a wildfire in a drought. By noon the next day, I was sitting on a folding chair on set, picking at a lukewarm salad from a plastic container. The whispers around me were relentless. "Someone tracked down her old Instagram," a stylist whispered, leaning toward a makeup artist. "You can’t see her face, but she was definitely with Dominic when he was at that clinic in the Alps. The kid, the split—it’s all real." "So, Dominic West got dumped? Along with his kid? That’s legendary," the makeup artist replied, shaking her head. "He’s on set today, isn't he? Imagine if..." Mid-sentence, a colleague turned to me, a sudden thought crossing her face. "Wait, Jocelyn, didn't you mention you lived in Switzerland for a few years?" I froze, my fork hovering over a wilted piece of kale. I shook my head slowly. "I was in Australia," I lied. The words felt like ash in my mouth. I tossed the salad into the trash and walked away from the catering tent, my heart hammering against my ribs. After standing alone in the shade of a soundstage for a long time, I pulled out my phone and logged into an account I hadn't touched in half a decade. 1 The handle was @Joss_Writes. The moment the app opened, I was blinded by a sea of red notifications. Tens of thousands of new followers. DMs and comments numbering in the tens of thousands. I took a shaky breath, my thumb hovering over the screen. First, I locked the account to private. Then, I disabled the comments and the messaging feature. Only then did I dare to look at what they were saying. —Why did you leave him? Why did you keep the kid and then disappear? Do you have a soul? —Used him and ditched him. Cold-blooded. Respect, sis. —Looks like she was struggling abroad. How did a guy like Dominic even look at her? I closed my eyes. This account was a relic. During those years in Switzerland, I had used it to document the mundane details of my life: my graduate studies, my part-time shifts at the café, my anxieties, and my life with Dominic. After the breakup, I had buried this digital version of myself. I ignored the rest of the comments and clicked on the trending hashtags instead. Dominic’s name was plastered everywhere. #DominicWestUnwedFather was tagged as "Explosive." I clicked the video that had started it all. The man being interviewed was Dr. Schneider, Dominic’s primary surgeon in Zurich. I’d seen him dozens of times. "They were supposed to be Venus and Adonis," the doctor said in the video, his voice tinged with a thick German accent. "But just as the boy was about to regain his sight, the girl vanished. I never understood why." He paused, a look of genuine regret crossing his face. "He never even got to see the face of the woman he loved." The doctor hadn't used names. But the internet is a bloodhound. Based on the timeline and a few key details about the surgery, they had found Dominic within hours. And by extension, they had found me. I remembered the day I had made Dominic follow me on his private account. A wave of regret washed over me. If I had known, I would have scrubbed every trace of us from the world. "Josie? You there?" A hand touched my shoulder, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I shoved the phone into my pocket. It was Ben, Dominic’s assistant. He looked winded. "Sorry, I’ve been calling your name for a minute." I forced a professional smile. "Sorry, Ben. My mind was elsewhere. What’s up?" "Dom wants to go over some of the dialogue for the lead. He’s in the trailer." 2 Dominic and I weren't supposed to be on the same project. But two weeks before production started, the original lead had been caught in a scandal, and the studio had brought Dominic in to save the film. Ben led me to the massive silver trailer parked at the edge of the lot. It was August in Atlanta—the air was a thick, humid blanket. The door opened, and a blast of frigid air-conditioning hit me. Dominic was sprawled on the leather sofa, a script covering his face. He looked effortlessly disheveled in a white tank top and cargo pants—the "rugged" look for today's scene. "Dom?" Ben called out softly. Dominic moved. The script slid off his face, revealing the sharp, punishingly handsome features that had made him a global icon. He turned his head, his dark eyes settling on me. "You're here," he said. This wasn't our first meeting since the Alps. We’d had a formal table read a week ago. Back then, he had only given me a curt nod, treating me like a stranger. I had changed my name, moved across the country, and even trained myself to speak in a lower, more professional register. He had never seen my face back then. It was only natural he wouldn't recognize me now. "Which scenes are we looking at?" I asked, sitting in the chair across from him, keeping my voice clipped. Ben stayed outside, closing the door. The heat was gone, replaced by a silence so cold it felt brittle. Dominic didn't look at the script. "Nothing you want to ask me first?" I blinked, feigning confusion. "About the script?" "About the kid." My palms began to sweat. I forced a polite, hollow laugh. "Why would I ask about that?" He didn't speak for a moment, his gaze searching mine. Then, a slow, mocking smile spread across his lips. "The whole world is talking about it. I figured even a dedicated professional like you would be curious." I looked away. "I’m not interested in the private lives of the talent." "Is that so?" Dominic let out a soft, dry chuckle. "You’ve always been good at staying focused on yourself, haven't you, Josie?" He left the sentence hanging in the air, a hidden barb that hit its mark. He turned his attention to the script, leaving me to listen to the sound of pages turning. My fingers felt numb. I had seen the baby only once, right after he was born. A beautiful, tiny boy. One look, and then I had handed him over to Dominic’s mother. I didn't even know his name. 3 "The scene where the lead meets the girl who claims to be a time-traveler," Dominic said suddenly. "I think his reaction should be colder." I shook off my thoughts and leaned in to look at the page. "We discussed this. He needs to be skeptical, but not cruel." "Cruel?" He arched a brow. "He has no memory of her. The only thing he knows is that she’s a ghost from a past he’d rather forget. Being cruel feels... honest." I hesitated. "Audiences need to root for the protagonist. If he’s too aggressive, we lose the 'save the cat' moment—" "So, his anger is just supposed to evaporate?" The question cut me off. I looked up and collided with the storm in Dominic’s eyes. For a heartbeat, I thought he was shouting at me—not about the script, but about the way I had walked out on him five years ago. He had every right to hate me. In the silence, Dominic was the first to look away. The intensity vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "Sorry. I’m getting too into the character. My apologies, Jocelyn." I swallowed hard and shook my head. "It’s fine. You're just looking out for the role." The air in the trailer felt suffocating. I was searching for an excuse to leave when a cup of iced coffee appeared in my line of sight. "Take it," he said. His hand was steady, his fingers long and pale. My stomach cramped—a familiar, dull ache. I didn't take it. "No, thank you. I—" Before I could finish, there was a sharp knock on the door. Ben opened it halfway, looking apologetic. "Dom, Seraphina is here." Seraphina Knight, the film's second lead, poked her head inside. "Dom!" She flashed him a dazzling smile before turning her gaze to me. "Oh, Jocelyn. I heard you were in here. I actually had some questions about my dialogue." Dominic’s hand, still holding the coffee, paused in mid-air. He shifted his gaze to Seraphina and offered the cup to her. "Want this?" Seraphina’s eyes lit up. She squeezed past Ben and took the coffee. "Oh my god, you're a lifesaver, Dom. You're too good to me." Dominic smiled, a casual, easy expression. He tilted his head toward me. "I think I might have overstepped with Jocelyn. She seems a bit... overwhelmed." 4 I didn't know what to say. I moved to get up, but Dominic’s hand clamped around my wrist. His skin was ice-cold, sending a jolt through my system. He smirked. "It’s too hot outside. Stay in here and talk to Seraphina. I can be a gentleman sometimes." "I’m going to hair and makeup," he added, releasing me as if I were nothing. He walked out without looking back. Seraphina giggled, leaning against the counter. "He’s so sweet. He remembered I was on my period and got me this specific latte. He’s usually so private, but with me..." I didn't respond. I had heard the rumors—that Seraphina only got this role because Dominic had hand-picked her. He rarely let anyone into his inner circle, let alone his trailer. Seraphina was the exception. Looking at her, I could see why. She had a certain look—something about the shape of her eyes—that was a haunting echo of the girl Dominic used to love. Seraphina sipped the drink, her eyes narrowing. "So... do you think it’s true? The kid? The mystery woman who dumped him?" I tried to pivot. "I thought you wanted to discuss the script?" She ignored me, leaning back. "I looked at that girl’s Instagram. Honestly? Nothing special." She pulled out her phone and pulled up @Joss_Writes. 5 "Wait, it’s gone!" Seraphina gasped. "The posts are all hidden. She’s definitely guilty of something." I felt a headache blooming behind my eyes. "If you're so curious, why don't you ask Dominic yourself?" She glared at me as if I’d suggested she jump off a cliff. "Ask him to his face? Are you insane? You do it." "He’s nice to work with, but his private life is a fortress," she continued. "Last year, an interviewer asked about his 'mystery muse' from Europe, and Dom shut him down so hard the guy almost lost his job. Nobody goes there." I’d heard about that. Most actors play the game, giving vague answers to avoid trouble. Dominic was different. He had the clout of two Oscars; he didn't have to play by anyone's rules. "Whatever," Seraphina said, tossing her phone onto the sofa. "It’s all in the past anyway. I doubt he even thinks about her anymore." She flashed a self-assured grin. "Besides, there are better options for the mother of his child now." Finally, she opened the script and pointed to several scenes. "As the female lead’s best friend, I think I need more lines here. And here. Actually, I think there should be a scene where Dominic’s character and mine have a moment alone. Maybe a dream sequence? Or maybe my character gets possessed by the lead girl’s spirit?" She was trying to turn a high-concept sci-fi romance into a soap opera just to get more screen time with Dominic. "No," I said firmly. "That doesn't make sense for the narrative." "It’s not realistic," I added, trying to be diplomatic. "The script is locked, and the studio won't approve a major structural change this late in the game." Seraphina’s face darkened. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Jocelyn, do you really think you're that important on this set?" 6 Seraphina’s retaliation was swift. That afternoon, we were filming a dinner scene between the leads. The extra who was supposed to play the wandering violinist had fallen through, and the director was scrambling. I had no intention of volunteering. I did enough odd jobs on set as it was. Besides, keeping a low profile was my survival strategy. But Seraphina pointed at me with an exaggerated gasp. "Jocelyn plays! I saw her playing at a fundraiser a few months ago." I had played the violin on another set before, back when Seraphina was just a bit player. I’d had a stomach flu that day and played terribly. She wasn't trying to help; she was trying to humiliate me. Suddenly, every eye on set was on me. Including Dominic’s. He was leaning against a prop table, arms crossed, watching me with an unreadable expression. I was transported back to the day we met. It was a snowy afternoon in Zurich. Dominic was sitting on a park bench near the clinic, a light dusting of frost on his shoulders. He looked like a statue, beautiful and broken. I had walked up to him with a rented violin case slung over my shoulder. I unwrapped my scarf, my nose red from the cold. "Are you Mr. West?" He didn't move. His eyes were open but vacant, staring at a point in space he couldn't see. I took his silence as a "yes" and began to play a melancholic arrangement of The Parting Glass. He didn't say a word until I finished and took a bow. "The 'Final Farewell' request is complete," I said. "How would you like to pay?" The man on the bench finally stirred. He turned his head toward the sound of my voice. "Final farewell?" His voice was hoarse, as if it hadn't been used in weeks. "If you're trying to curse me, you could be less poetic about it." I realized I’d found the wrong person. The client was a different man with a similar name. I started apologizing profusely. Dominic had pulled out his phone. "Well, since you're here... can you play 'You Are My Sunshine'?" It was a strange request. But I played it. It was a cheerful tune, but under my bow, it sounded like a mourning song. When I finished, I looked at him. "You have a nice face. And a nice voice." He flinched slightly. "I’ll pay you. But I’m blind, so you’ll have to handle the transaction yourself." "I just meant," I whispered, "that it would be a waste for someone like you to give up." I knew he was blind. I also knew he was at the end of his rope. 7 I couldn't escape the director’s request. I was positioned in the background as an extra. I didn't play a popular piece; instead, I played a melody I had composed myself years ago—something simple and forgettable. Or so I thought. When the scene ended, the crew broke into spontaneous applause. Except for Seraphina, who looked like she’d swallowed a lemon. I stepped off the "stage," feeling a weight lift from my chest. A few PAs came over to compliment me. "That was amazing, Jocelyn. I didn't know you had that in you." "It was nothing," I said, forced. "I almost messed up the bridge." In my peripheral vision, I saw Dominic watching me from his chair. He looked away the moment I caught his eye. "Wait," one of the PAs said, her brow furrowed. "That song sounds so familiar." My heart stopped. "You must be mistaken." "No, I’m sure of it!" she said, her eyes widening. "That account—@Joss_Writes. There’s a video of her playing that exact song from years ago. The one everyone’s been talking about!" The set went deathly silent. The PA realized what she’d said and covered her mouth. Every gaze moved from me to Dominic, then back again. Even Seraphina was staring at me with dawning suspicion. I tried to laugh it off. "I must have learned it from that video. It’s been floating around the internet for a while. I forgot who posted it." It was just a song. It didn't prove anything. "Oh... right. Yeah, that makes sense," the PA mumbled, but she kept stealing glances at Dominic. Everyone waited for him to react. Dominic was famous for his low tolerance for drama. He tapped his fingers on the table, looking bored. "I’ve heard the original," he said, his voice flat. "It was much better than that." In other words: I played like an amateur.
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