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"It... it is off," Emma whispered into the receiver.
Her voice was incredibly small, vibrating with pure anxiety. The silence on the other end of the line was suffocating.
She stepped slightly away from the group, turning her back to the director and the rest of the cast, pressing her free hand against her stomach.
In the span of a single, terrifying heartbeat, her entire history with this author flashed through her mind.
She remembered the exact day she learned Michael Owen was launching his second book.
She had been so excited she immediately pre-ordered the hardcover, the digital edition, and the audiobook just to be safe.
When the book finally arrived, she consumed it in a single, breathless night.
She spent the next week raving about the intricate plot to her friends, her manager, and her older sister.
Her sister, just to push her buttons, had shrugged and called it "just a normal mystery thriller."
Emma had nearly started a war over it, fiercely defending Michael's genius, pointing out the brilliant pacing and the incredibly human flaws of the characters.
She couldn't help it. She was a massive fan.
Before his mystery novel, she had read Grave of the Fireflies. It had completely shattered her.
She had never, in her entire life, connected to a novel the way she did with that heartbreaking story of survival.
Michael Owen had set the bar so incredibly high that he had practically ruined every other book for her.
Nobody else wrote with that kind of raw, bleeding emotion.
And then there was the Paris Review interview. She had read it just this morning while sitting in the hair and makeup chair.
At first, she was giggling at her phone. The transcript was hilarious; he was clearly not taking the pretentious interviewer seriously, talking about buying Porsches and boats. He also praised her even though it sounded like sarcasm to her.
But then, the tone had shifted.
She read the final question: Who is Michael Owen? When she read his answer,his intense, profound monologue about wanting love, respect, and unyielding success so he could protect the people he cared about-literal goosebumps had erupted all over her body. It was one of the most beautiful things she had ever read.
And now, she was holding a phone to her ear, absolutely certain that this profound, terrifying genius was about to fire her.
She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the cold, professional dismissal.
"Emma," Michael said.
She flinched. "Y-yes, Mr. Owen?"
His voice wasn't cold. It wasn't deadpan, and it wasn't strictly professional. It was incredibly soft, warm, and surprisingly sweet.
"I just wanted to say... I am a big fan of yours," Michael said gently. "If I was still there, I probably would have requested an autograph. And call me Michael."
Emma's eyes snapped open.
Her brain completely short-circuited. She stood frozen on the Somerset road, her mouth slightly open.
"I... what?" she breathed, convinced she had misheard him.
A soft chuckle came through the speaker. "I mean it. I was standing behind the cameras a few minutes ago."
Emma's face flushed violently. He had seen the kissing scene. He had been standing right there.
"Emma, you were breathtaking," Michael continued, his sweet, earnest tone wrapping around her like a warm blanket. "When I wrote Pip, I imagined someone with this bright, unstoppable energy, but with a deep vulnerability underneath it all. I wasn't sure if anyone could actually bring her to life the way she existed in my head. But watching you today... you are absolutely perfect. You are Pip."
Tears immediately welled up in Emma's eyes. The crushing weight of her panic dissolved, replaced by an overwhelming, dizzying sense of relief and pride.
Her favorite author in the entire world had just complimented her acting.
"M-Michael, I..." Emma stammered, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. "Thank you. That means the absolute world to me. You have no idea. But please, I am so, so sorry for yelling at you! I feel terrible! If I had known it was you—"
"If you had known it was me, you wouldn't have yelled," Michael interrupted softly. "And that would have been a shame."
Emma blinked, totally confused. "A shame?"
"Yes," Michael said, his voice laced with a genuine smile. "I was standing in a prohibited area, smoking near highly flammable wardrobe trailers, and endangering the production. You stepped right up to a stranger and read him the riot act to protect the set."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"That is exactly what Pip would have done," Michael said warmly. "You didn't break character, Emma. You protected the show. And you even defended my honor while doing it, which I highly appreciate. So please, stop apologizing. I'm the one who should be saying sorry for ruining the air quality around your van."
A shaky, breathless laugh finally escaped Emma's lips. She covered her mouth with her hand, a massive, brilliant smile breaking across her face.
"You really aren't mad?" she whispered, just to be absolutely sure.
"I am not mad at all," Michael promised, his voice soothing and kind. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't stressing out over this. Do not worrying about a misunderstanding. Keep up the amazing work, Emma. I am incredibly proud to have you as my Pip."
Emma's heart fluttered. The sweet, genuine care in his voice was a stark contrast to the mysterious persona the world saw.
"Thank you, Michael," Emma said softly, her voice filled with quiet gratitude. "I won't let you down."
"I know you won't," Michael replied.
After a few seconds of contemplating, she steeled herself and asked, "Will you be coming back?"
"Well... I just got an idea for a book which I should write down... it will take 2 days..." Michael said.
"Oh..." Emma was a little disappointed.
"I have to hold myself back, I don't want to look like a creep," Michael thought.
"I will finish my work soon and come to meet you guys... especially you." Michael said in a sweet tone.
"Okay!!" Hearing that, Emma brightened up a lot.
"Okay, bye Emma." Michael said.
"Bye Mr O- Michael. Hope to see you soon..." Emma said enthusiastically and waited for a reply from Michael.
"Hope to see you sooner," said Michael with giggles.
The line clicked and went dead. Emma slowly lowered the phone from her ear.
She stood there for a moment, looking at the dark screen, a soft, lingering smile playing on her lips.
"I should have asked him out for a coffee," thought Emma, facepalming herself.
The rest of the cast and crew were still staring at her, waiting in terrified silence, but Emma just felt incredibly, wonderfully light.