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"What did he say?" the director asked, taking a hesitant step forward as he saw Emma finally lower the phone.
Every single person on the path was staring at her.
Emma lowered her hand.
She had actual tears welling up in her eyes, spilling over her lashes, but she was smiling.
Not just a small, relieved smile. She was grinning from ear to ear, her cheeks flushed a vibrant, bright pink.
Andrew stared at her in sheer horror.
"Poor girl," he thought, his stomach twisting into a knot. "Her brain just can't comprehend that she is being fired by a prodigy. This is it. This is the 'trauma-cry-smile'. She has gone completely mad."
The director swallowed hard, his heart breaking. "Oh no... she's broken," he thought. "She is hallucinating a happy ending as a defense mechanism. Emma was so perfect for the role, and now I have to recast my lead with a girl who is currently smiling at the dirt."
Standing a few feet away, Henry narrowed his eyes in utter confusion. "Why is she glowing?" he thought wildly. "Why does it feel like she just got proposed to in a cheesy rom-com? Did she just get fired or engaged? What is happening right now?!"
Everyone was entirely baffled.
By the tears, it was obvious she had just been brutally kicked off the show. But the massive, dreamy smile completely threw them off.
"Don't worry, Emma," Andrew said softly, stepping forward with deep, profound pity in his eyes.
He gently patted her shoulder. "I will look after this. After all, I was the one who called him. One more call wouldn't hurt anyone. We will get you a nice severance package, okay?"
Emma blinked, suddenly snapping out of her daze.
"What? Nononono!" she said quickly, furiously wiping her wet cheeks with the sleeves of her jacket. "Everything is fine! I was not fired!"
Asha tilted her head, thoroughly confused.
"Then why are you crying?"
"Nothing!" Emma squeaked, her voice an octave higher than usual. "Just... a bug! A very huge bug flew into my eye! I have to go do my makeup for the next scene! See you later!"
Without waiting for a response, Emma spun around and practically sprinted away, sprinting down the path toward her vanity van as fast as her legs could carry her.
Zain watched her disappear around the corner, crossing his arms. "Is it me, or was she violently blushing?"
"Yeah," Carla said, staring blankly after her. "Like a literal tomato."
The director let out a massive breath of relief and rubbed his face. "Alright, everyone. Take thirty more minutes for makeup and food! Let the adrenaline wear off!"
Ten minutes later, Asha stood outside Emma's trailer.
"She is fine, right?" Asha thought, worriedly chewing on her thumbnail. "What if she's in there stress-eating an entire cake? What if she's hyperventilating?"
Deciding not to wait for an invitation, Asha grabbed the handle and swung the door open unannounced.
What she saw was entirely, completely unexpected.
Emma was not crying.
She was not eating cake.
Emma was in the middle of the trailer, a massive, goofy grin on her face, doing perfect, elegant ballet twirls to a heavy, aggressively loud hip-hop beat blasting from her phone.
Damn, she is good, Asha thought.
Unable to resist the beat, Asha dropped her jacket and immediately joined in, doing a ridiculous popping-and-locking move next to Emma's graceful spins.
They danced wildly for two whole minutes before collapsing onto the trailer's plush couch, breathless and laughing.
"Huff... huff..." Asha caught her breath, leaning back against the cushions and looking at her friend. "Okay, seriously. Why are you so happy?"
Emma just kept smiling, staring at the ceiling of the trailer.
"What did Mr. Owen say?" Asha asked, sitting up, firing off questions like a machine gun. "Is he angry? But if he is angry, you wouldn't dance like that! Did he threaten you? Did he praise you? That means he said something... tell me!"
Emma rolled her head over to look at Asha.
Her eyes were incredibly soft, practically shimmering with a hazy, dreamy glaze.
"He... he said he was a big fan of mine," Emma sighed, her voice barely a whisper. "He watched our kissing scene. And he said I didn't break character when I yelled at him. He said I was perfectly Pip...(his Pip)"
Asha stopped breathing.
She looked closely at Emma.
She saw the dreamy eyes.
She saw the lingering pink blush on her cheeks.
She saw the way Emma clutched a throw pillow to her chest like it was a life preserver.
"Emma Myers," Asha said slowly, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Do you have a crush?"
Emma's heart did a violent backflip.
"A crush?" her inner monologue screamed. "No, crushes are for high schoolers! This is... this is just deep, profound admiration for an artist! Right?"
But then she remembered his voice. That deep, soothing, sweet tone that had whispered through the phone. She remembered the way he looked standing on the path; the sharp jawline, the dark vintage sunglasses, the ridiculously stylish black turtleneck that fit him perfectly.
He is brilliant, he is rich, he writes the most beautiful tragedies she had ever read, and he had just treated her with nothing but absolute kindness.
"Oh God!!" Emma panicked internally, feeling a swarm of butterflies suddenly performing an Olympic gymnastics routine in her stomach.
"I have a massive, embarrassing crush." She thought.
"I do not have a crush!" Emma deflected loudly, burying her hot face into the throw pillow. "I just admire him as a writer! Shut up!"
Asha just smirked, leaning back and crossing her arms. "Uh-huh. Sure, Pip. Whatever you say."
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Meanwhile, miles away on the scenic roads of Somerset, the black car cruised smoothly toward The Newt hotel.
In the back seat, Michael was resting his elbow on the armrest, his chin propped in his hand, looking out the window.
He had a massive, genuine smile plastered across his face.
Sitting next to him, Evans was staring at his client with deep, profound suspicion.
"So," Evans finally said, breaking the silence. "Let me get this straight. You go to set. You get chased off the property by cast members. You get screamed at. And now, you are grinning at a sheep out of the window like you just won the Nobel Peace Prize. Are you possessed? Should I call a priest?"
Michael chuckled softly, his eyes still glued to the passing English countryside.
"I'm not possessed, Evans. I'm just in a good mood. I figured out what my next book is going to be."
"Oh, really!?" Evans raised eyebrows excitedly.
"Well, that's great. Care to share the joy, or are you just going to sit there smiling like a serial killer?" Evans kept his excitement in check and continued teasing.
Michael finally turned his head, looking at his manager.
"I was just thinking about the future, Evans," Michael said smoothly. "Thinking about how fast time flies. You know, before you know it, you'll be sleep-deprived, covered in mysterious bodily fluids, desperately trying to negotiate with a tiny, screaming dictator who doesn't care about your Netflix syndication rights."
Evans instantly went pale. The tablet in his hands slipped and hit the floor mat with a thud.
"Why would you say that?!" Evans shrieked, pressing himself back into the leather seat in terror. "We were having a nice moment! You were happy! Why do you have to weaponize my unborn child against me?! I haven't even Googled what a diaper genie is yet!"
"Just keeping you humble, Evans," Michael smiled, turning his attention back to the window.
Evans grumbled under his breath, frantically picking up his tablet and aggressively pulling up an article on 'How to swaddle without breaking your own fingers.'
Michael tuned out his manager's panicked muttering.
His smile softened again as he watched the trees blur past.
Michael's mind drifting back to the set.
He pictured Emma's bright, fierce eyes as she scolded him, and the sweet, nervous tremble in her voice on the phone.
He leaned his head back against the seat, letting out a quiet sigh.
"Right now, I really, really wish I could just turn this car around, take off these stupid sunglasses, and ask her out for a simple cup of coffee." Michael thought.