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The next morning, the atmosphere on the Somerset set was electric, mostly because the Netflix and BBC executives were hovering around like anxious helicopter parents.
When Michael and Evans arrived, the director, Andrew, and Greg immediately tried to usher Michael into a luxurious, padded "Executive Producer" chair planted right dead center behind the main monitors.
Michael took one look at the setup and shook his head. "No. Absolutely not. If I sit right behind the camera, every single actor is going to be staring at me instead of doing their job. Put me in the back. I refuse to be a distraction."
They practically fell over themselves to accommodate him. Within two minutes, two comfortable canvas chairs were set up a safe, non-hazardous distance away from the main shooting area.
As a "good gesture," however, Andrew insisted on assigning a young, terrified Production Assistant to be Michael's personal shadow.
The poor guy stood stiffly three feet away, holding a clipboard and looking as if he were guarding the Crown Jewels. It irritated Michael slightly, but he knew Andrew was just trying to save his own job, so he didn't argue.
Right now, the crew was in the middle of shooting a massive ensemble scene.
Evans, sitting next to Michael, wasn't watching the acting. He was furiously typing on his tablet.
"I'm telling you, Michael, I've already started the preparations for The Fault in Our Stars," Evans whispered, vibrating with manic energy. "Terry practically kissed me through the phone. We are going to launch the largest marketing campaign in the history of young adult fiction. Billboards. Midnight releases. Custom tissue boxes. The works."
Michael smirked, keeping his eyes on the set. "Just try not to cry on the marketing team, Evans. I don't want you short-circuiting their laptops like you did your iPad."
"I was emotionally compromised!" Evans hissed defensively. "And for the record, I am incredibly lucky to be your manager, but you are a menace to my tear ducts."
Before Michael could respond, Greg came scurrying over. He gave Michael a deep, respectful nod before turning to Evans.
"Evans, do you have a moment? The PR team needs to finalize the dates for the video interview with Mr. Owen."
"Duty calls," Evans sighed, standing up and brushing off his suit. He looked down at Michael and, with a totally straight face, joked, "Stay put, Michael. And please, try not to let the cast bully you while I'm gone."
Greg's face instantly drained of all blood. He went a sickly, terrifying shade of pale, his eyes darting toward the vanity vans in sheer panic.
Evans burst out laughing, patting the terrified BBC rep on the back. "Relax, Greg! It's a joke! Breathe, man, breathe!"
Evans led a still-hyperventilating Greg away toward the production tents.
Left alone, and frankly not very interested in watching the tedious, repetitive process of setting up new camera angles from fifty feet away, Michael sighed.
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his mini cigar and his silver lighter, and sparked it. Because he was seated well away from the flammable equipment and wardrobe trailers, nobody batted an eye.
He slipped his vintage dark sunglasses onto his face, leaned back in his chair, and pulled out his phone, completely tuning out the world around him to watch a chess tournament on YouTube.
Ten minutes later, a loud voice rang out.
"Cut! Brilliant! That's a wrap on the scene, everyone! Take five!"
The heavy tension on the set immediately broke.
The massive ensemble cast dispersed, stretching their legs and grabbing water bottles.
Carla Woodcock, Henry Ashton, Asha Banks, Zain Iqbal, and Emma Myers naturally gravitated toward each other, joking around and shaking off the heavy emotions of the scene.
"Did you see Mathew's face in that last take?" Henry laughed, taking a swig of water. "I almost broke character."
"I was biting the inside of my cheek the entire time," Zain agreed.
As they bantered, Asha looked past Zain's shoulder and stopped. "Guys. Look."
The group turned.
Sitting a few meters away, completely isolated from the chaos, was Michael Owen.
He had one ankle casually resting on his knee, blowing a slow stream of cigar smoke into the air, completely engrossed in whatever was playing on his phone. He looked effortlessly cool, intimidating, and entirely unapproachable.
"Oh my god, he's here," Carla whispered, her eyes wide.
"We should go say hi," Henry said, adjusting his collar. "We didn't get to properly introduce ourselves that day because... well, you know."
They all winced, universally recalling the Great Vanity Van Incident.
"I can't," Emma panicked, her face instantly flushing. "I yelled at him. What if he changed his mind overnight and hates me now?"
"Emma, you literally told us he was incredibly humble and sweet to you on the phone," Zain pointed out reasonably. "He's not going to bite. Just go up and say hi."
"Zain's right," Asha nudged her forward. "You're the lead! Lead the way!"
Emma took a deep breath, smoothing down her costume. "Okay. Okay, fine. Be cool, everyone. Just be cool."
The group of five started walking slowly toward the isolated canvas chairs.
Michael, completely absorbed in watching a grandmaster sacrifice a queen on his phone screen, didn't see or hear them approaching .
But as the cast got within earshot, they stopped dead in their tracks. Michael was talking.
Emma held up a hand, signaling the group to pause.
They all listened, expecting him to be on a high-stakes business call with a Hollywood executive.
Instead, Michael was talking to the terrified Production Assistant standing stiffly next to his chair.
"Dude, seriously," Michael said, not looking up from his phone, taking a puff of his cigar. "You have been standing there for twenty minutes. Your knees have to be locking up."
"I am fine, Mr. Owen," the shadow guy said, his voice rigid and formal. "Mr. Andrew specifically instructed me to be on standby in case you require anything."
Michael sighed, pausing his video.
He lowered his sunglasses slightly and looked up at the PA. "Mate, I am sitting in a chair watching a video. I'm not running a marathon. I don't need a medic, and I am not your slave master. Go sit down. Get a coffee. Flirt with one of the makeup artists. Do something."
"But sir, this is my job!" the guy protested, terrified of getting fired.
Michael gave a quiet, exasperated laugh."Your job is to stand in a field and watch me breathe? Listen, if I need a bottle of water, my legs work perfectly fine. I will walk to the cooler. Please, go take a break before I start feeling guilty and HR gets involved for cruel and unusual punishment."
The PA hesitated, completely thrown off by the millionaire executive producer's total lack of ego. "Are... are you sure, sir?"
"I am begging you," Michael joked, waving his hand toward the craft services table. "Go eat a donut. You're making me tired just looking at you."
The PA finally cracked a smile, his shoulders dropping in relief. "Thank you, Mr. Owen."
As the guy scurried off toward the food tables, Michael pushed his sunglasses back up his nose and pressed play on his phone again.
A few feet away, the cast stood in stunned silence.
Zain looked at Henry. Henry looked at Carla. Asha looked at Emma.
Any lingering fear or intimidation they had completely vanished, replaced by an overwhelming wave of respect.
He wasn't some untouchable, arrogant prodigy. He was just a normal, incredibly funny guy who felt bad for a tired intern.
Emma's heart did a strange, completely involuntary flutter in her chest. She couldn't help it; the massive, stupid grin from yesterday was fighting its way back onto her face.