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"I can't do this! Henry, you go first!" Emma pushed Henry and went to the back of everyone, shielding herself.
Michael let out a quiet breath of relief as the terrified production assistant scurried away toward the craft services table.
Finally, some peace.
He leaned back in his canvas chair, resting his phone on his knee, and refocused on the chess grandmaster analyzing a Sicilian Defense.
But less than a minute later, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He felt the distinct, undeniable weight of several pairs of eyes staring directly at him.
He paused the video and looked up.
Walking toward him across the land was the cast.
The same five actors who had cornered him by the vanity vans two days ago were approaching, moving with the synchronized, hesitant steps of people walking into a lion's den.
Michael's eyes scanned the group.
Henry Ashton was leading, looking like he was bracing for impact.
Zain, Asha, and Carla were close behind.
But what immediately caught Michael's attention was Emma. The girl who had fiercely marched to the front of the pack two days ago to berate him was now actively hiding at the very back of the group, using Zain's tall frame as a human shield.
Even from a distance, Michael could see she was blushing furiously, her cheeks a brilliant, flushed crimson.
A wave of pure amusement washed over him.
He brought his mini cigar to his lips, took two or three slow, deliberate drags, and then leaned over to nip it out in the glass ashtray the intern had left on the side table.
As they closed the distance, Michael stood up. He reached up, pulled off his dark vintage sunglasses, and tucked them into his jacket pocket. His face broke into the most radiant, effortlessly charming smile he could muster.
"Hello," Henry said, stopping a few feet away. His voice was polite but undeniably nervous. "Mr. Owen. We just... we wanted to come over and properly introduce ourselves."
"Please, call me Michael," he replied warmly, stepping forward and extending his hand. "It is an absolute pleasure to finally meet all of you in a non-hazardous, smoke-free environment."
A collective, massive sigh of relief washed through the group. The tension instantly evaporated.
Henry shook his hand first, offering a grateful smile. "I'm Henry Ashton. I play—"
"Max Hastings," Michael finished for him smoothly. "I know. And I have to say, Henry, you are doing a terrifyingly brilliant job. I watched the dailies from last week. You manage to capture that arrogant, aristocratic menace perfectly. It's exactly how I wrote him."
Henry practically beamed, his chest puffing out slightly. "Thank you, Michael. That means the world."
Zain stepped up next, offering his hand. "Zain Iqbal. Ravi Singh."
"The man of the hour," Michael grinned, shaking his hand firmly. "I was actually watching your scenes earlier. You have fantastic comedic timing, Zain. You bring a lot of genuine warmth to Ravi that leaps right off the screen. And for the record, I promise not to fire you for telling me I couldn't smoke."
Zain let out a loud, breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh, thank God. I was convinced I was going to be recast as 'Background Tree #2'."
Carla and Asha introduced themselves next, and Michael was incredibly sociable, chatting with them as if they were old friends rather than employees.
He asked Carla about her wardrobe fitting and joked with Asha about the intense set lighting.
He was completely engaging, devoid of any Hollywood ego, looking them in the eye and listening to their answers with genuine interest.
Throughout the entire five-minute conversation, Emma stayed glued to the back, staring intensely at her own shoes, her face burning.
She was so flustered by his proximity, his deep voice, and his charming smile that she couldn't string a single thought together.
"He is even better looking without the sunglasses," she thought. "Look at the ground, Emma. The ground is safe."
"Well, we should probably get back," Henry finally said, checking his watch. "They're going to start resetting the cameras for the next scene soon. Thank you for your time, Michael."
"Anytime," Michael smiled. "Break a leg out there."
The group turned to leave.
Emma immediately spun on her heel, preparing to ninja her way out of there without having to utter a single word.
Truthfully, Michael had noticed her avoidance and was already preparing to just let her go, not wanting to make her more uncomfortable than she clearly already was.
But out of nowhere, Asha reached out, grabbed Emma by the arm, and aggressively yanked her out of the escaping formation.
Asha dragged a bewildered Emma a few meters away, putting them just out of earshot but still very much in Michael's line of sight.
Michael crossed his arms, watching the scene with deep curiosity and a smile on his face.
"What are you doing?!" Emma hissed, trying to pull her arm away.
"What am I doing? What are you doing?!" Asha whispered fiercely, pointing a discreet finger back toward Michael. "You are the lead! You are literally Pip! And he is just standing there! You haven't said a single word to him in person! Go talk to him!"
"I can't!" Emma panicked, her eyes wide. "My brain is empty! What if I say something stupid? What if I accidentally yell at him again out of habit?!"
"You are not going to yell at him," Asha said, gripping Emma's shoulders and shaking her slightly to reset her brain.
"Look at him. He is smiling. He is nice. He literally complimented everyone. Go over there, look into his very nice eyes, and say hello. I'll go tell the director you're discussing 'character motivations' with the Executive Producer so he doesn't yell at you for being late. Now go!"
Before Emma could argue, Asha gave her a firm shove toward Michael, flashed him a bright thumbs-up, and then immediately sprinted away toward the production tents.
Emma stumbled forward a step.
She was stranded.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, smoothed down the front of her jacket, and forced herself to turn around.
Michael was still standing by his chair. He hadn't moved. He was watching her, his hands casually tucked into his pockets, and that devastatingly charming, warm smile was still resting perfectly on his face.
Emma walked toward him, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Every step felt like walking through molasses.
When she finally stopped a few feet away from him, she looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time without the dark sunglasses blocking his gaze.
"H-hoowdie," Emma said nervously, facepalming herself internally.
Michael's smile deepened, reaching his eyes.
"Hi," Michael replied happily, his voice sweet. "Can I get an autograph from the famous Ms. Myers?"