Off-Script

Celia’s POV

After The Event—because calling it anything else felt like admitting to something I wasn’t ready to admit to—I couldn’t look Evelyn in the eye. Not without my stomach twisting itself into knots, my pulse hammering so hard I thought she might hear it. I, Celia St. James, the golden girl, the Disney darling, America’s sweetheart who’d been performing since she was young enough to need someone else to sign her contracts, had become something grotesque. Something selfish. And, worst of all, something unprofessional.

I blamed her, of course. Told myself that it was Evelyn who made the sex scene unbearable, too charged, too real. That it was her fault I had gone into that bathroom. It was easier that way, dressing her up as the villain, the temptress, the reason I had thrown myself headfirst into something so utterly stupid.

But the truth, the ugly, guttural truth, was that it had been me. I was the one who had leaned in first, my breath catching when her fingers touched my breasts. I was the one who had walked into that bathroom, closed the door, and kissed her so hard my teeth ached. And when it was over, when the high burned itself out and reality slithered in through the cracks, I was the one who sat on the end of my bed, knees pulled to my chest, crying so hard my ribs felt like they were breaking apart.

Because I had become the thing I feared most. The thing I swore I never would be.

A cheater.

“Hey, babe.” Joan. Fifth ring. Her voice was flat, stretched thin, like an overplayed cassette tape warbling just slightly off-key. In the background, someone was talking too loud—probably one of her friends, one of those sceney lesbians who orbited her like satellites, always smoking something, always talking in circles about nothing. I imagined them sprawled across her hotel room, ashtrays overflowing, a half-empty bottle of wine sweating rings into the coffee table.

“Hey,” I said, voice smaller than I meant for it to be. It was late, past midnight, and I had promised myself I wouldn’t call. I’d even tucked my phone into the drawer of the hotel nightstand, as if that would be enough. But then the room got too quiet, the bed too big, and before I knew it, I was listening to the mechanical drone of the dial tone, waiting for her to pick up.

She used to answer on the first ring, voice syrupy with affection, teasing me for missing her so much. Now there was a beat of hesitation before she spoke, a weariness creeping into her tone. Three nights of this—three nights of me calling, sometimes twice, sometimes more—and something between us had shifted. The words that used to come so easily felt forced, clunky, like we were both trying to avoid saying what we were really thinking.

We had stepped off the edge of something, left behind the softness, the easy warmth. The honeymoon phase had unraveled, thread by thread, and now we were standing in the wreckage, trying to pretend like nothing had changed.

She asked about the show. I told her we were now behind schedule. What I didn’t tell her was why—that production had stalled because Evelyn and I couldn’t summon whatever electric, aching thing had set the camera on fire the day of the sex scene. That the director had started sighing through her nose and rubbing her temples every time we missed another take.

Because it turns out it’s damn near impossible to pretend to be in love with someone when you can’t even look them in the eye.

So now the entire set was stuck in purgatory, waiting on us to figure it out, waiting on me to stop flinching when her hand brushed mine, waiting on her to stop shifting her weight like she wanted to run. Every extra hour on set, every flubbed take, every exhausted sigh from the crew—it all translated into money down the drain. Real money. Tens of thousands of dollars lost because I couldn’t keep my shit together.

I felt like a goddamn amateur. Worse than that—I felt like a fool. A reckless, impulsive, horny fool who had torched a perfectly functional working relationship for a few stolen moments in a goddamn bathroom.

Screw my sky-high libido.

“All right, let’s call it a day,” Patrice said, pushing herself up from her chair like the weight of our failures had physically exhausted her. “We’ll get the rest tomorrow. Early. Very early. The earlier the better.” She cut Evelyn and me a glance so sharp it could’ve sliced through celluloid. “I don’t know if you two need to eat a pound of oysters or lock yourselves in a room until you work it out, but you have to get your chemistry back. We have three more sex scenes to shoot, and I’d prefer not to feel like I’m directing two store mannequins.”

Evelyn sighed. I just nodded, already halfway out of my body, already picturing the inside of my hotel room where I could stop pretending that the tension in my chest was anything other than pure panic.

The car waiting outside smelled faintly of stale coffee and vinyl. The driver mumbled a halfhearted evening as I slid into the backseat. I barely registered it. My fingers were already on my phone, scrolling through the day’s notifications.

Two missed calls from my agent. One from my mother. A vague text from Joan that read, Call me when you’re done. I leaned back, the city passing in smears of sodium-yellow streetlights and neon vacancy signs, and let myself disappear into the hum of the tires against the road.

By the time I reached the hotel, my limbs felt weighted. The exhaustion of the day pulled at me like wet clothes. I was standing in the elevator when I heard the sharp click of heels against tile. A blur of gold hair.

Evelyn.

She was running. I don’t think I’d ever seen her run before—certainly not in heels. She looked absurd, all long limbs and barely contained momentum, like a baby giraffe on the verge of collapse. My fingers jammed the close button, pressing it again and again, as if sheer force of will could override the slow inevitability of those damn hydraulic doors.

She slipped in just before they sealed shut.

I went rigid, spine a perfect line, my eyes locked on the reflective gold walls of the elevator. But she was there, unavoidable in the glass, watching me like she was waiting for me to crack open.

“Celia,” she whispered. “We have to do something about this.”

“What are you talking about?” My voice came out thin, preoccupied. I pulled my phone out of my purse and stared at the screen as if there were something urgent on it, something more interesting than the feeling of her standing too close.

Evelyn exhaled sharply. “Look, we can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. Clearly, we need to talk about it, and—”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” The words came fast. “I’m engaged. You have a boyfriend. What happened was a stupid consequence of hormones and being stuck in this deadbeat city for too long.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as blink. “It’s more complicated than that, and you know it.” Her voice was steady, quieter now, like she was trying not to scare me off.

I dragged my gaze up from my phone, forcing myself to meet her eyes. Dark and bottomless, like the ocean at night. 

“No, it isn’t,” I said, voice flat, final.

Evelyn exhaled through her nose, shaking her head just slightly before stepping forward and pressing the button for the tenth floor. The movement made her blouse shift, just enough for the fabric to dip, just enough for a sliver of tanned cleavage to catch the dim elevator light. I knew those tits, had touched them, kissed them, pressed my teeth into them just three days earlier. 

And just like that, my mind betrayed me. A flash of her—bare, golden, arched against the sink, lips parted, gasping as I traced my mouth along her stomach.

I swallowed hard and forced the image away, shoving it down to the place where bad decisions lived.

Get a fucking grip.

Evelyn’s voice cut through the thick silence. “I’m not gay.”

The elevator slowed, the soft mechanical hum stuttering as it reached her floor.

She turned then, looking at me fully, her expression carefully blank. “And I think you’re right,” she said, her tone light, almost easy, like she was making peace with the whole thing in real time. “It was just hormones and a long shoot. A one-time mistake.”

The doors slid open behind her, spilling warm hallway light into the cramped space between us.

“Goodnight, Celia.”

She stepped out without waiting for a response.

The doors closed.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and stared at my own reflection in the elevator’s mirrored walls. My face was too still, my lips pressed into a line so tight it hurt.

I wanted to be relieved. I should have been relieved.

Instead, I reached for my phone, thumb hovering over Joan’s name in my call history.

Then I put it back in my bag.

•••

We shot the second sex scene in a closet. The irony wasn’t lost on me—too tongue-in-cheek, too on the nose. But it was in the script, and I was an actress.

Beforehand, I took three shots of whiskey, chased them with the bite of hotel tap water, and sucked down an entire vape cartridge until my lungs felt sticky with menthol. The nerves sat heavy in my chest until the alcohol seeped in, softened the edges, dulled the parts of me that still knew better.

And then, just like the first time, it all went to shit.

“Abby, we can’t,” Evelyn groaned.

I had her pressed against the back wall of the so-called “closet,” which wasn’t really a closet at all—just three walls thrown together on set, a pile of coats meant to sell the illusion. Movie-making magic.

I didn’t break character. Didn’t hesitate. I let my hands move the way they were supposed to, let my breath hitch at all the right moments. I let the script carry me so I didn’t have to think.

“Yes, we can,” I whispered against her neck.

She smelled like she had the other day, like something expensive and warm, some heady mix of vanilla and sandalwood and whatever shampoo she used. Or maybe it wasn’t the same. Maybe I just wanted it to be. Either way, I was addicted to it.

I slipped a hand down the front of her skirt, fingers ghosting over the lace hem of her panties. Evelyn let out a sound—low, throaty, unguarded. Not rehearsed. Not for the cameras. A real moan, one that curled around my ribs and tightened.

Was she wet, or was I imagining it? Was I drunk on whiskey and nicotine and proximity, or was this actually happening again?

My fingers trembled. I wasn’t supposed to—God, I wasn’t supposed to—but I did it anyway. I tugged the fabric aside just enough to feel the bare heat of her, soft and damp against my knuckles.

She sucked in a sharp breath.

I forgot where we were. The set melted away—the fake walls, the overhead rigging, the dozen eyes watching from just beyond the lights. None of it was real. But this was. The way her body tensed, the way she arched into me, the way my own pulse pounded so loudly in my ears I was sure the mic would pick it up.

“Celia,” she breathed.

It wasn’t Carol talking to Abby. It wasn’t a line from the script. It was Evelyn, raw and real and inches from coming apart in my hands.

And then—

“Cut!”

Patrice’s voice cracked through the air like a whip.

Evelyn ripped away from me like I’d burned her, like she needed to put as much space between us as possible. My hand dropped back to my side, empty, tingling, guilty.

The set snapped into focus again. The bright, sterile lights. The sound guy adjusting his boom, eyes darting between us. The script supervisor whispering something to an assistant. Everyone saw. Everyone knew.

Patrice rubbed her temples like she was nursing the worst headache of her life. “What the fuck was that?”

Evelyn swallowed hard, her gaze locked somewhere on the floor.

I could still feel her on my skin.

“I don’t know,” I said, voice hoarse, hollow.

But I did. I definitely did.

“Okay, look. I’m thrilled you two found your chemistry again. Really. Fantastic. But let’s tone it the fuck down and maybe, just maybe, focus on the script, yeah? And can we please get the intimacy coach in here?”

“I’m here!” piped up a thin, eager voice from off set.

Marla, the intimacy coordinator. She was a waif of a woman with sharp features and nervous energy, always watching too closely.

Evelyn barely spared her a glance before waving a dismissive hand. “We don’t need that.”

Marla hesitated, looking at Patrice for backup.

Evelyn straightened, rolling her shoulders back. “I made a simple mistake, okay? Won’t happen again. Let’s just run it from the top.”

Patrice glanced between us, skeptical, but sighed and sank back into her chair. “Fine. Reset the scene. Cameras up in two.”

The crew moved around us, resetting the cramped faux-closet, adjusting lights, murmuring directions. Evelyn smoothed a hand down her skirt, casual, unbothered. Like she hadn’t just moaned for real. Like my fingers hadn’t just—

I turned away, busying myself with adjusting my mic pack, pretending my hands weren’t still shaking.

Evelyn cleared her throat, stepping back into position, but not before tilting her head toward me, voice pitched low. “Get it together, St. James.”

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even a warning. It was something worse.

It was a plea.

The second take was perfect. Mechanical, precise, nothing out of place. No unscripted moans, no hands drifting where they shouldn’t. We hit our marks, delivered our lines, kissed the way actors are supposed to kiss—just enough passion to sell the scene, not enough to make anyone wonder.

Patrice clapped her hands together when we were done. “That’s what I’m talking about.” The crew nodded, relieved. The tension on set dissolved like a bad dream.

Everyone was happy.

Everyone but us.

That night, I ate dinner in my hotel room, room service because I couldn’t stomach the thought of sitting in a restaurant and having someone shove their phone in my face. Even in Cincinnati, there was always someone ready to snap a picture, post it online, let the whole world dissect what I was eating, what I was wearing, who I was with. Usually, I could ignore it, let it roll off my back.

But not that night.

That night, I felt raw. Peeled open. Embarrassed and horny. So I ate my overpriced steak and potato in bed, flipping through channels I didn’t care about, alternating between long drags of my vape and gulps of whiskey that burned on the way down. I tried to quiet my thoughts, tried to let the alcohol dull whatever the hell I was feeling.

And then, a knock at the door.

I groaned, rolling onto my side, assuming it was the concierge. They were constantly checking in on me, acting like I was some kind of rare animal they weren’t sure how to take care of. Miss St. James, do you need more towels? More pillows? More room service? Cincinnati didn’t get many famous people, and it showed.

I pulled myself up with a sigh, took another hit from my vape, and padded barefoot to the door.

And then I looked through the peephole.

Evelyn.

Standing in the dim hallway light, one hip cocked, the hem of her dress scandalously short, the neckline plunging so deep it barely qualified as fabric.

Jesus Christ.

I hesitated, fingers hovering over the handle, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I could pretend I wasn’t here. I could turn around, climb back into bed, let her knock and knock until she gave up.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I unlocked the door, slowly, and pulled it open.

Evelyn tilted her head, lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Can I come in?” she asked.

I didn’t answer right away. Just stared at her, at the smooth curve of her collarbone, at the way her hair fell in soft waves over her bare shoulders.

I should have said no.

Should have shut the door in her face, let her walk back down the hallway in that ridiculous dress, let whatever impulse had driven her here burn itself out in the quiet of her own hotel room.

But I didn’t.

I stepped aside, and before the door even clicked shut, her mouth was on mine—hot, insistent, no hesitation, no pretense.

Her perfume curled around me, thick and heady, and suddenly the room was too small, the air too thin, my body moving before my brain could catch up. My hands found the curve of her waist, the soft heat of her back, the silk of her dress slipping beneath my fingertips as I dragged her against me.

She let out a sound—half a gasp, half a moan—when I flipped her skirt up, bunching the fabric in my fist. My hand skimmed over her hip, expecting lace or satin, something delicate, something expensive.

But there was nothing.

Just bare, warm skin.

Oh, fuck.

Evelyn smirked against my lips, as if she’d been waiting for me to notice, as if she’d planned this all along.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathed, my voice rough, barely audible.

I felt, rather than saw, the way she shivered at that.

Then she pressed her lips to my throat, teeth grazing over the thinnest part of my skin, and whatever self-control I had left burned away like paper catching fire.

I backed her toward the bed, steps messy, frantic, the hem of her dress still fisted in my hand. She let me push her down, her body sinking into the mattress with a slow exhale. Her pupils were blown wide, lips already kiss-swollen, hair spilling across the pillow in golden waves. She looked like a sex goddess. I pulled at the fabric pooled around her waist, and she arched, making it easier, watching me with something dangerous flickering behind her eyes—something that said I knew you’d let me in.

The dress slipped away in one smooth motion, puddling somewhere on the floor.

And there she was.

Naked. Glowing under the soft lamp light, curves carved from honey and shadow.

I traced my fingers over the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip, down to the heat between her legs.

She gasped, nails digging into my shoulder, back arching off the bed.

I swallowed, throat dry, dizzy with want.

“You came here for this,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Evelyn’s lips parted. Her eyes flickered, some unreadable thing shifting behind them—resentment, desire, something sharper than both.

“I hate you,” she whispered, and I believed her. The way she said it, like it had been sitting in her mouth for hours, waiting to be let out.

But then she exhaled, and her voice broke on the next words.

“But I need this.”

A confession. A resignation.

Her hands found my waist, fingers digging in like an anchor. She pulled my t-shirt off over my head. My pulse stuttered.

Hate and need. They should have canceled each other out. They should have neutralized whatever this was, set us back on solid ground.

But Evelyn had never done anything in halves. And neither had I.

I kissed her before she could say anything else, before either of us could remember why this was a bad idea.

Her hands slid over my back, nails scratching against my skin as she pulled me closer, closer, like she wanted to disappear into me.

I let her.

•••

Evelyn’s POV

I woke to a pile of red hair on my pillow. For a second, my brain lagged, still thick with sleep and whatever liquor had been sloshing through my veins the prior night. The hotel room was dim, the curtains drawn tight, the sheets warm with body heat that wasn’t just mine.

And then I remembered.

Fuck.

I’d gotten drunk, slipped into the sluttiest dress I owned, and fucked lesbian Disney princess Celia St. James. Again.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I groaned, rolling onto my back, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes like I could scrub the memory away. It didn’t work.

The room still smelled like sex. The sheets clung to my skin, sweaty and slick. My legs ached, and when I slipped a hand between them, I found myself still sore, the ghost of her mouth, her hands, still lingering like a brand.

Jesus Christ.

Say what you want about lesbians, but they know what they’re doing down there.

I exhaled, trying to pull myself together. It was just sex. It didn’t mean anything. It was a lapse in judgment, an impulse, a need. Something I could fold up and tuck away in the morning light. Something I could pretend never happened.

I was just horny. I missed my boyfriend’s dick. That’s it.

I needed to leave. Before she woke up. Before she said something I wouldn’t be able to unhear. Before I had to look her in the eyes and acknowledge what we had done—again.

I moved carefully, lifting the sheets just enough to slip out, wincing when the mattress let out the faintest groan beneath me.

Celia shifted, rolling onto her back, and suddenly there she was—completely bare in the lazy morning light. The soft curves of her breasts rising and falling with each slow, uneven breath, her nipples flushed a warm rose-pink.

Good Lord, Evelyn. What are you, fucking Lord Byron?

I wrenched my gaze away, focusing instead on the heap of discarded clothes near the foot of the bed. My dress—a pathetic slip of fabric that had seemed like such a good idea last night—was tangled in the sheets. I pulled it free, cursing myself for choosing something so short, so obvious. Now I had to walk through the hotel halls in it, half-dressed and reeking of sex, praying no one would see me.

I was just stepping into it when I heard a soft, groggy noise from the bed.

Celia blinked up at me, confusion clouding her still-sleepy eyes. I could practically see her mind catching up, putting the pieces together, wrestling with the reality of where she was and who she was waking up next to.

And then something in her expression snapped—recognition, horror, regret all colliding at once.

“Oh,” she breathed. And then, stronger, more panicked, “Oh, God. We… no. No. No.”

She sat up so fast the sheets slipped from her shoulders, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her hands flew to her face, fingers pressing hard against her temples like she could physically erase the memory, as if she could scrub away last night with sheer force of will.

And then, to my absolute fucking dismay, she started to cry.

Not loud, not hysterical, but quiet, hitched little gasps that barely made it past her hands.

I froze, half-dressed, arms tangled in my own damn dress, watching as Celia St. James—self-assured, fiercely professional, America’s sweetheart—came apart in front of me.

Fuck.

I should’ve left sooner.

“Uh, don’t cry,” I said, my voice coming out quieter than I meant it to. My throat felt tight, my limbs awkward, like my body had suddenly forgotten how to function. “We were both drunk. It doesn’t count. It doesn’t mean—”

“I fucking cheated on my fucking fiancée!” Celia screamed, cutting me off so abruptly that I flinched.

Before I could say anything else, she ripped her engagement ring off her finger and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a sharp clink and landed somewhere on the carpet, disappearing beneath a chair.

I barely had time to register that before she turned back to me, eyes as wild as her red mane.

“It does count,” she spat, voice thick with tears, her hands trembling as they gripped the sheets pooled around her waist. “What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t—why do we keep doing this?”

She looked up at me then, her face flushed, her blue eyes glassy, tear-streaked.

And God help me, she was beautiful.

That awful, stupid kind of pretty that made your stomach flip against your better judgment—like something fragile and wild all at once. Like a baby bird you weren’t supposed to touch. Like a cartoon unicorn with those wide, watery eyes that made little kids want to hug the TV.

She was a fucking mess.

And so was I.

I swallowed hard, taking a slow step back.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” I tried again, but the words felt thinner now, less convincing.

Celia let out a choked, bitter laugh, wiping at her wet cheeks with the heel of her palm. “You don’t get it, do you?” she whispered.

I didn’t answer. Because I did get it. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to admit it.

I thought about Don. About how he treated my body like something to be disciplined rather than desired. About how he could be charming when he wanted to be—so charming—but behind closed doors, he had a way of turning my life into a minefield. We worked well for the cameras, a golden couple, but in private, we were a warzone.

I knew he cheated.

I had proof—texts, calls, blurry pictures sent at odd hours. I’d gone through his phone one night, half-drunk and already bracing myself for what I’d find. And I was right. There were so many of them. Women whose names I didn’t recognize, whose faces were barely saved in his contacts, their messages littered with winking emojis and careless where are you? texts at two in the morning.

I could’ve left him then. I could’ve left him the first time he put his hands on me in a way that wasn’t meant to be loving. But I didn’t.

Because I was in too deep.

Because walking away meant giving up the life I’d built, the attention, the power, the security of knowing my name would be in the papers, the thrill of being wanted—even if I had to bleed for it.

So no, I didn’t care that I was cheating on Don. Not even a little. If anything, I liked it. The rebellion of it. The quiet fuck you I got to whisper without ever saying a word.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath me. The sheets were still warm, still tangled from last night, still smelled like us. I ran a hand through my hair, inhaled, exhaled.

“I like this,” I admitted. “I like having sex with you.” The words felt strange coming out of my mouth, like they belonged to someone else. I glanced at Celia, who was watching me with that sharp, assessing look of hers, the one that always made me feel like she saw more than I wanted her to.

“I’ve never… well, I’ve never considered myself—”

“Gay?” she supplied, arching a perfectly groomed brow.

I hesitated, then nodded. “Right. Gay. And I’m not. I mean, I have sex with men.”

Celia rolled her eyes so hard I half-expected her to strain something. “Yeah. I know.”

I ignored the sarcasm, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. “But I can’t get enough of this,” I said, and this time, my voice didn’t waver. “Of you. And I don’t give a fuck about Don. I really don’t.”

Celia exhaled sharply, looking away. Her fingers twisted the sheet between them, knotting and unknotting the fabric, her shoulders rising and falling like she was bracing for something.

“I care about Joan,” she whispered.

I nodded. “Okay,” I said, careful, measured. “So, you want to end whatever this is?”

She shook her head, once, quick. “No. I… I think I need to break up with Joan. Eventually.” She swallowed, eyes darting toward the window. “Maybe after she’s done with her tour.”

I let that sit between us for a second. The quiet. The truth we were circling but not saying.

“And us?” I asked.

Celia licked her lips, looked back at me, something unreadable flickering in her expression. “It’s just sex,” she said. “That’s it.”

I smirked, tilting my head. “Friends with benefits?”

Her gaze sharpened. “Not even friends,” she corrected. “Just… benefits. Okay?”

I let the words settle over me, let them press into my skin, warm and thrilling and dangerous.

“Okay,” I said.

And then I kissed her.