CHAPTER 33: CHAPTER-33. (STUBBORN MAN CHILD).

After his possessive act, we finally reached the vanity van. The air inside was cooler, but my skin still carried the warmth from the awkward introductions outside.

I wanted to turn around, plant myself in front of him, and just ask what that was about his whole "don’t do that" nonsense.

But before I could even open my mouth, the door swung open and the stylist and makeup artist breezed in like they owned the place.

Without wasting another second, they got to work.

While one unpacked an army of brushes, powders, and sprays, the other shuffling through a rack of costumes that looked far too uncomfortable to exist.

Dave sat down on the long couch like nothing happened, scrolling through his phone, probably texting whoever he texts when I’m not looking.

Or maybe pretending to text so he wouldn’t have to talk to me.

Fine. Two can play at that game.

I slid into the seat near the small fold-out table, my laptop bag plopping down beside me.

The makeup artist glanced my way with a curious smile, probably wondering if I was "part of the cast" or just "the mysterious plus-one."

I didn’t bother clarifying. I had no interest in being another piece of gossip floating around the set.

Instead, I pulled out my laptop and opened my current draft. My eyes scanned the blinking cursor, but the words refused to form.

My mind kept circling back to that moment outside, the producer’s extended hand, my own, and then his sliding in between like some jealous... something.

It didn’t make sense.

Dave never interfered like that before, especially not in front of an audience.

In the past, he even avoided standing near me. If it were Grandpa Albert’s order, then only he even taken me as his plus to functions.

Not every but only family functions. It always left me with the impression as if he was disgusted to be even seen with me.

He usually preferred the cold, detached approach to anything involving me in public.

But today?

Today, he acted like he had the right to dictate how I moved, how I looked, how I... bit my lip.

And that thought annoyed me even more.

I shook it off, forcing my focus back to my screen.

If I was going to survive the day, I needed to bury myself in something else, my writing, my safe space, my excuse not to interact with anyone I didn’t want to.

The soft hum of the vanity’s air conditioning blended with the clicking of hangers on the rack.

Becka’s voice floated in from outside, muffled but still annoyingly familiar.

The memory of her standing in that hotel room with him stabbed at my brain, unwelcome and stubborn.

I straightened my back, determined not to let it slip into my writing space.

"Coffee?" someone asked.

I looked up to see a young crew member holding a tray with paper cups. Before I could answer, Dave’s voice cut in.

"She doesn’t drink coffee," he said, without even glancing at me.

I blinked. Since when did he know about my preference? The thoughts almost felt cringeworthy, making me shiver.

Though it was true that I did not like to drink coffee but I cannot let him dictate it too. With that thought, I tried to speak up, "Actually, I do..."

"She’ll have tea," he said firmly, looking at the crew member this time.

The crew member nodded and left before I could correct him. My fingers hovered over my keyboard, the urge to throw something at Dave growing stronger by the second.

I took a slow breath. "You know, it’s impressive how you’ve suddenly developed this talent for making decisions on my behalf," I said quietly, eyes still on my screen.

He didn’t answer. Typical.

Fine. I’d talk about it at home. Where he couldn’t hide behind his public persona or a room full of stylists and crew.

I typed aimlessly, letting my fingers move even if the sentences made no sense. Sometimes that was the only way to trick my brain into producing anything.

Ten minutes later, the tea arrived. Surprisingly, it was lemon tea, my usual.

How in the world did he get to know about it?

I took it anyway, glancing at Dave, who was now fully engaged in some conversation on his phone, his tone low and business-like, the kind he used when negotiating.

I resisted the urge to eavesdrop, reminding myself that I’d already learned the hard way that curiosity in this relationship was a dangerous thing.

Outside, the crew’s voices grew louder. Someone called for a sound check, another for lighting adjustments.

The energy of the set was shifting, building toward something. Dave stood up, running a hand through his hair as the stylist followed him, fixing the little strands that dared to move.

"Back in fifteen," he told someone outside before turning to me. "Stay here. Don’t go wandering around."

I looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "Do I look like a toddler who needs a leash?"

It was the opposite. I was here to take care of this stubborn man-child.

"You look like someone who attracts attention without realizing it," he said, his eyes locking onto mine for a moment longer than necessary. And then he was gone.

I stared at the closed door for a few seconds, my heartbeat annoyingly faster than it should’ve been. His words weren’t a compliment.

Not really.

But the way he said them made my chest feel tight in a way I didn’t appreciate.

I pushed my tea aside and went back to my laptop.

This was ridiculous. I wasn’t going to sit here like some damsel in a cage while he played Mr. Actor outside. I was here for my own reasons.

And if I was going to wait, I might as well use the time wisely.

I opened my email tab, refreshing it for the fifth time today. Still nothing from Silver Fox Agency. My fingers tapped restlessly on the desk.

The van door opened again, but it wasn’t Dave.

My brows raised seeing the man standing in front of me, almost having the same physical features as Dave, but his blonde strands flowed in the air, making him almost flawless.

Nicole Morris. Dave’s elder brother. Step-brother.