The alarm clock rang at six a.m.
Charlize Theron groaned and rolled over, grey-green eyes blinking against the early light. The world was still half-dream, blurry, muted, and sluggish.
On her cluttered bedside table, a glass bottle played host to a trail of ants already on their morning hustle.
"Can't be late. Crew call today."
She sat up slowly, letting reality settle in. Then, remembering her schedule, she bolted upright.
"Ow—dammit!"
Her foot landed on something sharp. Limping and cursing under her breath, she pulled a brittle chicken bone from her sole—the last remnant of last night's hasty dinner after a long shift at the Cheesecake Factory.
"I need to clean this place."
The thought had made regular appearances all week—thirty times, in fact.
And thirty times, it had been ignored.
She sighed, limped toward the bathroom, and muttered, "Focus on the role. One step at a time."
The floor beneath her didn't care about dreams or ambition—it was just a mess. Empty containers. Crumpled scripts. One lost sock.
In the mirror, she stood in her underwear, droplets of cold water clinging to her cheeks. She stared at her reflection for a long moment.
"Mirror, mirror on the wall," she whispered, voice dry.
"Who's the fairest of them all?"
Then she laughed—short and bitter.
"God, that's stupid."
But it worked. Her nerves steadied. Better than repeating some overcooked mantra like I can do this.
No, she preferred the villain anyway.
"I'll get to play the stepmother someday," she muttered.
"Hell, maybe I'll own it. Just need the right script... and a whole lot of practice."
She patted her cheeks, like waking herself from something deeper than sleep.
The audition had gone smoother than expected. Richard—the casting director with a beard that made him look like a Viking marauder—had glared through most of it.
Still, she could tell he was decent underneath. Gruff didn't always mean cruel.
"This one's got more lines," she said to no one, adjusting her posture like she might already be on camera.
"But it's still not the role. Still not the lead."
The mirror didn't blink. Her reflection looked back—tired, ambitious, maybe a little sad.
"When does the real break come? What does it even take?"
Her thoughts drifted, inevitably, to him.
Christian.
A man who walked like he carried something heavier than the world. Cigarette smoke. Leather coat.
A thousand-yard stare that saw things no one else could.
Demons didn't scare him. Ghosts didn't haunt him. He haunted them.
And he'd saved her. Not with a grand gesture, not in some fairytale ending—but in the quiet, gritty way a man like him would.
The way that made you wonder if he'd ever even been there at all.
If her life had been a movie, maybe she'd have been the damsel. He'd have shown up just in time, saved the day, and taken her hand.
They'd split a coffee as the sky turned gold.
But this wasn't a movie. Life didn't stop for credits. It just kept going—uneven and raw.
Relief.
And regret.
Charlize tightened the strap of her bag, heels clicking softly against the apartment floor as she made her way toward the door.
Her pride—it had always been her armor. And sometimes, her cage.
She'd never used her body to buy opportunity or express gratitude. Not even when the moment swayed dangerously close to temptation.
Not even under the illusion of intimacy that came with adrenaline and fear—what some shrink might call the suspension bridge effect.
"Is pride the original sin?"
She paused in front of the mirror again. Her reflection stared back, makeup subtle, hair set, eyes a touch too hollow for this early in the day.
"If I weren't so stubborn, maybe I'd be further along. Maybe I wouldn't feel so damn guilty every time I think of Christian."
But if the roles were reversed—if she were the one dragging demons out of the dark corners of the world, would she have done any differently?
She doubted it.
"Guess I'm just not pretty enough or rich enough."
The bitter thought came uninvited. She remembered something Christian once said, something sardonic:
"Poor men pretend they're rich to impress women. Rich men pretend they're broke to test them."
She almost laughed at how both sides seemed to be playing a con.
"We all judge. Men, women. Looks, charm, money—it's all part of the currency."
She caught her own reflection, smirking at the thought, the kind of smirk you wear when you know you're lying to yourself just a little.
Her mind drifted back to him. Christian.
Their meetings hadn't been fate—it had been absurd. A man who should've belonged to some shadowy corner of the occult world—half priest, half wizard—showing up as a set hand on a third-rate film.
It was like seeing a Roman gladiator working security at a mall. It didn't fit.
But Christian had never really fit anywhere. That was the point.
Underneath the rumpled coat, nicotine-stained fingers, and that bone-deep weariness was something she couldn't quite name.
Not danger. Not charm. Just... truth. Raw and painful.
She'd stopped trying to figure it out. You don't unwrap a bomb just to see what's inside.
She owed him. Her current role? His doing.
And yeah, maybe getting close to him wasn't entirely without its angles. She wasn't blind to that.
"If I could learn even a little of what he knows... maybe I could protect myself. Maybe I wouldn't always be waiting for someone else to save me."
But that was a conversation for another day.
The morning sun spilled over the city like a slow leak.
She stepped into it, boots crunching softly as she made her way to the rendezvous point.
Vinales Valley was the main filming location, which meant the cast and crew were bused in from the same central meetup spot.
Most behind-the-scenes staff were already there, doing the early grunt work.
Actors like Charlize, though? They arrived just in time to pretend like none of it existed.
She reached the group, looking around with the kind of restless energy that came from too little sleep and too much ambition.
Then, she heard it.
"You're promoted," said a low voice behind her.
"Congratulations, leading lady."
She turned.
Christian stood there, coat slung carelessly over one shoulder, stubble shadowing his jaw, cigarette dangling from his lips like an afterthought.
His tone was flat, but something in his eyes said he'd seen this outcome before she ever stepped on set.
Charlize blinked.
Just like that, everything changed. Again.