My Ex Wrote Our Broken Marriage Into a Movie

The high of my one-take victory against Lorelei lingered exactly until Friday morning. If she couldn't out-act me, she had clearly decided to erase me.

We were filming a volatile ballroom confrontation. The blocking was simple, but the moment the cameras rolled, Lorelei drifted. She stepped directly over her tape mark, letting the voluminous sweep of her crimson silk gown physically wedge me out of the frame. The heavy shadow of her profile eclipsed my key light. I was suddenly acting to her shoulder blade.

Before I could pivot, before Vance could yell cut, the heavy acoustic doors of the soundstage groaned open.

The baseline hum of the crew evaporated. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet ten degrees. I didn't need to turn around to know who had just walked in. My ribs ached with the sudden, frantic hammering of my own heart.

Enzo.

He wasn't scheduled. But as he stepped into the glare of the work lights, dressed in a sharp, three-piece vintage suit that screamed old Hollywood money, the whispers rippled through the crew. A guest star appearance.

Lorelei’s predatory posture instantly melted into a simpering, camera-ready glow. She turned to greet him, expecting him to take his place beside her.

Enzo didn't even look at her. His storm-gray eyes were locked on me, dark and unreadable. He walked straight into the center of the set, the sheer gravity of his presence parting the crew like the Red Sea.

"Let's adjust this," Enzo murmured. His voice was a low, tectonic rumble that didn't require volume to command the room.

He placed a large, tailored hand on Lorelei’s shoulder. She preened, leaning into the touch, until he applied a firm, undeniable pressure and physically pivoted her backward, entirely out of my light.

"You're crowding the frame, Lori," Enzo said, his tone smooth but laced with absolute authority. "Give the lady her light."

Lorelei’s smile froze, turning brittle. Vance, eager to appease the biggest star on his set, immediately barked through his megaphone, "Watch your marks, Lorelei! Reset!"

Suddenly, I was bathed in the harsh, unforgiving glare of the spotlight. Enzo stepped back, leaving Lorelei fuming in the periphery. He finally met my gaze. There was no triumph in his expression, only a desperate, silent plea. *See me,* his eyes begged. *See what I can do for you now.*

The audacity of it made the blood roar in my ears. He hadn't protected me when I was fading away in a suffocating apartment in our past life. I didn't want his protection now.

By noon, the trades had dropped a blind item so sharply worded it practically bled. It warned of a certain "A-list diva" facing severe industry blowback from a "newly minted superstar's management" if she continued her unprofessional set behavior. Callum Reid’s fingerprints were all over it.

I didn't wait. I marched straight to Enzo’s trailer.

The heavy metal door was ajar. I pushed it open, stepping into the dim, air-conditioned quiet. Enzo was sitting on the edge of the leather sofa, a worn black notebook resting on his knees. He looked up, his posture instantly stiffening.

I didn't yell. I kept my voice pitched to a lethal, frictionless whisper. "Call off your dogs."

Enzo slowly closed the notebook. "Lorelei was out of line. Someone needed to remind her of her place."

"My place is perfectly fine without your interference," I shot back, stepping closer. The scent of his cedar cologne hit me, an unwelcome ghost from a life I had burned to the ground. "I don't need a bodyguard, Enzo. Especially not one dragging a graveyard of baggage behind him. I survived you. I can certainly survive Lorelei Castro."

He took the blow without flinching. His jaw locked so tightly a muscle ticked violently beneath his cheekbone. The knuckles of his hands, resting on the dark leather of his notebook, bled white. He didn't offer a single word of defense. He just sat there, absorbing my venom, his silence heavier and more agonizing than any screaming match we had ever had.

I turned on my heel and walked out, the suffocating weight of his gaze burning a hole between my shoulder blades.

When I returned to the soundstage, the tension was a living, breathing thing. And then, salvation arrived in a velvet jacket.

"Haisley!"

Koda Munoz strolled onto the set, carrying a cardboard tray loaded with iced coffees. He bypassed the PAs, the director, and Lorelei, walking straight toward me with that effortless, golden-retriever grin.

"Look what I brought my favorite girl," Koda announced loudly. He closed the distance and wrapped a warm, heavy arm around my waist, pulling me flush against his side. He smelled of bergamot and easy joy—a stark contrast to the suffocating gravity of Enzo.

Koda leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he whispered a deeply inappropriate joke about Vance's toupee.

The shock of it pulled a sudden, genuine laugh from my chest. It was loud and bright, the first real sound I had made all week. I leaned into Koda’s chest, letting the camera capture the flawless illusion of our romance.

From the deep shadows of the lighting rigs, a sharp, violent *CRACK* shattered the ambient noise of the set.

The crew went dead silent.

I turned my head. Enzo stood half-swallowed by the dark, the blue glow of a monitor illuminating the jagged, splintered edges of a wooden prop cane he held in his hands. He had snapped it clean in half.

His chest heaved with jagged, uneven breaths. His eyes bypassed me entirely, locking onto Koda’s hand resting casually on my hip. The legendary composure of Enzo Gilbert was gone, replaced by something feral, raw, and terrifyingly awake.