Chapter 8: After the Lights Go Out
The room was quiet.
After the director called “cut,” the set slowly dissolved into casual chatter. Crew members packed up, the cameraman reviewed footage, and the makeup artist giggled as she touched up the next talent.
But Mia—known on set as Maui—remained still, sitting at the edge of the bed. Her head hung low, sweat trailing down her back, her breathing shallow.
She no longer felt her body. Or if she did, it no longer felt like hers.
The studio lights burned into her eyes, but she didn’t blink them away. It was a pain she welcomed—because at least it felt real.
The smell of latex, sweat, and cheap perfume still lingered. The pressure of Reeve’s hands from earlier was still on her skin. She could still feel the way he didn’t stop—even after the scene ended.
Then a hand touched her shoulder.
“Maui,” a voice murmured—Sir Carlo, the director. He was standing close, too close. “You okay?”
She didn’t answer. He sat beside her anyway, his knee brushing hers.
“I saw the scene earlier,” he whispered, his breath hot against her neck. “You were amazing. So real.”
Mia’s chest tightened. She wanted to scream. But her voice had been buried long ago—under contracts, promises, and fear.
“You and Reeve… that kind of chemistry,” he continued, his hand slipping into hers, pretending kindness. “I was thinking... maybe I could experience that, too.”
Her heart pounded—not from excitement, but rage.
But she didn’t move.
She didn’t fight.
She didn’t speak.
Not because she wanted to stay—but because she no longer knew how to leave.
She thought of her mother. Her siblings. The unpaid bills. The manager who promised her a bigger contract if she behaved. She thought of how replaceable she was if she dared to complain—how fast someone younger, prettier, more obedient would take her place.
So when his hand trailed up her thigh, she let it happen.
Not because she liked it.
But because this industry had taught her that silence is survival.
And when he was done, the door was left open behind him.
She sat still.
Numb.
Used.
Again.
She wanted to peel her skin off, to scrub every inch of her soul. To rip the name Maui out of her chest and set it on fire.
But she didn’t cry.
There were no more tears left to cry.
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