![]() “You forgot to trust me,” the redhead whispered brokenly, tears creating trails of mascara down her cheeks. Such was the life of a production assistant. Since eight A.M., the studio had been a revolving door of wide-eyed ingénues, and didn’t it figure that not a single one of them would click with Christian until Hannah was past the point of starving, her mouth tasting like stale coffee? Across the Storm Born production studio, their lead actor ran through a scene with their final actress hopeful of the day. Hannah’s hands disappeared into the sleeves of her sweatshirt like twin turtles ducking into their shells, her hidden fingers curling around the clipboard in her lap. That distinction was never more obvious than now, as she sat in the dark audition room watching a girl with pure leading-lady material emote like her life depended on it. If she’d lived in Regency England, she would be the second at every duel, but never wield the pistol. Hannah Bellinger had always been more of a supporting actress than a leading lady. ![]()
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