How did you not hit her back?

The moment Maeve's fist connected with Zaya's jaw, my breath caught in my throat. It wasn't part of the choreography, and the sound of it raw and real echoed through the set like a gunshot.

Zaya stumbled but recovered quickly, her hand instinctively going to her cheek. Her expression, a mix of shock and fury, was enough to send a chill down my spine.

"Cut!" the director bellowed, his voice booming across the studio.

I stood frozen, unsure of what to do as Zaya was ushered off the set by a couple of staff members.

My heart twisted at the sight of her, her usual composure replaced by a rigid tension. She was trying to keep it together, but I could see the flicker of anger simmering beneath the surface.

What the hell had just happened?

Maeve was still on the set, standing stiffly near the overturned props. She wasn't apologetic, nor did she look remotely remorseful. In fact, her expression was eerily calm, as if nothing had happened.