Eyes contact

Zaya's voice cut through the air like a shard of ice. 

"Stop being so touchy. You're embarrassing her."

I blinked, thrown off-guard, her words ringing sharply in my ears. The room stilled, and the actor playing my fiancé let go of my waist with a faint cough, his face flushing.

I'd been wanting to shake his hand off for a while now, but I hadn't expected Zaya to be the one to step in.

She'd barely looked my way the whole morning, yet somehow, she'd noticed this. And while I hadn't exactly been holding my breath for her to come to my defense, there was a strange comfort in knowing someone had seen my discomfort.

The director clapped his hands, the moment passing as quickly as it had come. "All right, let's reset and run the scene again. And please, let's keep the contact… contained, yeah?"

He raised a pointed brow at the actor, who now looked both embarrassed and mildly annoyed. He cast a quick, irritated look at Zaya, as though he might argue, but she stood tall and indifferent, her arms crossed, looking entirely unimpressed.

When he met her eyes, a flicker of anger played in his gaze. He grumbled something under his breath, muttering about "meddling," but didn't push any further, probably realizing he'd lose in a heartbeat if he tried to cross Zaya.

I'd heard she had a reputation for not suffering fools, and clearly, that wasn't just a rumor.

We went over the scene again, resetting to our respective marks. This time, when he placed his hand on my arm, it was a delicate touch, almost mechanical.

A bit of distance between us actually helped create the cold tension our characters were supposed to have. The feeling of forced intimacy from earlier was replaced by something more genuine and, frankly, much closer to what the scene was supposed to convey. 

"Much better, keep that tension up," the director called. 

I nodded, grateful for the change. I could focus better without feeling like I was being smothered. With Zaya across the room, positioned as the spy observing from the shadows, my attention was free to roam naturally around the space.

For the first time since rehearsals had started, I could actually immerse myself in the role, feel the weight of the princess's responsibilities, her reservations about her fiancé, her desire to escape.

But before I could sink too deeply into the character, the director clapped his hands once more. 

"Now, it's time for the eye contact between the princess and the spy. We'll run it a few times, get it right," he instructed, waving for me and Zaya to face each other.

I stiffened. Eye contact. Right. Just a simple look, the princess and spy sizing each other up, drawn into an unexpected intrigue across a crowded room.

No big deal, except that Zaya's gaze felt like it had the weight of a storm behind it. From the first day, she'd barely glanced at me, and now, here we were, required to hold eye contact in front of everyone. 

I shifted my stance, trying to keep my breathing steady as I turned to face her. Zaya stood across from me, her arms now relaxed by her sides, her face inscrutable.

I could almost feel her gaze slicing through me before I even lifted my head. I'd never been self-conscious about eye contact, but there was something in the way Zaya looked at people it was sharp, a little cold, but intense.

I lifted my eyes, catching her stare. For a second, I could barely remember my own lines.

"Hold that look," the director called from somewhere to the side. 

My lips parted, as though my character, the princess, had something to say. But the truth was, I felt frozen. Zaya's gaze was like a challenge, unwavering and impenetrable.

I swallowed, forcing myself to keep my shoulders straight, my eyes locked on hers even as I felt my cheeks warm.

It was just a scene, I told myself, nothing more. But the way she looked at me, it was as though she could see right through my act, as though she were stripping away my defenses, layer by layer.

"Again," the director said, his voice echoing around the set. I blinked, breaking the contact, relief flooding through me. But it didn't last long. He wanted us to run it again, meaning I had to endure that look a second time.

I took a steadying breath, meeting her eyes once more. This time, I tried to focus on the princess, on her curiosity, her determination to remain composed in front of a stranger.

But Zaya's gaze had this undeniable intensity that made my heartbeat stutter, and I had to look away, just for a second, to regain my composure.

"Not quite," the director said, sounding both amused and exasperated. "Layla, you're supposed to be intrigued by the spy. She's a mystery to you. Let's get that in there, all right?"

I forced a smile, nodding, and set my shoulders back, determined to get it right this time. When I lifted my head to meet Zaya's gaze again, I could feel her waiting, as if challenging me to hold her stare.

I focused on her eyes, trying to see her as the spy—someone I'd never met before, someone dangerous but magnetic.

For a brief moment, I held steady. Her expression was unreadable, but her gaze burned with something fierce, almost… hostile. And yet, there was a flash in her eyes that caught me off-guard.

Her look was cold, but there was a smolder beneath the surface, something simmering that made my pulse jump.

The princess was supposed to be captivated, and maybe that was easier to tap into than I'd expected. Her character's allure wasn't just an act; Zaya had a presence that made it difficult not to be drawn in.

Just when I thought I'd finally nailed it, my gaze slipped away, breaking the connection once again. The director sighed, and Zaya's jaw tightened. I could see the faintest hint of annoyance in her eyes, though she masked it quickly.

"All right, let's try it once more," the director said, clearly losing patience.

I inhaled deeply, grounding myself. This time, I had to get it right. When I met her eyes, I focused on channeling my character's strength, her resilience.

I'd been cast for this role, chosen to embody this princess, and I couldn't let a look from Zaya unnerve me. I held her gaze, letting the tension build between us. Her look was intense, scrutinizing, but I refused to break.

I held on, my own gaze steady, until the director clapped his hands with satisfaction. "Good! That's what I'm talking about."

A wave of relief washed over me as I pulled back, letting the moment dissipate. It was as if I'd been holding my breath underwater and was finally able to come up for air. The director glanced at his watch, smiling as he turned to us.

"It was good. All right, everyone—lunch break!"