The living room of the Bel Air villa was quiet. Outside, a steady, rhythmic rain was tapping against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, blurring the glowing grid of the Los Angeles skyline.
Daniel was stretched out on the massive sectional sofa, wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. A heavily marked-up copy of the Joker script was resting on his chest, but his eyes were closed. His spine was actively throbbing. Spending twelve hours a day contorting his back into the hunched, painful-looking slump of the character was starting to take a serious physical toll.
He heard the soft padding of bare feet on the hardwood floor.
Florence walked into the living room, carrying two glasses of red wine. She had just showered, her blonde hair damp and hanging loosely around her shoulders. She was wearing one of his oversized flannel shirts, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She handed one of the glasses to Daniel and curled up next to him on the sofa, tucking her legs underneath her.
"You look like you just got run over by a truck," Florence noted, taking a sip of her wine.
"I'm fine," Daniel said, opening his eyes and sitting up slightly to take the glass. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a knot of tension there. "Just running the blocking for tomorrow's scenes in my head. We have the first big monologue shoot with the judge."
Florence hummed quietly, resting her head against the back of the sofa. She looked at him for a long moment, a small, thoroughly amused smile playing on her lips.
"I need to confess something," Florence said casually.
Daniel looked over at her, pausing with his wine glass halfway to his mouth. "Okay. That sounds ominous."
"It's not ominous, but it might distract you from your blocking," Florence warned him playfully. She shifted her weight, turning to face him fully. "When I went to the makeup trailer today to drop off the food for Margot... I may have propositioned your leading lady."
Daniel stared at her. He slowly lowered his wine glass, setting it on the edge of the coffee table.
"You did what?" Daniel asked. His voice was perfectly level, but his brain was rapidly trying to process the sentence.
"I told her that she didn't need to steal kisses on camera," Florence explained, her tone entirely conversational, as if she were discussing their dinner plans. "And that if she wanted a turn with you, she just had to ask nicely."
Daniel sat back against the cushions. He looked at his girlfriend of almost three years.
He wasn't angry, but he was undeniably bewildered. In the entire time they had been together—through the explosive rise of Miller Studios, the intense awards circuits, and the relentless media attention—Florence had never once shown an inclination to open their relationship. She was fiercely loyal, and they had always been a strictly closed circuit. They had never even talked about bringing a third person into the mix.
"Florence," Daniel said slowly, trying to find the right words. "We've been together for three years. You've never shown any interest in bringing anyone else into our bedroom. Let alone a co-star."
"I know," Florence agreed, completely unfazed. She reached out and traced the rim of her wine glass with her index finger. "And honestly, I never really thought about it before. But sitting there watching the dailies yesterday... seeing the way she grabbed you on that balcony. Seeing how completely consumed she was by the whole dynamic."
Florence looked up, meeting his eyes with absolute, unflinching honesty. "It was hot, Dan. The chemistry was ridiculous. I actually wished I had been on set to see it happen live. And today in the trailer, knowing that she was absolutely terrified I was going to rip her head off, only to realize I was actually inviting her in? The look on her face was priceless."
Daniel let out a long, heavy breath, dragging a hand through his dark hair.
Somehow, he didn't find the conversation weird. This was Hollywood after all. They were adults, and their trust in each other was absolute. If anything, the sheer, unapologetic confidence she radiated right now was intoxicating. But Daniel's brain was wired for logistics, schedules, and production risks.
"Florence," Daniel said, his tone shifting into his grounded, practical mode. "Margot is gorgeous. I'm not blind. But she is also currently my employee. I am directing her in a hundred-million-dollar movie. If we pull her into our bed right now, the power dynamic on set completely shifts. If it gets weird, if feelings get hurt, or if the press gets wind of it, the entire production blows up. I can't risk the movie."
Florence listened, nodding slowly. She respected his absolute dedication to his work more than anything else. It was the foundation of why she loved him.
"You're right," Florence conceded softly. "It's an HR nightmare waiting to happen. You're the boss. We shouldn't mess with the shoot."
"Exactly," Daniel said, relieved she understood the pragmatic side of it.
"But," Florence added, a wicked glint returning to her eyes. "Once the movie wraps? Once the press tour is over and she's no longer your employee?"
Daniel looked at her. He couldn't help the slow, genuine smile that spread across his face.
"If you both still have these... feelings after the movie is in the can," Daniel murmured, "then we can talk about it."
Florence beamed, clearly victorious. She leaned over, resting her hand on his thigh. "Deal. But I have to ask one final question, and you have to give me a completely honest answer."
"Shoot."
"Do you find her hot?" Florence asked, her eyes searching his face.
Daniel laughed quietly, shaking his head. "Florence, I'd be lying to your face if I said no. Half the guys in Hollywood would kill to be in my position right now. She's incredibly attractive. But right now, she's Harleen Quinzel, and I need to focus on ruining her life on camera."
"Fair enough," Florence smirked, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to his jaw. "Go back to your script, Mr. Director. We'll revisit this in post-production."
---
The next morning, the heavy, suffocating atmosphere of Gotham City had returned to Stage 12.
Dante Ferretti had built a magnificent, oppressive set representing the private chambers of a high-ranking Gotham judge. It was lined with dark oak bookshelves, heavy leather furniture, and a massive mahogany desk. It looked like the kind of room where powerful men made terrible, secret decisions away from the public eye.
Sitting behind the massive desk, sweating slightly under the hot studio lights, was Elias Thorne.
Elias was a veteran. Years ago, he had been a struggling theatre actor trying to make rent when he walked into a dilapidated, sweaty dance studio to audition for a kid directing his first feature film. He had landed the role of Juror 3 in 12 Angry Men. Since then, his career had skyrocketed. He had delivered an iconic, heartbreaking performance as Obi-Wan Kenobi in Daniel's Star Wars films, elevating him to global stardom. He was currently fielding leading-man offers from every major studio in town.
But when Daniel Miller called and asked if he had two days free to play a corrupt judge in a comic book movie, Elias didn't even ask for the script. He just asked for the call time.
Elias sat in the leather chair, watching Daniel talk to the cinematographer near the video village.
Elias had always known Daniel was a genius behind the camera. He still vividly remembered that day in the sweltering dance studio during 12 Angry Men, when Elias had been struggling to find the emotional core of Juror 3's final breakdown. Daniel had stepped in and casually acted the scene out for him, delivering a performance so raw and devastating it had completely stunned both Elias and Tom Wiley.
Elias knew Daniel had the chops. But seeing him fully transition into a leading actor—and completely burying himself under this horrifying, degraded clown makeup—was still a massive shock to his system.
"Alright, the track is set," Bob Elswit called out, adjusting the heavy Panavision camera. "We're going to push in slowly as the monologue builds. Keep your marks tight, Dan."
"Got it," Daniel said in his normal, articulate voice. He was twirling a silver dry-erase marker between his fingers, a habit he always fell into when calculating camera angles.
Standing in the shadows near the monitors, Margot watched the marker spin over his knuckles. She was in full Harley Quinn wardrobe—the split-color leather jacket, the combat boots, the messy dyed hair. Her stomach was doing flips. She had been hyper-aware of Daniel all morning, her brain continuously replaying Florence's open invitation.
Daniel handed the marker to a PA and looked over at Tom. "Tom, remind the extras playing the goons to keep the struggle at the door quiet. I don't want them stepping on the dialogue."
"Already handled," Tom confirmed, checking his clipboard. "Everyone ready?"
Daniel took a deep breath. He walked onto the set. He didn't pace to get into character. He just stopped walking, and let his spine collapse.
The switch flipped.
His shoulders rounded. His head tilted downwards, the greasy green hair falling over his dead, hollow eyes. He became a ghost haunting the soundstage.
"Sound speeding."
"Camera rolling."
"Action," Tom yelled.
The heavy oak doors of the Judge's chambers burst open. Two massive, heavily armed stuntmen dragged a bleeding court bailiff into the room, tossing him onto the plush carpet.
Elias shot up from his leather chair, channeling his theater roots, his face pale with terror. "What is the meaning of this? I have security—!"
The Joker shuffled into the room.
He moved with that terrifying, uneven apathy, completely ignoring the bleeding man on the floor. He walked straight toward the massive mahogany desk, his dirty hands shoved deep into the pockets of his purple coat.
"Security," the Joker whispered. The voice was a raspy, nasal hum that instantly made the hair on the back of Elias's neck stand up. It was so completely different from Daniel's real voice that Elias actually felt a flicker of genuine disorientation.
The Joker stopped at the edge of the desk. He leaned over, planting his hands on the polished wood. He looked around the opulent room, smacking his lips together.
Smack. Tsk.
"Nice office, Your Honor," the Joker mumbled, his eyes darting erratically around the bookshelves before snapping back to lock onto the Judge. "Lots of books. Lots of rules. You sit up on that high bench in your black robes, and you hit your little wooden hammer, and you think you bring order to the world."
Elias swallowed hard, physically backing up until his spine hit the bookshelf behind him. "What do you want?"
The Joker tilted his head. He reached slowly into his pocket.
Elias flinched, playing the fear perfectly, expecting a gun.
Instead, the Joker pulled out a simple, silver straight razor. He flicked the blade open with his thumb. It glinted sharply under the warm desk lamp.
"You know how I got these scars?" the Joker asked quietly.
He didn't yell. He didn't threaten. He just asked the question like a man making polite conversation at a dinner party, which made it infinitely more terrifying.
He stepped around the desk, closing the distance. Elias tried to shrink away, but there was nowhere to go. The Joker stopped inches away from him, invading his personal space completely.
Daniel had rewritten the monologue specifically for this scene, tailoring the psychological torture to fit the victim in the room.
"My father," the Joker began, his voice dropping into a mesmerizing, hypnotic cadence, "was a judge. Just like you. A very important man. A very... strict man."
The Joker brought the flat edge of the straight razor up, resting the cold metal gently against his own scarred cheek.
"He liked order," the Joker whispered, his eyes widening slightly, a flicker of manic energy dancing in the dark voids. "He liked things to be perfect. His lawn. His car. His family. But my mother... she couldn't handle the pressure. She started drinking. Started making messes. And my father hated messes."
The Joker took a slow, shuffling step closer. He was practically chest-to-chest with Elias.
"One night, he comes home, and the roast is burned," the Joker continued, his voice taking on a sick, nostalgic lilt. "He gets the belt. He doesn't just hit her. He breaks her. He makes a terrible, terrible mess on the kitchen floor."
The Joker's breathing hitched slightly, a terrifying mimicry of childhood grief.
"I was just a kid. I was crying. Because, you know, my mom was bleeding," the Joker rasped, his eyes locking onto Elias, completely trapping the older actor in the narrative. "And my father... he looks at me. He drops the belt. He walks over to the kitchen drawer, and he pulls out a carving knife."
The Joker slowly moved the straight razor from his own cheek, bringing it up to hover millimeters away from Elias's face.
"He says to me... 'Why so sad, son?'" the Joker whispered, his voice cracking perfectly. "'I worked hard for this family. I provide for this family. I want a smiling house. Why aren't you smiling?'"
The Joker grabbed Elias's jaw with his free hand. His grip was surprisingly strong, his dirty fingers digging into the man's skin.
"He takes the blade," the Joker murmured, tracing the dull edge of the razor gently against the corner of Elias's mouth. "'Let's put a smile on that face.'"
The Joker stared into Elias's terrified eyes. He held the suffocating silence for five agonizing seconds. The tension in the room was so thick it felt like the air had been sucked out of the soundstage.
And then, the Joker smiled. The massive, red, scarred Glasgow grin stretched across his face, looking raw and wet under the lights.
"Now," the Joker whispered, his voice suddenly dropping its theatrical lilt, becoming completely flat and dead. "I hear you've been taking bribes from the Maroni family."
"And... cut!" Tom Wiley's voice echoed through the megaphone.
The spell broke.
Daniel immediately let go of Elias's jaw, stepping back and folding the straight razor closed with a practiced flick of his thumb. He rolled his shoulders, standing up straight. The monster vanished.
"Great job, Elias," Daniel said in his normal, polite voice, slipping the prop razor back into his coat pocket. "Your reaction was perfect. The way you stopped blinking really sold the terror."
Elias Thorne let out a massive, shuddering breath, resting a hand on his chest. He looked at Daniel, shaking his head.
"Dan, I'm not going to lie to you," the veteran actor breathed, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. "I've known you for years. I knew you were acting. But having you stand that close to me, doing that voice... I completely forgot I was on a movie set. That is the scariest thing I've ever experienced."
"The proximity does the heavy lifting," Daniel smiled warmly, completely unbothered. He looked over the desk toward the cameras. "Bob, how did the focus hold when I stepped around the desk?"
"Held perfectly, Dan," Bob called back from the dolly. "The lighting caught the edge of the razor beautifully. It's a master take."
"Excellent," Daniel nodded. "Let's reset. We're moving to the warehouse set for the afternoon block."
Two hours later, the crew had relocated to a dingy, dimly lit warehouse set on the backlot. This was the scene Daniel had mapped out to show Harley Quinn's first real assignment—the first time she was allowed off the leash.
Margot stepped onto the concrete floor, holding a solid ash baseball bat resting on her shoulder.
A stuntman playing a captured mob informant was tied to a chair in the center of the room, looking battered and terrified.
Daniel stood in the shadows near the back of the set, arms crossed, leaning against a concrete pillar. The Joker was just observing in this scene. This was Harley's moment.
"Action," Tom called out.
Margot unleashed.
Channeling all her pent-up adrenaline, the massive crush on her director, and the chaotic, liberating energy of the wardrobe, she tore into the scene. She didn't play it like a generic action star. She played it manic. She skipped around the tied-up informant, humming a cheerful, discordant tune, before violently slamming the baseball bat into the concrete floor inches from his feet.
She screamed her dialogue, laughing mid-sentence, shifting from terrifying anger to bubbly enthusiasm in the blink of an eye. She fully embraced the madness, proving she wasn't just a sidekick in a costume. She was a genuine equal in the chaos.
When she finally finished the interrogation, resting the bat on her shoulder and blowing a strand of pink-dyed hair out of her face, the crew was dead quiet.
"Cut," Daniel said.
He walked out of the shadows. He didn't just look impressed; he looked deeply, professionally proud. The chemistry they had built was translating flawlessly to the screen.
"That was it," Daniel told her, stopping a few feet away. "Don't change a single thing. You own the room."
Margot smiled, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. "Thanks, boss."
By eight o'clock that night, the day had wrapped. The crew was shutting down the lights and packing up the heavy camera equipment.
Margot was walking back toward her trailer, her jacket unzipped, feeling physically exhausted but creatively on top of the world.
She heard footsteps behind her.
Daniel was walking down the paved avenue, heading toward his own trailer. He fell into step beside her. The greasepaint was still on his face, but he was entirely himself.
"Great work today," Daniel said, looking over at her. "We have a lighter schedule tomorrow. Just the driving scenes in the stunt car."
"Sounds good," Margot said, looking up at him.
They reached the gap between their trailers. Daniel stopped, turning to face her.
He maintained his strict professional boundary. He didn't step into her space. He didn't make a comment about Florence's offer. But as he looked down at her, there was a subtle, heavy shift in his dark eyes. It was a lingering, intensely observant look that communicated everything he wasn't saying out loud. He knew exactly what Florence had offered her, and he wasn't shutting the door on it.
"Get some rest, Margot," Daniel said quietly.
"You too, Dan," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
Daniel gave her a final, brief nod, turned, and walked up the steps into his trailer.
Margot stood alone in the cool California evening, the thud of the trailer door echoing in the quiet lot. The fear and embarrassment she had carried for the last few days were completely gone.
She made a silent, absolute promise to herself right there on the asphalt. The second the director yelled "Wrap" on this movie, she was going to cash in that invitation.
------
A/N: Thank you for the overwhelming amount of support. Surprisingly enough, a lot of people on all sites just told to do Monday to Friday and take weekends off. I'm extremely grateful. Since this can help me avoid burnout in the long run. Still, it felt weird not posting today without notice so here's the chapter XD. Tomorrow will be off and from next week we'll be on a Monday to Friday schedule!
Thanks to everyone who has stuck around so long and through everything! I'm honestly very grateful. I've had massive shit years in my life for the past three years (lots of deaths, monetary troubles, health issues and well massive stress over a personal issue that I'm too embarrassed to even talk about) But ever since I started writing this story, everything seems to be getting better slowly. And you guys and your comments and support thus far has been a massive help.
I love you all <3
P.S. Read ahead on Patreon: patreon.com/AmaanS