"CUT!"
The word cracked through the air like a whip.
Bastian St. Yves ripped the headphones off his ears and slammed them onto the monitor desk. The plastic housing cracked under the force, a sharp sound that made the script supervisor jump two feet in the air.
The entire studio went dead silent. Even the fake rain machine seemed to pause in terror.
Bastian marched onto the set. His long legs ate up the distance to where Sienna stood, looking confused and holding a green tennis ball on a stick.
"Sienna," Bastian growled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What. Was. That?"
Sienna blinked, her false eyelashes fluttering like panicked moths. "It was... longing? Passion? The script says she kisses him goodbye. I kissed the ball!"
"You kissed it like you were trying to eat it," Bastian corrected, his voice dropping to that lethal, low register. "It wasn't romantic. It was messy. And frankly, it was repulsive."
Sienna's face flushed a deep, blotchy red. She stomped her foot.
