At the set

I had to get back to work. 

The film set buzzed with the chaotic energy, and here I was, Mellisa Lane, stunt double extraordinaire, standing on the sidelines with a front-row seat to the drama. Leonard Johnson, the director with a personality bigger than Hollywood itself, was having a heated discussion with Catherine Marsh, the leading lady of the movie "Ashes of Me." The air practically crackled with tension.

I listened intently, my inner monologue went something like, "Keep your mouth shut, Mellisa, let's not stir the pot just yet." That's my golden rule when dealing with directors and divas – like a wise philosopher once said, "When in doubt, offer a tissue."

So, I reached into my pocket, conjured up a tissue like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, and presented it to Catherine with a charming smile. Now, I'm no therapist, but I've found that tissues are surprisingly effective in defusing tense situations. 

Catherine, with her perfectly mascaraed eyes and a pout that could give Angelina Jolie a run for her money, looked at me like I'd just handed her the key to the universe. "Thanks," she muttered, taking the tissue with a hint of a smile.

"No problemo, Cat. Always here to save the day, one tissue at a time," I replied with a wink. Smooth, Mellisa, real smooth.

She laughed, a genuine sound that cut through the tension like a hot knife through butter. Score one for Mellisa and her trusty tissue.

Grips and gaffers hurriedly maneuvered equipment, and the makeup artist tried to figure out how to make a fresh wound look convincingly painful.

In the midst of this backstage circus, Kat screamed a name.  "Killian Anderson. No fucking way!" Ah, Killian – heir to the Anderson production, reportedly arrogant, undeniably rich, and, according to the rumor mill, as handsome as a demigod. Now, this was the kind of gossip I could get behind.

I leaned in conspiratorially, making sure Catherine was sufficiently tissue-engaged in her emotional recovery. "So, word on the street is that Killian Anderson is like the James Bond of the film industry. Rich, suave, and probably has a secret lair filled with exotic pets. Ever crossed paths with him?"

Catherine glanced at me, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Oh, Killian? The guy made it to the cover of GQ for breakfast, yet no paparazzi ever could capture that face of his without sunglasses on. He must have paid a great load to keep his identity a secret."

I couldn't help but chuckle at the vivid imagery. "Have you ever tempted to challenge his royal arrogance?"

Catherine shrugged, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Maybe.”

And his name echoed through my mind like It was glued to my brain with hot glue gun for the rest of the day.. 

I decided to go and grab some coffee for us while they get the set ready. Thank god It was near my fvourite store. I strolled into the bustling coffee shop, the aroma of freshly ground beans assaulting my senses.

The barista, a tattooed guy with more piercings than a porcupine, raised an eyebrow as I approached.

"The usual, Mellisa?" he asked, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. I nodded, my unruly hair bouncing in agreement. The usual – a concoction of caffeine and existential dread.

As I waited for my elixir of sanity, I couldn't help but overhear a lively conversation at the next table. A group of caffeinated gossips were dissecting the latest Hollywood drama. And who was at the epicenter of it all? None other than the shiny, illustrious Anderson – Killian Anderson.

My guy was everywhere. 

Now, let me make one thing clear – I don't like Anderson. He's too shiny, like a polished diamond that screams, "Look at me, I'm rich, I'm powerful, and my teeth are probably whiter than your entire existence." But hey, who am I to judge? 

The gossipy bunch was deep into the juicy details, and being the accidental eavesdropper that I am, I couldn't resist tuning in.

"I heard Anderson's escapade made the front page. Front and center, like a VIP pass to scandal town," one person declared with a flourish, waving their arms like a conductor leading an orchestra of rumors.

"Oh, you mean the mysterious lady? Classic Anderson move, doing things just to mess with his rich and powerful daddy," another chimed in, sipping their overly foamy latte.

I smirked into my coffee cup. Classic Anderson move indeed. If I had a dollar for every time a rich kid rebelled against their powerful parent by spending the night with a mysterious stranger, I'd probably be rich enough to pull off a rebellion of my own.

The tattooed barista slid my coffee across the counter, a knowing glint in his eye. "Got yourself a front-row ticket to the Anderson drama, Mel?"

I chuckled, taking a sip. "Apparently so."

I walked back to the make-up room without and single thought on my mind. 

Armed with my coffee, I sat on my table and waited for Jenny. 

Just to find out that- 

Damn it. 

Killian Anderson followed me here too. 

The crew was drilling on Anderson’s news, so I did what I was best at - eavesdropped like it was an Olympic sport.

"So, any guesses on the mysterious lady's identity?" someone asked, their eyes gleaming with the excitement of a detective about to crack a case.

"Rumor has it she's not even a celebrity. Just some unknown mortal who stumbled into the spotlight. The media is having a field day trying to unveil her like she's a masked superhero," another added, their fingers typing away on a laptop like they were crafting the next great American novel.

Unknown mortal, huh? Now that's a term that stung a little too close to home. I glanced at my reflection in the coffee shop window – a mortal surrounded by the immortal glow of Hollywood. The irony wasn't lost on me.

“What was the deal? What did he do this time?” 

"They spotted a mystery woman leaving Killian's room this morning," she said, her voice dripping with the kind of dramatic flair that could rival a Shakespearean tragedy.

I feigned nonchalance, flicking imaginary lint off my leather jacket. "Oh, the plot thickens. Do tell."

She leaned in, a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes. "Rumor has it, she's drugged him."

I spitted out my sip of coffee. 

Drugged. I heard the word loud and clear. 

That moment, I started praying to any gods existed in the mouth of mortals. Please, this should not be what I think it could be. 

The conversation rippled through the room, with everyone throwing in their two cents on the latest chapter of the Killian Chronicles. One stuntman swore she was a secret agent, another insisted she was an alien sent to observe the peculiar mating rituals of Earth's elite.

But then, someone mentioned a detail that made my heart skip a beat. "She was wearing this killer pair of sneakers, like black with neon blue strikes. I mean, talk about making an exit statement."