Cut! My Revenge Arc Starts Now - Chapter 6: Chapter 6
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The warmth of Terrence's breath grazed my nose as his lips hovered barely an inch away.
"Your lips..." My voice came out husky, unbidden. "They look... dangerously kissable."
Before common sense could stop me, I closed the distance, my chilled lips barely skimming the corner of his mouth.
Just a whisper of contact.
The pulsing music, the crowd's roar, the entire world dissolved into static. All that remained was the thunderous rhythm of my own heartbeat crashing in my ears.
"You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?"
Before I could form a response, strong arms scooped me up effortlessly—Terrence carrying me bridal-style through the dimly lit bar, past rows of private booths.
Then I heard it.
Bruce's voice.
After all these years, that particular cadence still triggered instant recognition in my bones—like a fingerprint etched into my nervous system.
Terrence paused deliberately near the exit where Bruce's voice carried clearly from a nearby booth.
"I heard Ysabelle actually sold that script. Bruce, don't you want to—"
Through the glass partition, I saw Bruce sprawled across a leather couch with practiced nonchalance. "Why bother? If it gets produced, she'll be begging me to play the lead without me lifting a finger."
Someone beside him hesitated. "But today, didn't she—"
"Classic Ysabelle theater," Bruce cut in with a dismissive wave. "Another pathetic attempt to get my attention. Give it three days—a few sweet nothings and she'll come crawling back like an eager puppy."
He flicked a black card onto the table. "Tomorrow, buy Gia that emerald set. Send whatever free junk comes with it to Ysabelle—she'll treat it like the crown jewels." His laugh turned cruel. "A woman no one wants is just driftwood—rootless and worthless."
"Let's go," I said flatly, surprised by how little his words stung. The old me would've been devastated. Now? Numbness.
Terrence's eyebrow arched, an amused glint lighting his dark eyes as his mouth curved in approval.
Inside the car, he leaned across to buckle my seatbelt, his body crowding my space until his shadow swallowed me whole. The air between us grew thick with unspoken electricity as his obsidian eyes pinned me in place.
"You... I..." My traitorous palms grew damp against the leather seats.
"Still don't remember?" His voice dropped to that velvet rumble that vibrated straight through me.
Remember what? My brows knitted in confusion.
Reading my face, Terrence smirked. "No rush, little screenwriter." His hand cradled the back of my head possessively. "We've got all the time in the world."
Then his mouth claimed mine—not tentative, not questioning, but with the certainty of someone reclaiming what was always his. Maybe it was the whiskey haze, but my thoughts short-circuited as his kiss rewired my nervous system.
Flashes of half-remembered moments flickered at the edges of my consciousness—just beyond reach—before drowning in the tidal wave of sensation.
As my fingers tangled in his hair, a realization crystallized: Why should I be the vulnerable one here? Terrence made Bruce look like a dollar-store knockoff. My grip tightened as I kissed him back with equal fervor.
The following week passed in a whirlwind of script revisions and production meetings. When I walked into the director's office clutching rewrites, the last people I expected to see were Bruce and Gianna.
Bruce's tense posture—probably from a botched audition—instantly relaxed when he spotted me. That infuriating smirk returned full force.
"Blocked me everywhere just to show up here? Real subtle, Ysabelle." He chuckled like we were sharing some private joke. "Couldn't even make it a week without me, could you?"
I almost pitied him. Almost. After that night, I'd scorched every bridge between us—down to the last pixel of his existence in my phone.
"Your lips..." My voice came out husky, unbidden. "They look... dangerously kissable."
Before common sense could stop me, I closed the distance, my chilled lips barely skimming the corner of his mouth.
Just a whisper of contact.
The pulsing music, the crowd's roar, the entire world dissolved into static. All that remained was the thunderous rhythm of my own heartbeat crashing in my ears.
"You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?"
Before I could form a response, strong arms scooped me up effortlessly—Terrence carrying me bridal-style through the dimly lit bar, past rows of private booths.
Then I heard it.
Bruce's voice.
After all these years, that particular cadence still triggered instant recognition in my bones—like a fingerprint etched into my nervous system.
Terrence paused deliberately near the exit where Bruce's voice carried clearly from a nearby booth.
"I heard Ysabelle actually sold that script. Bruce, don't you want to—"
Through the glass partition, I saw Bruce sprawled across a leather couch with practiced nonchalance. "Why bother? If it gets produced, she'll be begging me to play the lead without me lifting a finger."
Someone beside him hesitated. "But today, didn't she—"
"Classic Ysabelle theater," Bruce cut in with a dismissive wave. "Another pathetic attempt to get my attention. Give it three days—a few sweet nothings and she'll come crawling back like an eager puppy."
He flicked a black card onto the table. "Tomorrow, buy Gia that emerald set. Send whatever free junk comes with it to Ysabelle—she'll treat it like the crown jewels." His laugh turned cruel. "A woman no one wants is just driftwood—rootless and worthless."
"Let's go," I said flatly, surprised by how little his words stung. The old me would've been devastated. Now? Numbness.
Terrence's eyebrow arched, an amused glint lighting his dark eyes as his mouth curved in approval.
Inside the car, he leaned across to buckle my seatbelt, his body crowding my space until his shadow swallowed me whole. The air between us grew thick with unspoken electricity as his obsidian eyes pinned me in place.
"You... I..." My traitorous palms grew damp against the leather seats.
"Still don't remember?" His voice dropped to that velvet rumble that vibrated straight through me.
Remember what? My brows knitted in confusion.
Reading my face, Terrence smirked. "No rush, little screenwriter." His hand cradled the back of my head possessively. "We've got all the time in the world."
Then his mouth claimed mine—not tentative, not questioning, but with the certainty of someone reclaiming what was always his. Maybe it was the whiskey haze, but my thoughts short-circuited as his kiss rewired my nervous system.
Flashes of half-remembered moments flickered at the edges of my consciousness—just beyond reach—before drowning in the tidal wave of sensation.
As my fingers tangled in his hair, a realization crystallized: Why should I be the vulnerable one here? Terrence made Bruce look like a dollar-store knockoff. My grip tightened as I kissed him back with equal fervor.
The following week passed in a whirlwind of script revisions and production meetings. When I walked into the director's office clutching rewrites, the last people I expected to see were Bruce and Gianna.
Bruce's tense posture—probably from a botched audition—instantly relaxed when he spotted me. That infuriating smirk returned full force.
"Blocked me everywhere just to show up here? Real subtle, Ysabelle." He chuckled like we were sharing some private joke. "Couldn't even make it a week without me, could you?"
I almost pitied him. Almost. After that night, I'd scorched every bridge between us—down to the last pixel of his existence in my phone.
End of Cut! My Revenge Arc Starts Now Chapter 6. Continue reading Chapter 7 or return to Cut! My Revenge Arc Starts Now book page.