No flowers for the dead - Chapter 55: Chapter 55
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The first day of filming was set in a private vineyard outside Florence.
Sunlight dappled through the olive trees. The air was too warm for fall, too sweet with crushed grapes and memory.
Elara arrived first, her credentials clipped to a lanyard she hated wearing. She watched silently as crews uncoiled wires, adjusted lights, and reconstructed a younger version of Elias’s first private office.
It was wrong.
The rug was too new. The glass desk too clean.
Rae arrived next, hair pinned in a low twist, sunglasses covering the anxiety flickering in her eyes. She walked the set with slow steps, trailing her fingers along the faux wood shelves. “It’s close,” she murmured. “But his space always smelled like ink. Like leather and—”
“—and bergamot,” Elara finished softly.
Alina arrived last, holding printed call sheets and a thermos of tea. She didn’t speak. Just looked.
There was a surreal ache to watching your life being rebuilt in pieces by strangers who hadn’t lived a second of it.
⸻
The actors arrived.
Elias’s role had gone to a man with haunted eyes and a quiet, predatory grace. He moved like a memory already fading.
Rae didn’t like him at first.
“He’s too stiff,” she said. “Elias had fire.”
“He’ll find it,” Alina murmured, watching from behind the monitors. “They always do, when the words are true.”
The actresses chosen to portray them stood nearby, awkward in their beauty, mouthing lines and smoothing costumes.
The woman playing Elara asked, “Did you really walk away from the first boardroom pitch with tears in your eyes?”
Elara didn’t answer at first. Then: “No. I made it to the elevator.”
⸻
The first take was a disaster.
The timing was off. The energy was too polished. The intimacy—absent.
Alina stood and walked straight onto the set.
She took the script from the lead actor’s hands. “It wasn’t about perfection. It was tension. Risk. Every scene you think is about love—it was about doubt.”
“And courage,” Rae added quietly. “Because loving someone like Elias meant knowing you could lose everything.”
⸻
By the third week, the set had shifted.
The actors stopped asking questions. They started watching—how Elara tilted her head when she listened, how Rae’s mouth tightened when someone spoke too softly. How Alina never raised her voice, but made people lean in.
Scenes began to breathe.
One late night, a scene played out between the Elias character and Alina’s younger self. He kissed her forehead, whispered something inaudible. The actress held still for a beat too long.
When the director called cut, the woman turned to Alina. “Was that… close?”
Alina’s eyes glistened. She nodded. “Closer than I expected.”
⸻
But it wasn’t all healing.
The day they filmed the final betrayal—the boardroom vote, the moment Elias sided with blood over love—Elara left the set halfway through the scene.
Rae followed, finding her in the gravel lot, standing in the dark, arms folded against the night chill.
“They made it worse,” Elara said. “More cruel.”
Rae nodded. “But he was cruel, Elara. Not always—but sometimes.”
“And we still loved him.”
“That’s the part they’ll never understand unless we keep telling it.”
⸻
The women stayed for the final week of filming.
When the last shot wrapped, the cast gathered to applaud, champagne flutes in hand.
The actor who’d played Elias approached Alina.
“I never knew a man like him,” he said.
Alina looked over at Rae and Elara.
“You still don’t,” she said gently. “But thank you for trying.”
Sunlight dappled through the olive trees. The air was too warm for fall, too sweet with crushed grapes and memory.
Elara arrived first, her credentials clipped to a lanyard she hated wearing. She watched silently as crews uncoiled wires, adjusted lights, and reconstructed a younger version of Elias’s first private office.
It was wrong.
The rug was too new. The glass desk too clean.
Rae arrived next, hair pinned in a low twist, sunglasses covering the anxiety flickering in her eyes. She walked the set with slow steps, trailing her fingers along the faux wood shelves. “It’s close,” she murmured. “But his space always smelled like ink. Like leather and—”
“—and bergamot,” Elara finished softly.
Alina arrived last, holding printed call sheets and a thermos of tea. She didn’t speak. Just looked.
There was a surreal ache to watching your life being rebuilt in pieces by strangers who hadn’t lived a second of it.
⸻
The actors arrived.
Elias’s role had gone to a man with haunted eyes and a quiet, predatory grace. He moved like a memory already fading.
Rae didn’t like him at first.
“He’s too stiff,” she said. “Elias had fire.”
“He’ll find it,” Alina murmured, watching from behind the monitors. “They always do, when the words are true.”
The actresses chosen to portray them stood nearby, awkward in their beauty, mouthing lines and smoothing costumes.
The woman playing Elara asked, “Did you really walk away from the first boardroom pitch with tears in your eyes?”
Elara didn’t answer at first. Then: “No. I made it to the elevator.”
⸻
The first take was a disaster.
The timing was off. The energy was too polished. The intimacy—absent.
Alina stood and walked straight onto the set.
She took the script from the lead actor’s hands. “It wasn’t about perfection. It was tension. Risk. Every scene you think is about love—it was about doubt.”
“And courage,” Rae added quietly. “Because loving someone like Elias meant knowing you could lose everything.”
⸻
By the third week, the set had shifted.
The actors stopped asking questions. They started watching—how Elara tilted her head when she listened, how Rae’s mouth tightened when someone spoke too softly. How Alina never raised her voice, but made people lean in.
Scenes began to breathe.
One late night, a scene played out between the Elias character and Alina’s younger self. He kissed her forehead, whispered something inaudible. The actress held still for a beat too long.
When the director called cut, the woman turned to Alina. “Was that… close?”
Alina’s eyes glistened. She nodded. “Closer than I expected.”
⸻
But it wasn’t all healing.
The day they filmed the final betrayal—the boardroom vote, the moment Elias sided with blood over love—Elara left the set halfway through the scene.
Rae followed, finding her in the gravel lot, standing in the dark, arms folded against the night chill.
“They made it worse,” Elara said. “More cruel.”
Rae nodded. “But he was cruel, Elara. Not always—but sometimes.”
“And we still loved him.”
“That’s the part they’ll never understand unless we keep telling it.”
⸻
The women stayed for the final week of filming.
When the last shot wrapped, the cast gathered to applaud, champagne flutes in hand.
The actor who’d played Elias approached Alina.
“I never knew a man like him,” he said.
Alina looked over at Rae and Elara.
“You still don’t,” she said gently. “But thank you for trying.”
End of No flowers for the dead Chapter 55. Continue reading Chapter 56 or return to No flowers for the dead book page.