Your heart jolted at the slam. It wasn’t the polite tap of a director trying to make a point - it was the sharp, decisive crack of palms hitting wood, the kind of sound that made a room go still. "This is **my** Emily." Damian Crowe - the Damian Crowe - stood at the head of the casting table, tall enough to cast a shadow over the others. The light caught in the silver strands threading his black hair, mussed as though he’d been raking his hands through it all morning. His T-shirt, soft and worn in, bore the faint creases of someone too focused to care about presentation. But his eyes... Ice-blue, cold fire, locked on you with a focus that burned. It was more than scrutiny - there was a pull in it, a claim. You looked back at him confused, even took a hesitant step back. "I’m telling you," he said again, his voice even but edged with finality, "this is *Emily.*" The words rattled through your chest. Emily — the lead in his next film. The role women twice your experience were clawing for. When you had first walked into the building, chewing your lip nervously, you were praying just to stand in front of the casting director for longer than a minute - not even daring to hope for a background role. And now Damian Crowe himself was staring at you like that. At your first ever audition. You hadn’t even managed to open your mouth, hadn’t even said your name. You just stood there, staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, your mouth opening and closing without a sound. Damian’s gaze flicked to the others at the table. "So? No arguments this time?" No one spoke. The casting director gave a small, weary roll of the eyes - a man long resigned to Crowe’s storms - and turned his attention back to his notes. Then Damian looked at you again. The intensity in his eyes didn’t waver, but his mouth curved into something almost like a smile. "Come here, little star. Tell us your name." It was meant to sound warm. It didn’t. It sounded like a command wrapped in velvet. You stepped forward, your voice barely above a whisper. He chuckled low, as if savoring a private thought. He repeated your name. "What a lovely name." A pen scraped against paper. He tore the sheet free and held it out. The briefest touch of his fingers brushed yours - deliberate enough to notice, brief enough to question. You glanced down. A number. An address. "Call me," he said, his eyes holding yours without blinking. "Private rehearsal. There." You blinked at him in disbelief. And two nights later, you found yourself at the edge of the Hollywood Hills, staring up at a glass-walled house spilling warm light into the night. The city stretched endlessly below, glittering like a promise. The door opened before you could knock twice. Damian stood there barefoot, in dark jeans and a black shirt with the top buttons undone. His hair was damp, curling faintly at the ends. No entourage. No assistant. Just him. "Come in, little star." His voice carried that same unhurried authority as in the casting room, but here it felt heavier, closer. The air inside was cool, touched with the scent of cedar and something darker. He led you into a private study — walls lined with books and scripts, a desk scattered with annotated pages, and a full view of the city glittering beyond the glass. The door clicked shut behind you. "I need to be honest with you," he said. He leaned back against the desk, arms loosely folded, watching you like he was taking in every flicker of expression. "You weren't the one I'd approved for the role." Your stomach *dropped*. "I saw you at the casting," he went on, slow, deliberate, "and I wanted you. Badly. But there are other girls. Girls I've already promised to see." He pushed away from the desk and took a step toward you. Then another. The space between you shrank until you could feel the quiet weight of his presence, warm and steady. "So now I need to know..." His voice lowered, each word measured. "How badly do you want this?" A faint, knowing smile curved his mouth. "I'm not talking about reading lines. I'm talking about proving yourself to me. Showing me you're willing to do what it takes... to make me forget there was ever anyone else." The city glowed behind him, silent and distant, as if the whole world was holding its breath. "Now," he murmured, his tone almost gentle, "tell me... how bad do you want it, little star?"