Page 45 of Love Unscripted
“I wanted to.” His tone was easy, confident. “I was hoping you’d let me take you to dinner tonight. A proper celebration. No agents. No PR people. Just a toast between colleagues.”
She hesitated. Then, against her better judgment, she nodded. “Sure. I’d like that.”
His satisfaction showed plainly in his smile.
The restaurant was one of those hidden places with no sign out front—just frosted glass, candlelight, linen-covered tables, and quiet music humming beneath low conversation. Camille felt underdressed despite the sequin blouse and heels she’d agonized over before leaving home.
Simon, meanwhile, looked perfectly at ease.
Of course he did.
He belonged in places like this. Every movement about him suggested pedigree and old money.
“I knew you’d get the part,” he said after the waiter left. “At the audition, you were the only one who didn’t just read the lines. YouwereAradia.”
A smile tugged at her mouth. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything that matters.”
His gaze lingered long enough to make her glance down at her plate. He wasn’t overtly flirtatious. He didn’t need to be. His attention alone felt intimate.
He sipped his wine. “I’ve decided to take a more active role in the show. Watching from a distance has become… limiting.”
She tried to sound casual. “So we’ll be seeing more of you on set?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “I think it’s time.”
Her pulse quickened.
“You don’t have to be nervous around me,” he said.
“I’m not nervous,” she lied.
“Good.” A small smile played at his lips. “I’ll always protect your interests, Camille. I’ll always look out for you.”
“Why?” she asked frankly. She wasn’t naïve. She’d been in the industry long enough to know people rarely did anything without wanting something in return.
“Because you’re special,” he said quietly. “There’s something about you that’s extraordinary. I can’t explain it properly. The French call itje ne sais quoi. A quality that can’t really be defined. You have it. Very few people do.” His eyes held hers steadily. “I want to be part of your world.”
And Simon acted like he meant every word.
At first he appeared on set twice a week. Then nearly every day. He never interfered openly. He simply stood near the monitors, composed and observant, watching her scenes unfold. Directors deferred to him now, and when he spoke, people listened.
Camille told herself it was harmless. He admired her work. That was all. But gradually she found herself craving his approval in ways that unsettled her. When he smiled after a take, she felt lighter. When he didn’t, something inside her dimmed.
Then came the dinners after late shoots. The private texts. The confidences. He told her about growing up in Norway, born to wealthy parents who died in a skiing accident when he was ten. He said he’d been sent to Britain to live with an aunt until he inherited his fortune at eighteen. He explained that he valued privacy, avoided tabloids, and spent most of his time at his family estate in Norway despite maintaining a residence in Los Angeles. One day, he told her, he would take her there. Perhaps even for good.
Then he told her about Astrid. Nineteen years of marriage. An arranged union between two powerful Norwegian families. An alliance, not love. He said it had been a condition of his inheritance.
“Do you have children?” she asked one night.
He hesitated before admitting it. Two. A son, Hans, seventeen. A daughter, Heidi, thirteen.
“I don’t love her,” he said of Astrid. “But appearances matter. That’s why I disappear sometimes. To spend time with them.”
Then he looked at Camille with that same intense sincerity he wielded so effortlessly. “I’ve never met anyone like you before,” he told her. “Someone who understands me this completely.”
And her heart broke for him. This powerful, brilliant man trapped in a loveless marriage. By the time he kissed her, she was already in love with him.
