Page 6 of Love Unscripted
She couldn’t miss the subtext. It felt less like direction and more like correction—like he was guarding her, policing her, holding her at arm’s length from her own shadowed past. As if he were her probation officer rather than her director. It irritated her, though she reminded herself again and again that he was in charge and she needed to fall in line.
Still, something about it left her hollow. Some of Esther’s scenes felt overly restrained, flattened by caution. Camille wanted to contribute—to shape the narrative, not merely recite it. But she swallowed the dissatisfaction and did as she was told.
~*~*~*~
Aaron drove home after a punishing day on set, Donna Summers blaring on through the car speakers,whoa-oh-oh on the radio.
It had been a twelve-hour day. Sometimes it was longer when they were pushing. And they were pushing.
He was always conscious—painfully conscious—that he had not been the studio’s first choice to direct.
He had developed the script and brought it to Ray Donovan. He thought about taking it to the studio himself but he had been around long enough to know that directors rarely walked into studios alone with a script and got it financed. Ray was a seasoned producer. He brought with him relationships with studio executives, and credibility as someone who could deliver a film. Aaron had the vision but Ray had the access and trust pipeline. So Ray turned the script into a package. He refined it for marketability, estimated the budget, and attached actors and the other talent and shaped a pitch that felt financeable.
Even though Aaron was the one who had brought the script, the studio had only wanted him as lead actor, not director. That had stung but he had taken that sting to God. He reminded himself often that he was there because of God, not because of executives or studio politics. If God had opened the door, then God would sustain him in it. No matter what whispers floated around the lot.
Ray had advocated for him staying as director, making the point to the studio heads that Aaron’s father, Robert, would agree to join the cast if Aaron directed. And then he was also able to offer Camille Carlucci as leverage. So the studio was satisfied. Placated even.
Still, Aaron felt the pressure to not only be a good director but to be great one. To not only meet expectations, but to exceed them.
Ironically enough, he hadn’t chased acting. Acting had chased him. He was a third generation actor. It had begun with his grandfather Michael then his father Robert. Both men were award-winners. Both were respected. Both were legends in their own right.
Because of such a legacy, people assumed he had always wanted to act. He hadn’t. Football had been his focus early in life. It had been his identity. His love. And when he’d walked away from the game for personal reasons, Hollywood had simply been waiting with open arms.
So, he enjoyed acting. But directing? Directing was different.
The first time he sat behind a monitor and watched a story unfold through his lens, something shifted in him permanently. There was something beautiful about shaping tone, pacing, silence. About deciding where the camera lingered and where it pulled away. About protecting the integrity of a story.
But because of who he was—Robert Cortelli’s son—he felt the weight of proving himself. Nepotism was a word that hoveredin the background of almost every room. So yes, sometimes he overcompensated. He pushed for perfection. He drove the crew to hit marks, stay on schedule, tighten scenes.
On the other hand, he also made sure they knew he cared. He learned their kids’ names. He prayed with them if they asked. He invited them to church with Sunday lunch at his house afterward. More than one crew member had said, “No director’s ever done this before.” But he wasn’t doing it to be impressive. He genuinely wanted the best for them. And the best, in his view, was Christ.
He turned into his parents’ gated Malibu property, headlights sweeping across manicured hedges and white stone columns as Michael Jackson encouraged him torock the night way. The house was palatial, yes. But to him it was simply home.
His mother Dana had offered to keep Madison during the week so he could focus fully on directingEsther. It sounded practical but it also terrified him.
After his wife Scarlette died, he had taken the easy road. He had fled and left his thirteen-month-old daughter in the care of his parents because he could not bear the sight of her cherubic face—Scarlette’s face—looking back at him.
Scarlette.
She had been pregnant and driving home from his championship game. Their toddler was in the back seat. It was suspected that she had fallen asleep at the wheel when she ran the red light. The car had been struck by the driver of an eight-ton truck.
He had blamed himself. Blamed God. Drowned himself in clubbing to numb the pain and then had taken the first role that gave him an outlet for his anger.
But God—and his family—had refused to let him self-destruct.
Months later, when repentance finally broke through his grief, he had made a vow: he would not willingly be apart fromMadison again. So every morning he drove her to his parents’ house and every evening he picked her up. He lived just ten minutes away by design.
He rang the bell and the door flew open almost immediately.
“Hey,” his brother Damian grinned. He was twenty-two, and had just concluded his final year at college. He was all dark-blond hair and aquamarine eyes—their mother Dana’s genes strong in him.
“You okay?” Damian asked.
“Sure. Why do you ask?”
“You look a little tense.”
Aaron waved his hand dismissively. “Nah, I’m fine. Where’s Madison?”
