The Don Bows Only To His Curvy Crush Chapter 07
The Studio, The Star, The Warning
Marnie can’t wrap her head around it.
“What is Dante Moretti’s angle?”
“Introduces you to directors, clears your film through the Commission — then just drops you at your door?”
“That is not normal. That is deeply not normal.”
She’s shaking her head so hard I get a headache.
I rub my temple. “Honestly? I don’t think he’s that kind of man.”
“Bella. Sweetheart. Don’t be naive.”
Marnie shoots me a look — the tired kind, the older-sister kind.
“Men like that don’t come in ‘nice.’ On paper they’ve got some arranged Family match. In the shadows they’ve got a rotation of women.”
“If a guy in that world sticks with one for more than a season, we call that real love and devotion.”
“But look — this industry eats new girls alive without a name behind you. That’s why I kept asking, are you sure you want in? Once you’re in, you’re in.”
Two years ago, when my mom’s illness bill hit the table, I signed with Marnie’s little start-up agency to cover the surgery.
No resources. No team. Just one thing they had that no one else did — the cash upfront.
Marnie’s been straight with me from day one.
I owe her.
“Anyway, I’m already in. And I still owe the agency. It’s not exactly a door I can walk out of.”
Right then her phone lights up.
She steps out to take it. When she comes back her face is doing something I can’t read.
“Bella. Dante, he just bought your contract.”
—
The next morning, Moretti Pictures pays off my agency debt in full and buys out my contract at a number Marnie can’t say out loud without laughing.
I’m now the studio’s rising girl. My only condition — Marnie comes with me.
A week in, I’m on set when a friend request pings my phone.
Two words. No emoji.
“Dante Moretti.”
I fumble the water bottle in my hand and hit accept way too fast. Send a cutesy little sticker.
Me: “Hi, Don.”
Since Moretti Pictures took me in, everyone from the VP down to the third assistant treats me like I’m made of glass.
Day one on the new set, another actor sidled up.
“Lena, when’s Don Moretti coming to visit set? Everyone knows he shut down an Oscar winner. How the hell did you land him?”
I keep saying, “he’s just my boss. Nobody buys it.”
But God as my witness — what mistress adds her sugar daddy on WhatsApp this late in the game?
The second the request clears, a message pops.
Dante: “Set treating you okay?”
Me: “Fine. Light day.”
The film is a Silas Rowe project — legendary director.
There’s no world where I’m the lead. I’ve got a small role with real teeth.
Dante: “Good.”
Four letters. Then nothing.
I don’t overthink it. Hand my phone to the assistant and go back to my mark.
—
Six scenes later I collapse into my chair, wrecked.
Someone hands me a bottle of water. I grab it without looking.
Then the voice hits me. “Lena Rose, right? Nice work.”
I nearly choke.
When I signed onto this film I lost my mind — because Ryan Cole is my idol. Has been since college.
He won the Golden Reel for Best Actor at twenty-three off some little indie nobody saw coming.
And Ryan Cole. Just handed me. His water.
I can’t bring myself to drink it now. “Ry — thanks.”
He looks me over. One corner of his mouth lifts.
“Heard you’re Moretti Pictures’ new signing. Don Moretti’s got good taste.”
Innocent line. Except with the rumor mill on this set — it lands like a live grenade.
“Ry, no — no, it’s not like that. Don Moretti’s my boss. That’s it.”
The set goes dead silent.
Ryan’s eyes lift past my shoulder.
His mouth curls. “Well. Don Moretti. Slumming it on set today?”
My stomach drops.
I turn. Walk right into Dante’s black, bottomless eyes.
“Ryan Cole. Don’t flatter yourself.”
His voice is glass.
His gaze slides, slow and cold, to me.
“I’m just checking on my employee. That’s it.”