6. Eden

6

EDEN

E den's racing heartbeat seemed to echo through the empty corridors of the theatre as she made her way to the rehearsal space. The building always felt different at night, a hushed anticipation hanging in the air. It was as if the very walls were holding their breath, waiting for the next burst of creativity to fill the space.

She clutched her script tighter, her knuckles white against the worn pages. Weeks had passed since that first tumultuous read-through, and yet the nervous flutter in her stomach refused to subside. If anything, it had only grown more furious with each passing day.

Genevieve Howard was . . . intense. Brilliant, of course. Eden had never worked with a director who could dig right into her soul, who could pull such raw emotion from her performances. But there was something else there too, a friction between them that prickled across her skin whenever Genevieve got close. Eden found herself both terrified and in awe of the older woman in the same moment, desperate for her approval and yet always feeling as if she were teetering on the edge of catastrophic failure.

Nevertheless, this second private rehearsal Genevieve had insisted on had Eden holding herself back from skipping through the building. Though she barely had five seconds to breathe between daytime rehearsals and shifts at the pub, Eden couldn’t wait to be alone with her striking lioness of a director again.

As she approached the rehearsal room, Eden took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. She'd been over the script a thousand times, practicing her lines until her roommates threatened to move out if they heard one more soliloquy. She was ready for anything Genevieve would demand from her. She had to be.

The door creaked open, revealing the intimidating director already inside. She was bent over a table strewn with notes, her brow furrowed in concentration. She didn't look up as Eden entered.

"You're late," Genevieve said, her voice clipped.

Eden glanced at her watch, confused. "I'm actually five minutes early-"

"And I've been here for an hour," Genevieve interrupted, finally looking up. Her dark eyes were sharp, glinting in the harsh fluorescent light. "When I say be here at eight, I expect you to be warmed up and ready to work at eight. Not just walking through the door."

Eden felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment and a touch of indignation. She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. Instead, she simply nodded. "I understand. It won't happen again."

Genevieve held her gaze for a moment longer, then gestured impatiently to the centre of the room. "Let's get started. I want to run through Act Two, Scene One. From Beatrice's entrance."

Eden moved to her mark, shaking out her limbs and taking a few calming breaths. As she began to recite her lines, she felt herself slowly slipping into Beatrice's skin. The nerves and uncertainty of Eden Rowley fell away, replaced by the sharp wit and barely contained fire of Pearson's reimagined heroine.

But something was off. Genevieve's eyes bore into her, unblinking and critical. With each line, Eden could feel the director's dissatisfaction growing, a palpable weight hanging in the air between them.

"Stop," Genevieve commanded, pinching the bridge of her nose. Eden had grudgingly become accustomed to the director’s displeased tone. "What are you doing?"

Eden faltered instantly, the character slipping away like sand through her fingers. "I . . . I'm doing the scene as we discussed last week. Beatrice is putting on a brave face, hiding her true feelings behind her wit?"

"No," Genevieve cut her off, stalking toward her. "You're playing her as if she's made of glass, about to shatter at any moment. Where is her strength? Her defiance?"

"But I thought?"

"Don't think," Genevieve snapped. "Feel. Beatrice isn't some wilting flower, Eden. She's a force of nature. She's using her wit as a weapon, not a shield. Again, from the top."

Eden took a steadying breath, trying to force some strength into limbs that felt like jelly. She began again, infusing her words with more fire, more bite. But still, Genevieve shook her head.

"More," she demanded. "I need to believe that you could eviscerate a man with nothing but your words. Make me believe it, Eden."

They went back and forth like this, Genevieve pushing and prodding, Eden struggling to meet her ever-shifting expectations. With each repetition, Eden felt herself growing more frustrated, more desperate to please this impossible woman. All the while, the creeping self-doubt threatened to drown her completely.

Just as she felt she might scream, a shrill ring cut through the tension. Genevieve's phone, vibrating insistently on the table beside her notes.

The director glanced at the screen, her jaw immediately clenching. For a moment, Eden thought she might ignore it. But then Genevieve snatched up the device, her knuckles white around its edges.

"Take five," she barked at Eden, already striding toward the door. "Get some water, catch your breath. We're not done here."

And then she was gone, leaving Eden alone in the lingering discomfort of her own failings.

She sagged against the wall, closing her eyes and letting out a shaky breath. She could hear the muffled sound of Genevieve's voice in the hallway, sharp and angry even through the closed door.

Embarrassingly quickly, curiosity got the better of her, and Eden found herself inching closer to the door, straining to hear.

"I told you, I'm in the middle of rehearsals," Genevieve's voice came through, clearer now. "No, I can't just - Amy, for God's sake, will you listen to me for once in your life?"

Eden's eyes widened. Amy. Genevieve's ex-wife. She'd heard rumours about their tumultuous relationship, whispers in the dressing rooms about bitter arguments and public scenes. But hearing the raw emotion in Genevieve's voice now made it all suddenly, painfully real.

"It's not my problem if you’re disappointed," Genevieve continued, her voice rising. "It’s not your place to try and drag me to some corporate event because you think I need to socialise more."

There was a pause, and Eden could almost picture Genevieve pacing the hallway, one hand tangled in her silvery blonde hair as she listened to whatever tirade was coming through the phone.

"Drop it, Amy," Genevieve finally spat. "You don’t get a say in how I live my life. You forfeited that right the day you fucked someone else while you were my wife . "

Eden scrambled back from the door, certain that sounded like an “I’m hanging up now” kind of comment. She didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping. Eden had just managed to compose herself when Genevieve burst back into the room, her face a storm cloud of barely contained fury.

"Is everything all right?" Eden asked hesitantly, immediately regretting the words as Genevieve's sharp gaze snapped to her.

"Everything's fine," Genevieve replied, her tone making it clear that it was anything but. "It's none of your concern. Now, where were we?"

Eden swallowed hard, steeling herself for what was sure to be a gruelling continuation of their rehearsal. But as she looked at Genevieve, she couldn't help but see the wounded woman behind the fearsome director. Someone who was hurting, frustrated, and maybe just as lost as Eden herself felt sometimes.

It was a revelation that both unnerved and thrilled her. And as the women prepared to dive back into the scene, Eden felt a spark of something new igniting within her. A determination not just to please Genevieve, but to truly understand her.

As they resumed their positions, Eden couldn't shake the echoes of Genevieve's angry conversation from her mind. The director's expression was now a mask of forced calm, but Eden could see the stress in the set of her shoulders, the tightness around her eyes.

"From the top," Genevieve commanded, her voice brittle. "And this time, I want to feel Beatrice's anger. Her frustration with a society that doesn't understand her."

Eden nodded, taking a deep breath. As she began to speak, she found herself drawing on the raw emotion she'd heard in Genevieve's voice moments before. She let that frustration, that simmering anger, colour her words. Now Eden delivered the lines with a newfound bite, letting Beatrice's wit become a dagger with which she cut through the world.

For a moment, Genevieve's eyes widened, a flicker of something like approval crossing her face. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by her usual critical stare.

"Better," she said curtly. "But I need more. Beatrice isn't just dismissing Benedick. She's questioning the very foundation of his beliefs. Show me that."

They ran through the scene again and again, Genevieve pushing Eden harder with each repetition. But no matter how much fire Eden poured into her performance, it never seemed to be enough.

"No, no, no!" Genevieve finally exploded, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "You're still holding back. What are you so afraid of?"

Eden flinched at the outburst, her own frustration bubbling to the surface. "I'm not afraid," she shot back. "I'm trying to give you what you want, but you keep moving the goalpost!"

"What I want," Genevieve hissed, stalking toward the seething actress, "is for you to stop trying to please me and start embodying this character. Beatrice isn't polite. She isn't contained. She's a woman on the edge of explosion, constantly fighting against a world that wants to silence her."

They were toe to toe now, Genevieve's eyes blazing darkly as she glared down at Eden. The younger woman could feel the heat radiating off the director, could smell the faint trace of her no-doubt expensive perfume. It was addictive and overwhelming all at once.

"I don't know that I can do any better," Eden finally admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Genevieve's expression softened the tiniest fraction. "Yes, you can," she said, her tone gentler now. "I've seen it in you. You just need to let go of your fear and trust yourself."

Eden nodded, swallowing hard. She closed her eyes, trying to unlock whatever it was inside herself that Genevieve was so sure she was holding back, to find that spark of Beatrice she needed to unleash.

Suddenly, an idea struck her. She remembered a passage from Pearson's book that had resonated with her during her preparation for the role. Maybe this was the key to unlocking Beatrice's character in a way that would satisfy Genevieve.

"Ms. Howard," Eden said hesitantly, "I have an idea. May I try something different with the monologue?"

Genevieve raised an eyebrow, scepticism clear on her face. "Oh? And what might that be?"

Eden took a deep breath, steeling her nerves. "In the book, Pearson explores Beatrice's relationship with Hero in a new light. What if we incorporated some of that interpretation into this monologue?"

The perfectionist director's eyes narrowed, but Eden could see a glimmer of interest there. "Go on," she said, her voice carefully neutral.

"Well, later in the play, Beatrice goes on to have her . . . awakening," Eden explained, her words coming faster as her excitement grew. "She realizes her feelings for Hero go beyond familial love. It adds this whole new layer to her anger and frustration . . . not just at the world and its constraints, but at her own conflicted emotions."

Genevieve nodded slowly. "And how would this change show itself in this monologue?"

"It would add depth to her fury," Eden suggested. "Not just righteous anger on behalf of her cousin, but a more personal anguish. The pain of watching someone you love be hurt, coupled with the frustration of not being able to express those feelings openly."

As she spoke, Eden could see the idea taking root in Genevieve's mind. The director's eyes were alight with possibility, her earlier irritation forgotten in the face of this new creative challenge.

"Show me," Genevieve demanded suddenly.

Eden nodded, her heart pounding. This was her chance to prove herself, to show Genevieve what she was truly capable of. When she began to speak, her voice was lower, charged with a more subtle anger. She brought forth the deep-rooted frustration of Beatrice’s sexual uncertainty that she could relate to only too well. The words poured out of her, raw and passionate. But now, there was an undercurrent of something else. A personal anguish that went beyond mere indignation.

As she continued, Eden let all the complicated emotions she imagined this Beatrice might feel colour her performance. The disappointment in Benedick and fury at Claudio, yes, but also the ache of hidden love, the fear of discovery, the frustration of being unable to truly defend the woman she adored. She tried hard to ignore how naturally the quiet anguish came to her as she channelled this alternate perspective.

Once she delivered the last line and fell silent, Eden watched Genevieve’s face carefully, desperately trying to determine what conclusions were whirring behind those piercing eyes. "You continue to surprise me, Miss Rowley,” the director eventually admitted.

The use of her surname sent an unfamiliar heat licking down Eden's spine. There was something in Genevieve's tone, in the intensity of her gaze, that made the actress’ heart race.

"I'm glad," Eden said softly. "I just want to do justice to your vision."

Genevieve took another step closer. "You spoke like someone who knows what it feels like to guard a secret.”

Eden's breath caught in her throat. The tension between them, always simmering beneath the surface, now felt like a living thing, electric and dangerous.

"I . . ." Eden began, but found herself at a loss for words. How could she articulate the maelstrom of emotions swirling within her? The admiration, the fear, the longing?

Genevieve's eyes searched her face, seeming to read every micro-expression, every fleeting thought. Eden nodded, not trusting her voice. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure Genevieve must be able to hear it.

And then, before she could process what was happening, Genevieve’s lips were on hers.

The kiss was fierce, almost desperate. Eden gasped in surprise, and Genevieve took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, her tongue sweeping into Eden's mouth.

For a moment, Eden was too shocked to respond. But then instinct took over, and she found herself reacting with equal fervour. Her hands came up to tangle in Genevieve's perfectly styled hair, eagerly pulling her closer.

Genevieve's hands were everywhere, cupping Eden's face, trailing down her sides, gripping her hips. Each touch sent sparks shooting through Eden's body, igniting a fire she hadn't dared acknowledge, but which had been gently glowing all these weeks.

All too soon, they broke apart, both gasping for air. Eden's mind was reeling, trying to process what had just happened. She stared at Genevieve, wide-eyed and breathless.

The director looked equally stunned, her perfect hair mussed, her perfect lipstick smudged. For once, she seemed at a loss for words.

"I . . ." Genevieve began, then stopped, shaking her head as if to clear it. "Eden, I . . ."

But whatever she was going to say was cut off as Eden surged forward, capturing Genevieve's lips in another hungry kiss. This time, there was no hesitation. They came together like two halves of a whole, hands greedily grasping at each other, bodies pressing close.

Eden felt as if she were drowning and flying all at once. Every touch, every taste was electric, sending shockwaves right down to a throbbing ache between her thighs. She had never felt anything like this before, this all-consuming passion, this desperate need for the woman in her arms. Her pitiful experiences over the years had been distinctly lacklustre.

As the realisation barrelled into her, Eden pulled back. Her legs felt weak and she gripped Genevieve's shoulders to steady herself.

"Well," Genevieve exhaled, her voice husky. "That was . . ."

"Bold of me. Sorry . . ." Eden finished for her, a small, nervous laugh escaping her lips.

Genevieve nodded, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "To say the least."

They stood there for a moment, still wrapped in each other's arms, neither quite sure what to do next. The reality of what had just happened was starting to sink in, bringing with it a host of complications.

"We should . . ." Eden began, but trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence. They should what? Stop? Talk about this? Pretend it never happened?

Genevieve seemed to sense her uncertainty. She stepped back slightly, her hands still on Eden's waist. "We should call it a night," she said decisively. "I think you’ve made decent progress with the scene."

Eden nodded, grateful for Genevieve's authoritative calm in the face of her own tumultuous emotions. "Right," she agreed. "Thanks."

As they stood there, eyes locked, breath mingling, Eden felt a mix of exhilaration and terror. What did this mean for them? For the play? For her career?

But beneath all those questions, there was a certainty Eden couldn't deny. Whatever happened next, whatever consequences they might face, she knew one thing for sure: she wanted more. More of Genevieve's touch, more of her passion, more of . . . everything.

And judging by the look in Genevieve's eyes, sparking with desire she was trying to hide, Eden wasn't alone in that feeling.

The rehearsal room suddenly felt too small, too charged with everything Eden could barely admit to herself.

“I’ll um . . . I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess,” she mumbled, extricating herself from the hold Genevieve had on more than just her physical body.

The director cleared her throat. “Yes. Tomorrow, Miss Rowley.” She turned back to her table of scribbled notes, immediately breaking the bubble that had held Eden hostage.