Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time Rio’s eyes found Agatha’s, she was tucked away in her trailer, sipping from a chilled bottle of flavored water while her makeup artist reapplied lipstick for the third time that morning. The air inside was cool, buzzing with quiet chatter and the occasional crackle of a walkie-talkie outside—typical on-set noise bleeding in through the thin trailer walls.

Then it happened—a sudden shift. As if snapping out of a shared haze, both Rio and the makeup artist paused in perfect sync, turning their heads over their shoulders. The trailer door had creaked open, and there she stood: the blue-eyed girl whose last name struck either reverence or fear in anyone who knew even a little about the film world.

Agatha Marie Harkness.

Evanora Harkness’s only child.

“Oh?”

That’s all the girl—she looked young, definitely younger than Rio—said. No apology, no awkward shuffle or nervous laugh. Just a simple, mildly curious acknowledgement, like she had every right to be standing there, as if the trailer and everything inside it already belonged to her. Well, in a way, maybe it did—her mother was both the producer and director of the film.

“Are you lost, sweetheart?”

It came out automatically, like a customer service reflex, smooth and saccharine. Rio surprised herself with the tone—oddly gentle, almost concerned. She didn’t mean it, not personally anyway. She has never spoken a word to this girl before. This was the very first time Rio had ever laid eyes on her in real life.

Then the girl smiled—a quiet, knowing curve of her lips that made Rio feel like she’d said something incredibly wrong. Not the mocking kind of smile, not overtly cruel… just wrong. Like she’d walked into the wrong game and this stranger already had the upper hand.

She was definitely not her mother’s daughter, despite the shared last name and blood.

“No, I’m just looking around. I believe we haven’t met before, Miss Vidal?”

Agatha didn’t wait for an invitation. She stepped right into the trailer, closing the door behind her with the ease of someone used to opening any door she wanted.

Before Rio could even part her lips to respond, her makeup artist spoke up instead — voice steady, polite, but pointed.

“Miss Vidal is getting ready for her scene. Would you like to watch us prepare?”

Oh, hang on. Rio’s eyes flicked from the woman still holding the lipstick frozen mid-air like a statue, back to Agatha—who didn’t so much as blink.

“Maybe,” Agatha replied, eyes not leaving Rio. “Depends on Miss Vidal.”

“Sure, M-mis… Harknes—”

Her brain short-circuited mid-sentence, tripping over the name, unsure what to even call this girl.

Agatha immediately threw her arms up around herself in a mock-defensive stance, eyes darting around the trailer like she was searching for something.

“Don’t tell me that Mother somehow split herself in two and followed me here?!”

"Yep. Definitely a theatre kid", Rio thought to herself.

“Agatha. You’ll call me Agatha. Miss Harkness belongs to my mother.”

Not “you may call me Agatha” or “feel free to call me with Agatha” — no, this girl sounded spoiled, entitled even. But it didn’t quite fit the narrative Rio had built in her head.

Six years ago, during an awards event, she remembered meeting Evanora for the first time. The woman had sounded disappointed—not in general, but specifically when speaking about her daughter. Even the way she said Agatha’s name was laced with disdain. Like it physically pained her to acknowledge her.

“Agatha,” Rio repeated aloud.

The name rolled off her tongue sweetly—so sweet it was almost like she could taste her already. And Rio didn’t understand how anyone could say that name with anything but reverence.

Evanora’s parenting style must be debatable, to say the least.

“Take a seat then. We’re almost done anyway, right?”

Rio gently nudged her makeup artist, prompting the woman to finally resume reapplying the lipstick. Her own lips parted slightly as she tried not to meet the artist’s gaze—awkward, considering the close proximity. But somehow, her eyes had no problem finding and lingering on hers.

Agatha’s eyes.

Under the warm lights of the trailer, they also have some green in it, looking like sea-glass green, almost. Or maybe...like the earth from far away.

That thought caught Rio off guard. She wasn’t sure what it was exactly—Agatha’s gaze, her confidence, or maybe just her presence—but something about this girl had already snared her attention, and Rio could feel it tightening with every second that passed.

“That’s a nice shade. It compliments your eyes.”

Rio blinked, lips parting—maybe to say thank you, maybe to say something else entirely—but her makeup artist gently tilted her chin, dabbing away a smudge. The woman seemed to decide she’d be doing the talking for Rio now.

“Thank you, dear. Does your mother know you’re here? We wouldn’t want to cause her any... trouble ”

She glanced up at Agatha, who had already made herself at home on the chair by the window. Legs crossed with casual ease, one hand resting under her chin while the other absentmindedly ran through her thick, brunette waves.

Agatha didn’t look troubled. She looked like she belonged there.

“She knows. I just wanted to see what's going on behind the screen for myself—get a feel for what I’ll be working on in a few years.”

“And that’s how the Harkness empire begins.”

Finally released from the hold of her makeup artist, Rio spoke up—with a voice of her own again, clear and deliberate. It was bold, sure, but she wanted to see how the girl would take it.

“I’ll be the best nepo baby you’ve ever met,” Agatha shot back, lips curling into a smirk, her tone dancing with playful defiance.

Rio huffed, shaking her head—not in denial, but in sheer disbelief that this girl came out of Evanora.

“I’m sure, sweetheart. I’m sure,” she muttered, narrowing her gaze and giving a slow, knowing nod.

Agatha quirked a brow, clearly amused. She leaned forward slightly, like something— someone —had finally piqued her interest.

A sudden shout echoed from outside the trailer. The makeup artist flinched, then excused herself in a flurry, something about last-minute changes and a continuity check—just another minor chaos unfolding on set.

“So busy…”

Agatha broke the silence, her voice soft but oddly detached. Despite the words, there was something hollow in her tone, something too light, like she wasn’t really talking about the set at all.

“Welcome to life on set, baby,” Rio replied, offering a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Do you enjoy working with Mother?”

The question hit Rio like the cold weight of a coffin lid sliding shut—nails ready to be hammered down, sealing her fate. But she forced herself to slow the racing thoughts, to ease the tightening grip in her chest. Then she caught it—the careful way Agatha didn’t say my mother, or mom, or mama—there was a deliberate distance in her words, a cool detachment that set her apart.

“Working with your mother,” Rio replied carefully, “most likely brings us all success.”

The younger woman scoffed, but it lacked true bite. She stood up, and somehow—instinctively—Rio found herself rising too, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. The subtle shift in movement startled Agatha, just a flicker of surprise in her eyes, but Rio caught it. And in that moment, something warm and dangerous simmered beneath Rio’s ribs.

Fondness?

maybe.

Curiosity?

definitely.

Agatha cleared her throat. The sound wasn’t loud, but it sliced clean through the haze that had settled between them. It brought Rio back to the room, back to the fact that they’d been quietly staring at each other for too long—just a few seconds past the threshold of polite silence, teetering into something else.

“I have to go now. You should too.”

Rio’s voice was firmer this time, but Agatha could hear the hesitation that softened the edges. The former turned toward the trailer door but paused, catching her reflection in the mirror—checking her lipstick, smoothing the edge of her hair. All the while, she could feel Agatha’s eyes on her, the weight of that sharp stare crawling up her spine like a second skin.

“You’re right,” Agatha finally said from behind her, quieter now, almost to herself. “You have your scene next, don’t you? I read the script.”

Rio didn’t turn around at first—but her heart stuttered at that. 

She had read it.

Rio didn’t answer with words. She just hummed — a soft, knowing sound that curled at the edges like smoke. Not dismissive. Not polite. Something in between. A hum that said “I heard you and I’ll let you keep talking” because she was intrigued now, even if she’d never admit it out loud.

She watched as Agatha cracked her knuckles—a nervous tick?— before reaching up to sweep her hair casually to the side. So casual, so unbothered, but Rio had seen enough actors to know when someone was trying not to seem like they cared. The movement was too deliberate to be careless. 

“Let’s go.”

Agatha’s voice was easy, confident. The kind of voice that had no business sounding so familiar on a first meeting. Like they’d done this before. Like it was already routine. Still, time was moving fast, and Evanora Harkness was not a woman known for waiting.

Rio stepped forward, reaching for the trailer door—

Only for Agatha’s to get there first.

There was a tiny jolt when their hands touched. Agatha stiffened almost imperceptibly, as if the contact had surprised her, but she didn’t move. Her hand stayed where it was, pinned under Rio’s, warm and still. The actress didn’t pull away as she pressed down, her palm sliding across Agatha’s skin just slightly as the handle turned.

The door creaked open.

“Te veo.”

The words slipped out of Rio’s mouth like a secret—like a whisper meant for the bones, a message encoded in warmth and challenge and something unnamed. She didn’t bother enough to wait for a response, missing out on the sight of Agatha’s pupils blow wide and slight parting of her lips. 

She was already stepping outside, into the light, back straight, eyes forward, as if nothing had happened.

But something had.

Something always does.

Especially if Agatha is involved.

Chapter Text

“You’re my daughter. I didn’t give birth to a child who can’t follow simple instructions."

Evanora’s voice was low, sharp, and unmistakably final — the kind of tone that left no room for debate. Her manicured nails dug into Agatha’s arm, fingers curled with such force it felt less like a grip and more like a claim. A warning. A brand.

Agatha didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. But her weight shifted subtly on her heels — a practiced move, just enough to ease herself slightly out of reach without drawing more fire. She kept her eyes trained on the set beyond the monitor, where Rio and Ralph stood under the harsh studio lights, rehearsing their next take.

“What did I tell you, child?”

Agatha exhaled softly, lips pursed. “That Ralph is a catch. That I shouldn’t waste my time. That I should… get to know him.”

There was no inflection in her voice — just the repetition of words that weren’t hers. Words Evanora had drilled into her during the car ride over, as if by sheer repetition, they’d worm their way into Agatha’s will. Ralph’s name had filled the silences where their usual stony quiet used to live. Spoken every five minutes like a manifestation. Or a threat.

The truth was: Agatha was supposed to be on set today — but going inside Rio Vidal’s trailer was not part of the plan. Still, how could she resist?

Months ago, she'd stolen a glimpse of Rio’s audition tape — a flicker of presence on a screen that left her unexpectedly breathless. She hadn’t meant to watch the whole thing. But she did. Twice.

“She’s tolerable,” her mother had said flatly — the highest compliment Evanora was capable of giving to anyone who wasn’t a man or blood. “If she keeps this up, she can make something out of herself.”

And just like that, Rio Vidal lodged herself in Agatha’s mind — not as a mystery to be solved, but a spark to be fed. There was something in her voice, in the way she moved. Something dangerously compelling. Something honest.

So when Evanora had finally agreed to let her daughter “shadow the set” — a term Agatha quickly realized meant learning to stay quiet, smile pretty, and inherit whatever pieces of the empire Evanora deemed acceptable — she came prepared.

Which meant she was here for Ralph too.

Ralph Bohner was… fine. A successful actor. Forty-something. Twice of Agatha’s age. Charming in a practiced, sleek kind of way. He always made a point to smile when they passed on set, always a little too warm, always holding eye contact a second too long. And Evanora, of course, adored him — as a business partner, as a potential in-law, maybe both. The thought alone made Agatha’s stomach turn.

She didn’t need to be told what this was. Her mother’s intentions weren’t hidden, just unspoken. For legacy, she said. For control, she meant.

Agatha glanced at the monitor again, watching Rio tilt her head toward Ralph in the scene. Her gestures were natural, grounded — but there was distance in her eyes. She was acting, obviously. But Agatha could tell. She could always tell.

And she loved that it was just acting.

“You should go see him in his trailer later.”

Agatha didn’t look at her. “I don’t think it’ll do our reputation any favors if I go frolicking around Ralph’s trailer. That could be… scandalous.”

Her tone was low, pointed. Almost playful, but not quite. She turned just enough to face Evanora, catching the flicker of disapproval that flashed across her mother’s face like a passing cloud. But before another sharp word could form, the moment was cut short. Evanora had already pivoted — physically and mentally — back to the set.

“Camera’s ready!” someone called. Movement rushed around them like a tide: grips adjusting lighting, a makeup artist darting in with blotting powder, the DOP making final checks. Evanora slipped into her director’s mode with terrifying ease, as if the conversation had never happened.

“One… two… three… action.”

The sharp clack of the film slate echoed through the soundstage, and just like that, the scene began.

Agatha sat back down beside the monitor, eyes locked on the screen. The camera moved in a slow pan across Rio and Ralph — close enough to catch the subtleties, far enough to keep distance. Evanora’s voice, sharp and precise, flitted in and out of her peripheral hearing. Blocking notes. Timing cues. A demand for stillness. A command for more.

Agatha barely registered them.

She watched Rio instead.

And maybe — just maybe — Rio glanced at the her.

Just once.

Quick. Fleeting. Almost imperceptible.

But Agatha saw it.

And her heart betrayed her for it.

Her mind, unhelpfully sharp, drove the knife in deeper by replaying what Rio had said to her last time.

“Te veo.”

Agatha looked away.

Her gaze drifted to the crew — to the cameramen hunched behind lenses, to the sound tech holding a boom just out of frame, to the wardrobe assistant tugging at a stubborn collar. Background noise to everyone else, but Agatha clung to them like lifelines. It was easier than thinking. Easier than feeling.

She straightened her posture. Harknesses did not crumble. They did not sulk in corners. They watched. They calculated. They endured.

And yet…

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a woman standing near the monitors — someone unfamiliar, arms crossed, observing the set with cool interest. Their eyes met, just for a moment. The woman didn’t smile, didn’t nod. She just looked.

Agatha leaned sideways and nudged her mother lightly. “Who’s that lady?”

Evanora didn’t glance up from the monitor. “Vidal’s manager. Focus, child.”

She said it like a sigh — impatient, clipped — but it was an answer nonetheless. Agatha sat back properly in her chair and exhaled. Her fingers curled tighter around the script in her hands, flipping to the scene they were currently filming.

It wasn’t bad. A little dramatic, maybe, but that was the point. Rio’s character was the forbidden love interest — a woman caught between duty and desire, promised to one man while quietly falling for another. Ralph’s character, of course, was the “another.”

There was a heat building in Agatha’s chest. It wasn’t from the stage lights.

She knew what made a good film. She knew the difference between a performance and something that lingered after the lights went down. She had felt it before — in the theater, onstage, in those rare moments when the mask dropped and she got to say the words she never could in real life. That was the magic of acting: freedom.

But watching Rio now — her restraint, her aching delivery, her hands trembling just enough to be noticed — Agatha didn’t just see a good performance.

She saw herself.

And she hated how much she understood the character Rio was playing.

“Cut.”

Agatha let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding.

Her mother was already on the move — striding toward the actors, notes forming before she even opened her mouth. Agatha followed closely behind. She told herself it was for the experience. Real-life learning. Absorbing the nuances of directing. That’s all.

Definitely that.

And not because Rio was standing just a few steps away, flushed from the scene, her eyes flicking toward Evanora’s notes but not quite meeting Agatha’s.

There was a hum of movement on set — crew members adjusting lights, rechecking marks — but Evanora’s voice cut clean through it. “Something’s missing,” Evanora muttered, more to herself than to the actors. She paced once, then turned.

“She should try closing the door on him,” Agatha suggested, “so it shows her character isn’t just giving in."

Agatha didn’t mean to speak. The words just surfaced.

The group stilled.

All three — Evanora, Rio, and Ralph — turned toward her.

Evanora tilted her head, considering. “Well, we could also do that. Improvisation is good.” Barely looking at Agatha, but it was enough.

Approval, however faint. It counted.

She was being considered.

And then—

“Your daughter looks just like you,” Ralph said, suddenly inserting himself with a smile that tried too hard to be charming.

He extended a hand toward Agatha. Reflexively, she took it — firm shake, businesslike. There was nothing strange about it. Nothing to read into. But still, it didn’t feel like the last time someone touched her hand, she couldn’t stop the involuntary flicker of memory — of a different hand, smaller, warmer, lingering just a second longer than it should have on hers...

Evanora’s hand landed on the small of Agatha’s back. For a second, Agatha foolishly thought—maybe—comfort.

Maybe even protection.

But then she felt the push. A nudge forward. A silent offering. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The pressure said everything.

Stand straight. Smile. Be agreeable. Be worth something.

Like a lamb presented to a wolf.

“Agatha Harkness,” Agatha said, keeping her tone neutral.

“Beautiful name for a beautiful lady,” Ralph replied, with a smile that made Agatha’s skin crawl. “You’ve raised her well.”

His gaze was already shifting back to Evanora, who beamed at the compliment like it was currency.

Agatha stood there, caught between two performances — the one on set, and the one playing out in real time.

And suddenly, she wasn't sure which one unsettled her more.

“And she has some fresh ideas too,” Rio said lightly, gaze flicking toward Evanora with a smile that bordered on praise — or perhaps distraction. “Can’t believe you’ve been hiding her all this time.”

Agatha blinked. That wasn’t in her mental script.

That was Rio's voice.

With Ralph’s hand still settled around her waist, sliding down to her hip despite being off camera now, Rio stepped forward and extended her own. The movement was smooth, effortless — practiced. But when her eyes met Agatha’s, something sharpened in the air between them.

“I’m Rio.”

She was pretending. Acting like it was their first meeting. As though her voice hadn’t already carved itself into Agatha’s memory.

Agatha smiled — polite, distant — and met her gaze with equal precision.

Two could play this game.

“Agatha,” she said evenly, and took Rio’s hand.

The touch was brief — brief, but enough. Enough for Agatha to feel her breath stutter. Not in the way Ralph’s handshake had stolen something from her — cold, transactional, forgettable.

No. This was different.

With Rio, it felt like something was returned.

She got a way to return Agatha's dignity.

“I was busy with college,” Agatha offered, voice calm but cool, like every word was handpicked.

“Well, now you’re here,” Rio replied, still smiling, still holding the room like a pro. “It’s good to meet you.”

Their hands dropped. The moment passed.

But something unspoken remained — hanging between them like static under a polite applause.

And Agatha knew: this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

After all, It was all for show — the smile, the handshake, the introductions. For Evanora. For Ralph. For whoever was watching.

“Well, Agatha will be coming here often. Right, dear?”

Evanora’s hand found the back of Agatha’s head — gentle to anyone watching, almost motherly. But Agatha could feel the pressure beneath her fingers, subtle but firm, the kind of grip that demanded obedience without leaving a mark.

“Of course, Mother,” Agatha replied, her voice sweet, almost too sweet. “I love this set already.”

The brightness in her tone — the effortless charm — wasn’t something she inherited from Evanora. But it did the trick. Her mother dropped her hand, satisfied.

Then, as if a collective spell had broken, everyone remembered they had a film to finish. Evanora was back to barking directions. They reset the shot — this time incorporating Agatha’s suggestion about the door — and from the looks of it, everyone was pleased. Nods. Quiet murmurs of approval. Replays. And then, a reset. Another actors moved in for the next scene.

Rio and Ralph were already stepping off toward their respective trailers when it happened — a soft brush of skin against skin. Agatha’s fingers grazed Rio’s hand, just barely. Barely enough to register.

But it did.

Because Rio turned, just for a second. Their eyes met.

“Te veo,” she mouthed.

And then she was gone — falling back into conversation with Ralph like nothing had happened.

Agatha stayed still, the words echoing in her head. She hadn’t taken Spanish in school, not seriously. But she would find out what it meant.

Something told her it wouldn’t be the last time she’d hear those words from Rio Vidal.

Chapter Text

Agatha had always been told — warned, really — that her ungratefulness would be her downfall. That her insatiable curiosity, her tendency to reach for things not meant for her, would be the death of her.

Evanora's words. Always cold, always absolute.

Agatha never believed them. Or at least, she tried not to dwell on them. But as she stood in front of the lead actress’s trailer, fingers curling into her palm before she knocked twice, she couldn't stop herself from thinking: maybe, just maybe, her mother was right.

Not about everything. But about this feeling. The one that tugged her back here.

She had looked it up the moment she was alone. “Te veo.” And now, she couldn’t let it go.

“You see me.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Rio opened the door mid-breath, eyebrows lifting at the unexpected greeting. She looked flushed, a thin sheen of sweat along her brow, makeup slightly worn from the long hours of shooting — but none of it dulled the warmth in her gaze.

“I am seeing you right now,” Rio said slowly, her tone edged with amused confusion.

Agatha blinked, suddenly aware of how strange her words must’ve sounded. Imagine opening your door only to be greeted by some girl saying you see me, like she was reciting poetry — or casting a spell.

“I meant… just now. With Mr. Borne and Mother.” She cleared her throat, eyes darting down for a second.

“Thanks for saving me.”

“That was nothing,” Rio said easily, brushing it off. Then, with a tilt of her head: “So… you just graduated college, I’m assuming?”

“Yeah, this spring.” Agatha nodded, trying to keep her voice casual. “Now I’ve got free time so she’s starting grooming me for the industry.”

“Right,” Rio said with a knowing smile, fingers drumming lightly on the doorframe. “Well… do you want to come in or—?”

“Dinner first,” Agatha blurted, hand flying to her chest in mock offense. “At least pretend I’m not that easy.”

Rio laughed, eyes flicking over her with something unreadable — something Agatha didn’t dare name.

“Thanks for the offer,” Agatha added quickly, straightening her posture. “But I actually have to see Mr. Borne.”

And just like that, the spell broke — or maybe it shifted. Either way, Agatha was already turning on her heel, pulse quicker than it had any right to be.

“Sweetheart!”

That stopped Agatha in her tracks. The word pulled Agatha to a stop like a hand tugging the hem of her coat. She glanced over her shoulder to find Rio stepping out of the trailer, leaving its comfort behind as she made her way toward her.

“I actually have to see him too,” Rio said, catching up.

“Oh?” Agatha arched a brow, lips curling into a smirk. “And here I thought you were about to ask me to dinner.”

Rio let out a soft, amused huff, shaking her head. “Not your babysitter, Agatha.”

Gods, her name sounded so good on Rio’s tongue. As if it was meant to be said like that — like a truth finally clicking into place. Agatha. Good. Her mother had named her that, perhaps in some blind, ironic hope she’d live up to it. To be her pride. But to Evanora, Agatha was never quite good enough. Let alone to be her pride or anyone's.

Her father? A ghost of a man who’d once wanted to name her Abigail — “my father’s joy.” And look how that turned out. He left before she could become anyone’s joy.

But from Rio, it sounded like a name should: lived-in, real. Like it belonged to someone worth addressing.

In short, she felt like being someone's pride and joy.

“Never said you were,” Agatha replied, tilting her head, eyes glittering.

She turned and walked backward a few paces, then gestured lazily with a casual flick of her fingers. “Come on then. Be my babysitter. Wouldn’t want me scandalizing Mr. Borne without supervision.”

She said it with a mocking pout, sarcastic but endearing — and luckily for her, Rio had more patience than most. Being an only child raised in the system, she’d learned how to deal with chaos, how to handle persistent little personalities without losing her cool. Agatha didn’t strike her as annoying — just… complicated. Rio had always had a soft spot for the complicated.

Rio rolled her eyes but fell in step anyway, hands tucked into her back pockets, pace easy. She was used to girls like Agatha. Girls who poked and provoked, not always to irritate — sometimes just to be seen.

And Rio, despite herself, didn’t mind looking.

They walked side by side, close enough that their arms nearly brushed with every step. Rio nodded now and then, offering easy greetings to familiar faces, and Agatha—ever the chameleon—mirrored her, slipping into the rhythm of the set like she belonged there.

Rio trailed a step or two behind, not intentionally, but just enough to get a view. The afternoon sun was still hanging above them, casting a warm glow across the lot. It hit Agatha’s hair just right—dark chestnut turned to gold, as if the light was bending just to make her shimmer.

Rio had the sudden, stupid thought that maybe the sun was just doing Agatha a favor. Or maybe Agatha had taken over the sun’s job altogether. Everyone they passed smiled, stopped, stared. And Rio? She just watched.

Because honestly...

Agatha looked so pretty, pretty like the sun. Rio could watch forever while she shine on everyone.

“Earth to Vidal?”

The voice snapped her out of her thoughts. She blinked, turned her head.

“Hm?” The sound slipped from her lips instinctively. She blinked as if waking from something. And judging by the way Agatha’s brows lifted, she heard it too.

“You have low sugar level or something? You spaced out on me,” Agatha asked, casual, but there was a hint of real concern threaded through. 

Rio gave a soft breath of laughter. “I was focusing on you.”

Agatha blinked, caught for a beat—then grinned, slow and smug, like a cat stretching in a sunbeam. A whistle escaping her lips. “...Sure, Miss Smooth Talker.”

“Careful, I might start thinking you mean that.”

“That’s because I do.”

Rio laughed under her breath and didn’t deny it. The sun kept shining, but it didn’t matter anymore. For a second, Agatha forgot they were just walking to see Mr. Borne.  She forgot about the industry, the pressure, the camera crews buzzing in the distance. There was just this: the click of Rio’s boots beside hers, her occasional waves to passing crew, and the way the sunlight made Agatha feel seen.

Which is why it was mildly disappointing when Rio tapped her on the shoulder, bringing her back down to reality.

They’d reached their destination.

Before she could lift her hand, Rio stepped in, her palm brushing lightly against the small of Agatha’s back as she reached forward and knocked for them. Up this close, Agatha caught the soft floral hint of Rio’s perfume — bright and grounded, like the actress wearing it — and didn’t look away from her face even after finish knocking.

“And now,” Rio muttered, stepping back, “the magic of waiting begins.”

Agatha gave a small nod, about to reply, but the door creaked open almost immediately.

“Agatha,” Mr. Borne greeted her like he’d been waiting. Then his gaze slid to Rio. “Ah… Miss Vidal. Both of you.”

There was a hitch in his voice — not irritation exactly, but surprise that curdled just slightly at the edges. Rio wasn’t who he expected. Or maybe she wasn’t who he wanted in his space.

Still, he kept it cordial, leaning in to give Rio an air kiss on the cheek — a gesture Agatha hadn’t realized could make her physically grimace until now. Maybe it was the casual familiarity. Maybe it was how Mr. Borne’s eyes barely flicked back to her afterward, like she was an accessory to the main event.

“I hope we’re not bothering you,” Rio said, polite as ever.

“Not at all, dear,” Mr. Borne replied, waving them in. “I’m just waiting for my assistant to come back with something from that little Thai place down the road.”

Rio tilted her head. “Avoiding crafty today?”

Mr. Borne gave a laugh. “Let’s just say set catering’s never been my strong suit. I prefer something with a bit more… flavor.”

“That’s fair.”

Agatha, meanwhile, stayed quiet — absorbing, watching. Trying not to feel like she’d just walked into a conversation already underway, one she was never really supposed to hear. Mr. Borne looked at her again, and this time it felt more deliberate.

“Well,” he said, gesturing to them to come in, “if both of you came all this way, I assume there’s something we should talk about.”

Neither of them replied immediately. It wasn’t until the door clicked shut behind them, sealing them into the trailer’s artificial cool, that Agatha finally answered.

“I wanted to talk about your scenes,” she said, composed. Measured. Her voice didn’t waver, but Rio could tell it was being kept on a tight leash. Agatha’s gaze skimmed the trailer’s interior — not wide-eyed or impressed, just cataloguing. Like she was storing the space away for later.

“I’ve read the script. I think I could give a suggestion or two.”

She stood near the door, arms crossed tightly over her chest, like she was trying to take up less space by sheer force of will. Rio clocked it immediately — how different she was now compared to earlier in the day, back in her trailer. Then, she’d been all bravado and sunshine. Now, in the orbit of older power, Agatha seemed folded in on herself. Not unsure, no — just bracing.  She stood like someone who didn’t plan to stay long. Or someone who didn’t quite feel safe settling in.

And Rio didn’t like that this place made Agatha feel like she had to. Rio hadn’t planned on stepping in for this. She’d meant to talk to Ralph about a few things in private. But when Agatha said she was coming here, Rio made a split-second decision: kill two birds with one stone — and keep an eye on one.

Still, Agatha’s delivery was polished — her posture was proud, her tone clear. She wasn’t here to beg for a seat at the table. She was here because she already believed she had something to offer.

Rio still wasn’t sure why Agatha had come. “Suggestions” might’ve been part of it, but Rio could feel something deeper humming underneath — especially after whatever that exchange with Evanora had been on set.

Ralph, meanwhile, let out a short, amused breath. “Well then,” he said, with a faint note of indulgence, “seems like we’ve got a fresh creative voice in the room.”

His attempt at levity skimmed over the tension, but didn’t land quite the way he meant it to.

Rio gave him a look — polite, noncommittal.

Agatha didn’t respond at all.

There was a pause. It wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t comfortable either.

Rio stepped in, finally, to defuse whatever had begun to build.

“She has good instincts,” she said, lightly— but her eyes didn’t leave Agatha.

It was a soft nudge. Not saving her. Just steadying her footing.

“Both of you have excellent chemistry,” Agatha began, her voice more grounded now. “It’s just that in the upcoming scene—where Rio’s character is confronted by her parents about her choice, and then she speaks to yours—I think it would land more powerfully if you looked at her with teary eyes… but held back. Only after she’s turned away and left, that’s when the tear should fall.”

As she spoke, her hands moved to emphasize her point. Rio watched her like she had all morning, like someone watching a match catch flame—delicate, precise, but absolutely sure. The light was back in her, and Rio felt strangely relieved by it.

Ralph had already made himself comfortable, taking his seat like he owned the air in the room. He gestured for Rio to join him, and she did—gracefully—opting not to stir any unnecessary attention. She crossed her legs and tilted her head slightly, her attention never leaving Agatha. In her peripheral vision, she noticed Ralph glancing between the two of them, like he was trying to sniff out something just under the surface.

(There wasn’t anything yet. Not really. But Rio knew better than to say “nothing.”)

Ralph looked… amused. He lounged in his chair like a bored king and raised his brow like he was humoring her.

“Well,” he whispered to Rio, “we’ve got ourselves a budding director, haven’t we?”

Rio could already feel where this was going. Still, she kept her attention on Agatha, not wanting to interrupt whatever spell she was casting with her words.

“—And that’s my two cents thought,” Agatha finished, hands settling at her sides. “Obviously you both know your characters best. Just wanted to offer a fresh perspective.”

A loud clap broke the stillness. Ralph.

Rio flinched—just slightly—snapped out of whatever daze she had been in.

“Bravo, darling,” Ralph said, all teeth and charm. “Wonderful idea from a pretty face.”

Agatha’s expression didn’t flinch, but Rio could see her fingers twitch slightly. She held herself with poise. Rio’s stomach turned. The comment wasn’t aimed at her, but she still felt the sliminess of it, especially when Ralph’s hand found her thigh—light, casual, but unwelcome.

“Don’t you agree? She's just like you.” He asked, leaning a little too close.

Too close. 

Agatha’s shoulders stiffened upon the sight. She didn’t hesitate—cleared her throat just enough to break the moment.

“I’m glad you think so,” she said crisply. “But that’s all. We’ll leave you to it. We’ve got food waiting.”

“Oh?” Ralph tilted his head. “The two of you?”

Agatha didn’t miss a beat. “Yes. We came together, we’re leaving together.”

“Yeah,” Rio echoed, her voice a half-second behind Agatha’s but perfectly in sync.

Ralph chuckled, baffled. “Right.”

Rio was the first to stand. She nodded politely, muttered a quiet “thanks,” and didn’t wait for further pleasantries. Agatha followed her out without a word, but as soon as the trailer door shut behind them, she reached for Rio’s arm and pulled her to a stop.

“Is he always like that?” she asked in a hushed voice, like even the air might be listening.

Rio blinked. “I’m sorry you had to hear that kind of—”

“—Putting his hand on you,” Agatha interrupted, her grip tightening slightly. There's a surge of anger mixed with fear. Anger towards what he did and fear that Rio has been tolerating it all these times.

Rio paused. Her lips pressed together before her gaze flicked briefly to the trailer door, still shut. She exhaled and began to walk again, and Agatha walked with her—still close, still holding on. The line between jealousy and protectiveness was getting blurry that Rio decided to leave it as it was.

“Welcome to the dark side of Hollywood,” Rio said dryly. There was no bite to it, no attempt at irony. Just a truth laid bare.

Agatha opened her mouth, then closed it again. Words didn’t feel useful enough. But Rio kept going.

“But don’t worry. It takes a little more than that to traumatize me.”

Agatha arched an eyebrow. “You think I’m worried about you?”

That drew a laugh from Rio—short, surprised. How could she not, when Agatha’s grip on her arm was starting to hurt? 

“Well,” she said, tilting her head toward Agatha, “should I be worried about you?”

Her tone lifted just enough to nudge them out of the shadow they’d stepped into.

Agatha huffed—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Not yet. Maybe. But not for the reason you think.”

That earned her a real smile from Rio, small but unguarded.

“Cryptic. Love that.”

They kept walking. The silence between them softened, no longer heavy but elastic. And even though Agatha didn’t let go of Rio’s arm until they reached Rio’s trailer, neither of them said a word about it.

“So what were you actually trying to say to him?” Agatha asked, finally breaking the silence as she let go of Rio’s arm. Now they were face to face.

“What’s been said has been said,” Rio replied smoothly.

“Cryptic. Hate that.”

Rio rolled her eyes, but there was a grin tugging at her lips. With Agatha, she felt lighter—like their age difference flattened into nothing. Like they were on the same page, just in different paragraphs.

“Well, what matters now is that we’ve got food waiting.”

“Oh?” Agatha arched her brow. “So we’re eating together?”

Rio’s tongue poked into her cheek, huffing out a soft laugh.

“You told him we had food waiting, and that we went in together so we leave together. I’m just keeping the narrative clean.”

Agatha’s lips twitched. “But I didn’t say anything about eating together. ”

“I didn’t either. You’re assuming.”

“Are you trying to turn the table on me now?”

Rio glanced around theatrically, eyes squinting in mock concern.

“I’m afraid you’ve gone mad. There’s no table in sight.”

“You’re insufferable.”

Rio tutted, wagging a finger like she was scolding a child. “Not a very nice way to talk to the lead actress in your mother’s movie.”

Agatha didn’t flinch. Instead, she caught Rio’s wagging finger midair and closed her hand around it, holding it longer than necessary.

“And that’s no way to treat the daughter of the producer and director of said movie,” she said, voice softer now, but her grip firm.

“Por favor, perdóname. I forget that I am currently dealing with the Princess of the Harkness Empire.” 

Then, with her finger still caught gently in Agatha’s grasp, Rio brought it closer to her lips and pressed a chaste kiss against her knuckles. Agatha exhaled, the corners of her lips twitching with something she tried not to name, before she finally let go. She flexed her hand and flipped her hair back, like she could toss the moment away with it. 

“Well,” Agatha said, recovering quickly, “those apologies are just words. And words are just words.”

Thank god her understanding of the language wasn’t that terrible.

Rio blinked slowly. Then gave her a look that said touché, equal parts impressed and amused.

“Alright, sweetheart,” she said, nodding as she took a step back, giving Agatha a once-over look that made something flutter in Agatha’s chest.  It was the kind of look that could pin you down and strip you bare—but Agatha stood her ground. “You’re making me work for your forgiveness? Okay. I respect the challenge.”

“Tomorrow. Six p.m. The Coven,” Rio said, not even phrasing it as a question.

They just stood there for a moment, eyes on each other. Taking inventory. Taking breath.

“How do you know that place?” Agatha asked.

“I used to work there,” Rio replied, as if that was the most natural thing in the world. “Waitressed for a while. Couple years, before the auditions started going my way.”

“How old are you again?” Agatha stepped closer—not accusing, but teasing, curious.

“Old enough that during interviews they’re already asking when I’m planning to settle down.”

“Life of a woman.”

“Thirty. I’m turning thirty this year.”

Agatha let the number linger between them. “Well. It’s only like eight years between us.”

The way she said it made Rio pause—like it mattered. Like she’d thought about it. Rio looked away, one hand landing on her lower stomach before Agatha’s voice cut in again, lighter now.

“You should eat.”

Rio’s eyes flicked back to her, surprised. “Is that an order?”

“That’s a suggestion from the daughter of the producer and director of the film you're starring in,” Agatha said smoothly, mock-serious, but not unkind.

Rio huffed, amused. “Wow. Pulling that card again?”

“If the lead actress falls sick, it affects the whole production,” Agatha replied, mock-serious.

“Sure, sweetheart.”

Agatha turned to go, heels clicking lightly on the pavement. But halfway down the path, she paused—something telling her to glance back over her shoulder. Like instinct maybe, or something more dangerous.

She did. And Rio was still watching her, arms crossed, like she was waiting for something to combust.

“Te veo,” Rio said softly.

Agatha stared.

Is this woman trying to cast some kind of witchcraft on her?

Because if she was—well. It might be working. 

But she’d already Googled it. And now she was starting to wonder if Rio had cast something after all.

Or maybe… something worse.

A feeling.

Chapter Text

It had been a while since Rio rummaged through her closet with the goal of looking good for one specific person. Sure, years of acting — and waitressing before that — had taught her how to present herself in ways that made people want to open doors for her, sign checks in her name, or stare just long enough to remember her face. But Agatha wasn’t here for that. She wasn’t a producer or casting agent with favors disguised as compliments. She wasn’t here to pull Rio into some backroom deal under the glow of opportunity.

Agatha wasn’t like that. At least, Rio hoped not.

Still, her manager’s voice lingered in the back of her mind — Lilia Calderu, sharp as ever, the woman who’d guided Rio since the beginning. “What are you doing with Agatha? What’s the purpose? What’s the benefit?” It stung, hearing it phrased like that, but Rio couldn’t blame her. That’s the language of the industry. You don’t stay afloat unless you learn how to sell your story before someone else writes it for you.

Because everyone in the industry knows that getting an audition and staying in the game doesn’t come clean. Not if you’re unlucky. Not if you’re not connected. Not if your name doesn’t come with someone else’s approval sewn into the hem.

And yet… thinking about Agatha like some stepping stone made something twist in Rio’s gut. Like shame. Or fear. Or maybe both.

With one heavy sigh, she finally decided that she wanted to meet Agatha as Rio. Just Rio. The woman underneath the roles, beneath the polish and press cycles. She even considered wearing a wig — blonde, maybe — something that would let her pass anonymously through the night. It was easier for Agatha, Rio knew. That girl hadn’t been in the spotlight like she had. Not yet. And she couldn’t fault her for it.

She glanced at the pile of fabric strewn across her bed, in the penthouse she’d finally been able to purchase last year — a hard-won milestone that still felt fragile. In the end, she settled on a black dress, knee-length, with criss-crossed lace down the back. Simple. Elegant. Not too loud. It would have to do, especially since she’d made the rookie mistake of not clarifying what this was supposed to be. A meeting? A check-in? A… date?

No. No, it’s just casual. Extremely casual.

Just two people. Sharing time. Talking. That’s it.

And yet, as she slipped the dress over her shoulders and caught her reflection in the mirror, a quiet thought passed through her, uninvited but impossible to ignore.

When was the last time she’d been this nervous to be seen as herself and why did it feel like the only honest thing she’s done in a while?

Her phone rang. Somewhere. Beneath layers of fabric — the casualties of indecision. Rio groaned, diving back into the mess she’d made on her bed, lifting hem after hem until her fingers finally closed around the device.

She unlocked it quickly, expecting maybe a reminder or a check-in, but froze when she saw the latest message from her manager. It was a number.

Not just any number.

Agatha’s number.

Her first reaction was confusion — how did she get that? But then again… who was Rio kidding? Of course Lilia had her ways. Impressive, really. Witchy, maybe. But impressive.

Still, what unsettled her more wasn’t that Lilia had the number — it was that she sent it. Why? Did she know something? Suspect something? Rio typed a quick thank you , trying not to overthink it, and the reply came almost immediately: Don’t be nervous.

Again—how did she know?'

Then again, it shouldn’t have surprised her. Years of working together, Lilia had managed more than Rio’s calendar. At times, she’d managed Rio’s sanity. They’d shared cramped apartments, post-rehearsal meals, soul-crushing contracts and even the flu once. Somewhere along the way, that woman had become more than a manager. She’d become something like a guardian—stern, strategic, and infuriatingly perceptive.

And tonight, it seemed, she wasn’t just managing Rio’s career.

Maybe that was part of the reason Rio had lasted this long—because Lilia saw through everything, even the things Rio hadn’t quite figured out for herself yet.

Like what tonight meant.

Like what Agatha might mean.

Rio dropped the phone on the bed and finally settled on a pair of heels. Not too high—she wanted to feel confident, not like she was performing. If she overthought this any more, she’d end up canceling. And she wasn’t going to cancel.

So, Uber ordered, she pulled the blonde wig over her hair and adjusted it in the mirror, brushing a few strands into place with a kind of practiced ease. It didn’t make her unrecognizable exactly, but it softened her edges—blurred the borders of “Rio Vidal the Actress” just enough. Sunglasses briefly considered and just as quickly dismissed, she stepped outside.

The air had that evening coolness to it, brushing her skin in a way that felt like permission. She took a breath and smiled, softly. It had been a long time since she’d last stepped foot here. The Coven. Funny how something once familiar could feel like a half-forgotten dream.

She wondered if the same bartenders were still around. The same too-skinny DJ who used to play obscure vinyls. The same bouncer with a soft spot for cigarette girls.

But the one greeting her now wasn’t him.

A woman.

Rio blinked in surprise, but not unpleasantly. A female bouncer—first one she’d seen here. The world, apparently, was healing.

There was a queue, though not too long. She joined it without fuss, lightly regretting not bringing a coat. The dress had felt perfect in her closet, but out here, it left a little too much skin for the night. Still, the line moved fast, and soon it was her turn to show ID.

That’s when she hesitated.

This bouncer wasn’t the one she knew. Not the familiar face she’d hoped would wave her through with a wink. Instead, this woman was watching her closely, scanning her face with that look. That narrowing of the eyes that said: You look like someone.

Rio sighed and started digging through her Chanel sling bag, hoping she’d tucked her ID somewhere easy.

Then came the pause. The spark of recognition.

“Hold on, you’re—”

Here we go.

She didn’t let her smile falter. If anything, she leaned into it.

“Yes,” she said simply, lifting her chin a touch. “I am. Let me in, please?”

The bouncer raised a knowing brow, lips curling the way people did when they realized they were the first to spot something rare. She didn’t say anything else, just stepped aside.

“Welcome to The Coven,” she said.

Rio exhaled as she passed through the velvet rope. And just like that, she wasn’t the waitress anymore. She wasn’t the girl auditioning, either. She was someone else.

Someone Agatha was about to see—on purpose, and without a script.

The actress moved through the bar slowly, eyes adjusting to the dim light, the low hum of conversation blending with music that was just loud enough to force people to lean in close. It wasn’t packed—thank God—but it had that curated clutter she remembered: mismatched chairs, candlelit tables, and walls that probably had stories if you pressed your ear close enough.

Some things had changed. A few tables had been shifted. The bar stools weren’t the same. But none of that mattered.

She wasn’t here for nostalgia.

She was here for a wavy brunette with sharp blue eyes and a tendency to act like the main character in every room.

Then she remembered: Lilia had given her Agatha’s number. Of course she had. That woman was a witch in her own right. Rio used to joke that Lilia was always two steps ahead. But apparently, there was someone else playing the same game.

“BOO.”

Rio flinched so hard she nearly weaponized her Chanel bag. She turned around in a sharp twist of heels and nerves and was met with laughter. Familiar. Unapologetic...

Unapologetically  Agatha.

Agatha.

“Gods, Agatha,” Rio hissed, clutching her chest with a mix of offense and relief.

Agatha only grinned, trying and failing to stifle another laugh as she turned to the bartender, who looked mildly irritated by the disruption. With a wink and a raised voice over the music, Agatha shouted, “See? Told you she’d show up in disguise!”

Rio blinked and touched the edge of her wig self-consciously, but her mouth quirked into a reluctant smile.

This girl. This chaos demon of a girl. And here she was, already calling her out in front of strangers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Rio stepped closer, squinting at her. “How long have you been waiting?”

Agatha just shrugged, that maddening sparkle in her eyes. “Long enough to win a bet."

”Great. And what did you bet on exactly?”

“That you’d show up. Blonde. Low heels. Something simple but deadly. I was right, obviously.”

Rio raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “Is this your way of telling me I owe you a drink?”

“No,” Agatha said, stepping in just close enough for Rio to catch the faint trace of something citrusy on her. “This is my way of telling you I already ordered yours.”

Rio shook her head, a reluctant laugh slipping out. “You're unbelievable.”

“And yet,” Agatha said, leaning forward slightly, “here you are.”

Rio hated that her heart stuttered a bit at that. Not because she was afraid—God, no. Just because it had been a long, long time since someone had made her feel seen without the spotlight. And because, damn it, she could tell Agatha had been thinking about tonight just as much as she had.

Her gaze swept over Agatha—wavy brunette hair just brushing her shoulders, eyes sharp and unreadable under low lights. Agatha was impossible to ignore in a sculptural white blouse—dramatically asymmetrical with one puffed sleeve like a cloud, the other side bare, collarbone and shoulder on full display like a challenge. The blouse cinched at the waist with a wide black belt, and her black trousers were high-waisted, tailored to fall clean down her legs, the stiletto heels sharpening every line she made. She didn’t look like she belonged in a bar. She looked like she owned it. Rio felt an absurd sense of relief that she hadn’t underdressed because Agatha looked good. Intentional. Like someone who wanted to be known.

Of course, the bar wasn’t entirely blind to them. Already, Rio noticed the glances—curious, speculative, opportunistic. A few patrons tilted their heads like they were still deciding if they recognized her, or if the blonde wig threw them off just enough.

Before the tension could thicken, Agatha turned to the crowd with a grin that could sell sin. “Sorry, folks! We’re unavailable for tonight!”

Her voice carried easily, smooth with just enough bite to warn but not enough to kill the mood. Rio couldn’t help but watch her—the way she occupied space, unbothered, magnetic. Rio’s mouth twitched despite herself—there was something about the way Agatha said it, like it was a private joke they both knew. That smile could’ve gotten her through years of customer service hell if she hadn’t been... whatever it was she was now.

Then came the interruption, crude and unoriginal.

“When are you available then, sweet stuff?”

The voice came from a table nearby. Older man, late fifties, probably. Beer in hand, smirk like he thought he’d just delivered the line of the night. His friends laughed with him, loud and half-interested.

Agatha didn’t flinch. She barely blinked.

“When the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans finally look like they’re mixing,” she shot back coolly.

Rio stepped in before the moment could grow teeth. She reached for Agatha’s hand, fingers curling around hers gently but firmly—enough to pull her attention back where it belonged.

“Let it go,” Rio murmured, not quite smiling. “Not worth it.”

The music hummed around them. Laughter from the bar. Clinking glass. But something stilled between them.

Agatha looked at her, the kind of look that held onto something a little longer than it should. Then she let herself be led, their hands still linked as they moved deeper into the bar.

Rio didn’t say it out loud, she didn’t care if people were still watching. 

Agatha was trouble. Not the kind that ruined reputations.

The kind that made you question if you’d mind.

Somehow the dynamic shifted. Now it was Agatha leading them toward the bar like she’d been planning it all along. She slid onto a stool with casual grace, Rio following a beat behind. The bartender had just set down a drink for someone else when Agatha flagged her down.

“Yo, Kale. Where's the one shot of vodka and a margarita?”

A voice from the side chimed in, smug and amused.

“Starting your date with something strong—I see you, girl.”

Rio turned toward the sound like someone had just challenged her to a duel. It was the same bouncer. The one who let her in earlier without checking her ID because she’d recognized her on the spot.

“Don’t you have a job, Alice?” Agatha asked dryly.

That broke the stare-down. Rio blinked, now fully aware of the bouncer’s name— Alice, courtesy of Agatha’s loose tongue.

“My shift ended already,” Alice replied with a shrug.

“Then go home.”

Agatha scoffed at her own dismissal, spinning back toward the bar. Rio, for her part, was too caught off guard to say anything. She stayed quiet, somewhere between amused and out of her depth, watching the exchange like it was a scene she hadn’t read the script for.

She ended up locking eyes with the bartender— Jen, according to the pin on her shirt. But Agatha had called her Kale. Like the leafy green. Was it a nickname? An inside joke? Or was Agatha just making things up again?

Jen’s brow twitched, barely perceptible, but Rio saw it. So she leaned into the moment and gave her a deliberately wide smile—just shy of deranged. The kind that screamed: Yes, I’m here and bored. Deal with it.

Jen blinked, returned to scooping ice, but her eyes flicked back to Rio’s face more than once.

Then Alice finally took the cue to leave. “Alright, stay safe. Enjoy your date.”

Rio’s lips parted. Almost corrected her. Almost. But nothing came out. She glanced at Agatha, who didn’t flinch—no reaction, no denial. Just that small, unreadable smirk as she rested her elbow on the bar.

By now Jen had walked off to the far corner, scooping ice for another round. Alice was heading toward the exit. But the moment she was out of Rio and Agatha’s earshot, she veered sideways and leaned against the end of the bar.

Jen leaned in too.

“I don’t know if I hate her,” Jen muttered, eyes still fixed in Rio’s direction, “or if I want her number.”

“Do you not recognize her?”

“That blonde wig did nothing. Obviously I know who she is.”

“EXACTLY,” Alice hissed, throwing a look over her shoulder like she was watching a scandal unfold live.

Back at the bar, Rio tried not to laugh. The drinks were just being placed in front of them—Agatha already reaching for the vodka shot like she hadn’t just dismantled a man ten minutes ago and dismissed a bouncer in the same breath.

Rio leaned forward, chin resting on her hand.

“So... Kale, huh?”

Agatha gave a suspiciously innocent smile.

“She eats more salad than anyone I know. I renamed her.”

Rio shook her head, laughing softly into her margarita glass.

Of course she did.

But her eyes kept drifting.

Gods. Agatha looked good. That sculptural white blouse—half cloud, half seduction— exposed her shoulder and collarbone so perfectly. It was becoming a problem.

Rio didn’t realize she was staring until Agatha glanced sideways and said, “You can compliment me, you know. I won’t sue.”

Rio scoffed. “Jesus, Agatha. You really are something else.”

“If you were in my school back then,” Agatha said, tossing a lime wedge into her mouth, “you’d have been scolded for taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Don’t tell me you went to an all-girl Catholic school,” Rio said, too specific to be random.

Agatha smiled slowly, like she’d been waiting for someone to guess.

“I did. I’m a recovering Catholic. That’s what I like to say now.”

Rio lifted her glass toward Agatha, a gleam in her eye.

“Well. You and I have more things in common, turns out.”

Glasses clinked.

And the night had only just begun.

Time passed by like a breeze. Rio didn’t feel like she was stuck in forever—conversation came easy between them, so easy that Rio found herself wishing she could be stuck here forever. A difference.

“So,” Agatha said, tone casual but eyes a little sharper, “tell me more about yourself.”

Rio raised a brow. “You know you could just search me up, right?”

“Pretty sure that’s not how real human connections are formed.”

Agatha had turned fully toward her now, elbow resting on the bar, her finger absentmindedly tracing the rim of her shot glass. Rio watched the motion for a beat too long.

“Oh yeah?” Rio asked, amused. “And you’re trying to form a human connection with me, sweetheart?”

That did it. Agatha’s smirk flickered, and Rio shifted in her seat, unsure who had just taken control of the conversation. Agatha’s eyes dropped to her drink. She raised her drink to her lips but pulled away at the last second.

“Do you call everyone that?”

“With… what?”

“S-word.”

Rio chuckled, caught off guard. She set her margarita down. “Sweetheart?”

“Yes. That.”

“Not really.”

“So why me?”

“I’m not allowed to?”

Agatha suddenly felt like she was burning under Rio’s gaze. Something inside her—something in the back of her mind—was trying to shout something ugly, something quietly sad.

“I just don’t think I fit it,” she murmured.

Rio tilted her head, voice softer. “You’re a sweetheart to me, though.”

Agatha laughed, humorless. “I’m not even sweet to begin with, Rio.”

It made Rio freeze.

Rio’s ears perked up. That was the first time Agatha had ever said her name. But what held her wasn’t the sound of it—it was how unsteady Agatha looked afterward. Her confidence fraying at the seams. Like Agatha had asked something too personal and was suspicious of being seen too closely.

So Rio asked—too fast, too directly.

“Is that what your mother made you believe?”

It slipped out of Rio’s mouth before she could stop herself.

Agatha blinked.

So did Rio. 

There it was. A silence that felt like it could split the bar in two. Rio’s eyes widened, breath halting in her throat. She hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. That came out way too fast. Too sharp. She tried to take it back—

“I mean—”

“Wow,” Agatha cut in, her laugh brittle. “We’re going straight to my mommy issues?”

Great.

Awesome.

Rio’s mind was going a thousand miles per second, trying to find ways to steer the conversation back into the proper lane.

Chapter Text

“Cat got your tongue? Am I being too mean for you, darling?”

What.

Rio realized she’d probably been quiet longer than what society deemed acceptable, but at least Agatha didn’t look pissed. The girl just looked at her — expectant, calm — as if Rio was the one acting strange. As if nothing she’d just said had happened. As if it was all in Rio’s head.

“So I’m ‘darling’ to you now?”

She picked her card carefully. Her margarita was finished, and Agatha, sharp-eyed as ever, flagged Jen down for another round.

When the drink was on its way, Agatha finally responded.

“What? I can’t call you that? It’s only fair.”

“Do I look like a darling to you?”

“You look like a woman I’d buy drinks for, so yes. A darling.”

Smooth. Impressive.

Rio shook her head as Jen returned with another glass before leaving them again.

“You’re having a field day with the orders just because I’m paying, huh?”

“Can’t girls just have fun?” Agatha winked, then looked away — toward the dance floor. It wasn’t packed, but just full enough not to feel awkward. A few couples moved to the beat, the low hum of nightlife filling the air.

Rio followed her gaze, then looked back. “But you said I look like a woman you’d buy drinks for.”

Agatha’s eyes returned to hers, slow and deliberate. “If you want to hang out again, you can just ask me directly, you know.”

If Agatha were anyone else — especially Rio’s ex-fiance — she would’ve rolled her eyes and walked away without another word. But she didn’t.

Instead, her mind wandered.

Has Agatha ever been in a relationship before? A serious one? Or worse — was she in one now?

“Is it really okay for you to hang out with me?”

“Why are you so worried about my mo—”

Rio nearly jumped in to shut it down, to derail the conversation before it wandered into territory she wasn’t ready to map out. But Agatha, sharp as ever, got there first. Her eyes lit up, a flicker of realization crossing her face as the meaning clicked into place.

“Oh. No. Don’t worry. I should be asking you that instead.”

Rio raised a brow, cautious now. “So… you didn’t see the headline?”

Agatha tilted her head. “What headline?”

She looked genuinely puzzled, and for reasons she didn’t want to unpack, Rio found herself liking that expression on her. Confusion softened Agatha’s features in a way confidence never did — less curated, more real.

“Well, it was kind of old news. Before I started shooting this film.” She took a slow sip of her drink, then added, “I broke off an engagement.”

Agatha didn’t answer right away. Her face went through what could only be described as a rapid five-stage emotional crisis: confusion, concern, mild horror, stunned neutrality, and then—finally—something close to amusement.

Or maybe relief.

Her lips parted like she wasn’t sure whether to say “I’m sorry” or “congratulations.”

“Well,” Agatha said at last, settling on something that could pass for tact, “were you just engaged, or happily engaged?”

Rio blinked at her — and then laughed. Not the polite, press-friendly kind. A real one. The kind that caught her off guard, even as it left a curl in her stomach.

“Touché,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

Agatha smirked, satisfied. “So I’ve been told.”

There was a pause then — not awkward, but dense. The kind that fills with all the things left unsaid. The weight of past choices. Of questions not yet asked.

Rio turned her glass slowly in her hand. “Anyway… I’m just living my life as a single woman now.”

Agatha’s gaze flicked to her then, sharp again, but not unkind. She held it, let it linger just long enough.

“Good,” she said softly. “Because I’m not really the sharing type.”

Rio blinked.

There it was. A truth, barely dressed up. Slipped between the lines, but unmistakably there.

It caught her off guard. But not in a bad way.

Maybe even in the right way.

“How about you?”

The question came quieter than before, almost like Rio had only just remembered the reason she'd brought it up in the first place.

Agatha tilted her head. “What about me? There’s nothing to tell. Just a series of situationship. Nothing too serious...”

Rio quirked a brow. “You’ve never been in love?”

Agatha didn’t answer directly. Instead, she countered, “Were you in love?”

They both took a sip at the same time — eyes locked, a silent standoff. It felt like a dare more than a question. A challenge. A battlefield held in raised brows and slow swallows.

“With Wade Wilson?” Rio shrugged, then shook her head. “No. It was mostly for convenience. Familiarity. That’s all.”

“Oh, so that’s his name. Wilson.” Agatha gave a theatrical wince. “You could’ve been Mrs. Wilson.”

Rio let the idea roll around for a beat, then broke into a smirk. It had been a while since she even let herself think about what might’ve been.

“Yeah. Rio Wilson.”

Agatha’s entire face contorted. Her upper lip curled in mock disgust like she’d just licked a lemon.

“That makes you sound so... suburban. Like someone who gives monologues to PTA boards. There's no leading lady energy in that. Names matter, you know. Yours is Rio Christina Vidal —”

“Rio Christina Vidal,” Rio repeated, amused now. Her full name felt strange and intimate in Agatha’s mouth — like something secret being said aloud. 

“Yes, Christina?” Agatha’s eyes sparked. 

They both cracked, the laugh breaking out between them with surprising ease — a ripple of something lighter in the moment’s undercurrent. For all the back-and-forth, it was oddly grounding.

Rio leaned back. “How do you even know my middle name?”

Agatha raised her glass in a mock toast. “Background check.”

She said it so casually, like she was commenting on the weather.

Rio gave her a look. “Seriously?”

Agatha gave a smug little shrug. “Standard procedure when I go out with people. I like to know what kind of emotional damage I’m walking into.”

“Oh, so I’m a threat?”

“No, you’re a… hazard. Slightly different.”

Rio chuckled, shaking her head. “Well, Christina appreciates the warning.”

Agatha smiled into her glass. “Marie accepts the risk.”

“Oh, we’re trading middle names now?”

“Would you rather us switching last names?”

The alcohol made Agatha bold — bolder than usual — and Rio, loosened by her second drink and the way Agatha kept looking at her like she was both the flame and the match, Rio didn't bother holding back anymore.

“Like Rio Christina Harkness?” she tested the name out loud, letting it roll slowly off her tongue.

Agatha’s eyes gleamed. She lifted her chin, grinning like a cat who’d found something better than cream. “Has a powerful ring to it, don’t you think?”

Rio leaned in, closing the barely-there space between them. She reached up, tucking a strand of Agatha’s hair behind her ear with deliberate care. Her fingers lingered — just long enough.

Agatha’s breath caught, barely audible over the background noise — but Rio noticed.

Rio noticed everything.

“Hm. Being Mrs. Harkness,” Rio said, voice low and teasing, “would definitely open doors.”

Across the bar, Jen made a very poor show of pretending not to watch — chin propped on her palm, eyebrows raised, eyes bright with the kind of secondhand thrill rom-com addicts know all too well.

Agatha tilted her head, lips quirking. “It’s cute how quickly you default to trying my name.”

Rio arched a brow. She wanted to wipe that smug little look right off Agatha’s face. Not because it annoyed her — but because it didn’t. At all.

“You want to take mine?”

Agatha’s eyes sparkled, a beat of silence stretching before she murmured, “I’d rather take something else from you.”

And with that, she slid off the barstool in one graceful movement, turning to face Rio fully. She took a few steps backward, hands clasped behind her like she was daring Rio to follow.

“The DJ just put on my favorite song,” she said, tossing a glance over her shoulder toward the pulsing dance floor. “I’m not about to miss it."

Rio watched her for a second, then downed the last of her drink, already grinning.

She turned to Jen, who was leaning on the counter like she lived for this drama.

“Put all this on my tab,” Rio said, already walking away, already threading through bodies and bass drops, chasing after a Harkness who, for once, wasn’t running from power, but straight into it.

It wasn’t that difficult to find her in the small crowd — she was a thing of wonder. Their eyes locked. It was like gravity. There was an inevitability to it, and Agatha felt like there was almost no choice. She was just pulled to Rio, grabbing her by the arm.

“We’re strangers in this crowd. You’re free with me.”

Agatha’s hushed tone — and the alcohol in her system — didn’t help the way Rio’s gaze dropped briefly to her lips before meeting her eyes again.

“Everyone here wants us.”

It wasn’t a bluff. It was true.

“A shame,” Agatha murmured, “that they won’t ever know the truth, then.”

What truth? The truth of their identities? That Agatha is the daughter of a powerful figure in the industry, and Rio a rising star? Or the truth that it doesn’t matter how many people want them — because Rio doesn’t want everyone, despite having to perform for jobs.

Rio just wants A—

No. No.

By this point, they were already in the middle of the dance floor. Agatha danced her heart out, radiant and unbothered. Rio followed, laughing — especially when Agatha bumped into people and kept saying sorry over and over again.

At some point, it wasn’t clear who did it — who reached first — but they were holding hands. Fingers laced together, jumping up and down like teenagers, shouting their hearts out to songs that Agatha was surprised Rio knew.

"Eight years. Just eight," Agatha thought, and yet somehow, it doesn’t feel like much at all.

The blue-eyed brunette could sense someone hovering behind her. She didn’t have to look to know — it was that old guy from earlier.

Rio noticed the shift in Agatha’s focus, and when she turned, her eyes landed on the man.

Rio gave him the look — full resting bitch face. The same one that earned her the nickname back in school. And just like then, it worked. The man took one glance and backed off without a word.

Agatha turned back to Rio, who was now smoothing her features into something sweet and innocent.

“Thank you, darling,” Agatha said, eyebrows raised in amusement.

Rio just shook her head. “Not a problem, sweetheart.”

The music changed.

The beat slowed, softened. A wave of nostalgia washed through the crowd, and suddenly the air was filled with something quieter. Closer.

Around them, couples leaned into each other. Hands moved to waists and shoulders.

Not wanting to draw attention — not wanting to break the spell — they followed suit.

Agatha wrapped her arm around Rio’s shoulder.

Rio leaned in, resting her cheek in the crook of Agatha’s neck. It wasn’t that Rio was short — Agatha was just wearing heels tall enough to shift the balance. Not that Rio was complaining.

Her fingers found their way to Agatha's back, absentmindedly playing with her hair.

“Heaven is a place on Earth with you
Tell me all the things you wanna do…”

They both sang the lyrics, a little off-key but uncaring.

Rio felt warm. Safe. Her cheeks ached from smiling so much. She knew the song — knew it well — and something inside her buzzed with the urge to look up and sing the next line directly to Agatha.

So she did.

“I heard that you like the bad girls,
Honey, is that true?”

Agatha’s eyes widened, and she rolled them dramatically. But Rio caught the flush in her cheeks — unmistakable, even under the soft bar lights.

They kept singing.

“Drunk and I am seeing stars,
This is all I think of…”

And then — without planning it, without thinking — they both turned to each other at the exact same time.

They mouthed the lyrics in unison.

Agatha’s heart stuttered.

Because the way Rio was looking at her — eyes shining, smile wide and unguarded — it felt like being looked at like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. Like she was  the diamond of the world.

They felt out of this world — untouchable, suspended somewhere between stardust and sweat, perfectly attuned to one another. At this point, the lyrics were slurring from their lips, blending with laughter and breathlessness.

Rio had never considered herself a lightweight, but something was different tonight.

It wasn’t the margarita. It was her.

Agatha — laughing, dancing, all sharp lines and softness wrapped into one. The way she moved to the beat without trying too hard. The way she looked at Rio like she was watching something unfold — slowly, deliciously, inevitably.

Rio’s head spun.

It wasn’t alcohol. It was want.

Stupid, wild, hormonal. The kind of want that made her want to mess up on purpose. The kind of want that would usually make her roll her eyes and head home — but not tonight. Not with Agatha.

Tonight, a mistake didn’t sound like a mistake at all.

“Wanna get out of here?” she asked, breath brushing Agatha’s ear. 

Agatha turned, brows raised. “Bored already?”

“Decided I need fresh air,” Rio said, voice low, tight with things she didn’t have the courage to name yet.

Agatha huffed a soft laugh, but nodded. “Sure. Let me hit the bathroom first. Just wait a minute.” 

Her heart was pounding hard — so hard she almost worried Rio could hear it. She needed the mirror. She needed to breathe. And yes, maybe reapply some lipstick, pat down her hair, and make sure she still looked composed, even if her insides were pure chaos.  

They were still holding hands when Agatha turned to go. Their fingers slid apart reluctantly, like something meaningful was slipping between them — something neither was quite ready to hold on to, not yet.

Rio stayed behind, standing in the thick of the dance floor, the bass heavy under her feet. Lights sliced through the haze above them in violet and blue. Around her, people moved in flashes — spinning, laughing, pressing too close. But Rio was still.

Until someone bumped into her.

Hard enough that she stumbled back half a step. Not jarring, but intentional — too purposeful to be accidental.

A hand brushed her shoulder in passing — not aggressive, just a light touch. But Rio’s skin erupted in goosebumps.

She turned, quickly, but whoever it was had already slipped away — swallowed by the crowd. Just a silhouette, gone before she could register their face.

Rio decided not to let it get to her. Not now. Not when Agatha had just stepped out of the bathroom and their eyes locked across the dance floor. But something was off. Agatha wasn’t smiling. Her jaw was tight, shoulders squared like armor, even though her lipstick was fresh.

Rio crossed the distance between them in a blink.

"What’s wrong, baby?”

Agatha blinked, that word hitting her harder than she expected. Maybe it was the vodka. Yeah — let’s blame the vodka.

“I have to go. She’s waiting for me at home.”

“Evanora?”

The name slipped out of Rio like a dare, like saying Voldemort in Harry Potter. Except Rio didn’t care — she’d say it anyway.

“Also, there are paparazzi camping outside the bar.”

What. Wait. How?

“How did they—?”

“Someone must’ve found out you’re here. They’re definitely here for you. Alice just texted me.”

“I thought she went home?”

“Well, apparently not right away. Maybe we should just—”

“I get it. I should go.”

Rio fished for her phone, opening the Uber app, but Agatha’s hand closed around her wrist before she could tap anything.

“What are you doing?”

“Ordering a ride? Getting home?”

“In this condition?”

Agatha’s eyes ran down her — the dress, the sway in her posture, the clouded shine in her eyes. There was no way in hell she was letting Rio go like this, alone.

“Look, I’ll just get you home. I already called my chauffeur.”

“The papara—”

“That’s why it has to look casual. Like we’re just girls out for the night. Nothing to see. Like we’re doing something normal, so we just need to stop and act normal.”

Just girls having fun.

That’s what Agatha called it.

Funny — because if this had all been normal, why did she have to say it like a warning?

The way she said "just need to stop and act normal" made it sound like everything until now… hadn’t been.

Something had already shifted.

Rio let out a breath, trying to steel herself. “Right. Either way, they’re probably gonna frame me as someone trying to gain favors from your mother through you — if they catch us walking out together and all.”

Agatha’s phone buzzed again. She fished it out of her pocket, glanced at the screen, and muttered, “Alright. Let’s fucking get this over with. He’s here.”

No more time to think. No time to fix her hair or check her reflection. After Rio paid the tab, they were moving — fast — Agatha a few paces ahead like she wanted to outwalk the problem.

Rio squared her shoulders. She’d done this before. She could do it again.

But the moment they pushed through the door — boom.

One. Two. Three.

A wall of light exploded in her face.

Flashes like lightning, like sirens, like gunfire. Too bright, too loud, too fast.

“RIO! HOW ARE YOU TONIGHT?”  “LOOK OVER HERE!” “IS THAT AGATHA HARKNESS?!”  “CAN WE GET A SMILE, LADIES?” “RIO — DID YOU BREAK OFF THE ENGAGEMENT FOR SOMEONE ELSE?”

Disrespectful.

Aggressive.

A storm of cameras and questions. Someone's voice practically cracked in her ear. Elbows bumped. Phones raised. A man stepped backwards without looking and almost knocked into her.

Rio swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how bare her arms were, how short her dress felt under the artificial glare. Her jaw tensed.

She didn’t look at Agatha — couldn’t. Not yet.

They just had to make it to the car.

A few more steps.

Just girls having fun, right?

“IS THAT YOUR GIRLFRIEND, RIO?”

The voice pierced through the others — loud, demanding, invasive. But it was impossible to tell which of the five or six men it belonged to. They all blended together, just cameras and mouths, noise and heat. They all sounded the same. All trying to corner her into something they could sell.

She didn’t flinch. Instead, she squared her shoulders and smiled like she’d practiced this in a mirror.

Publicity is still publicity.

She turned her head slightly, voice clear, composed. “We’re friends. I’m working on a film her mother is producing and directing. Just taking a break before we go back to shooting tomorrow.”

A beat. The clicking didn’t stop.

Promotion. Just promote. Make it work for you.

“When’s the film coming out?”

“Ah, not too sure yet,” Rio said with a smile, already halfway towards the SUV. “But I’ll let you know.”

She laughed — the kind of laugh you could bottle and sell as brand-safe.

And Agatha threw gasoline on it.

“She’s a hell of an actor, guys.” Agatha flashed a grin and pointed to Rio like they were in on the joke together.

Another shouted, “DID YOU HAVE FUN ON YOUR GIRLS NIGHT OUT?”

“WE DID!” Agatha shouted back, effortlessly.

The questions trailed off as they reached the car, the distance buying them silence. Rio circled around and got in on the other side. Once the doors shut and the soundproof partition sealed them in, a heavy quiet wrapped around them like a blanket.

They looked at each other. And then they laughed.

A real one, this time. Not for cameras. Not for headlines. Just… relief.

“Did you seriously just turn that into a press junket?” Agatha asked, wide-eyed.

“A publicity is still a publicity,” Rio said, unbothered, settling into the plush leather seat like she belonged there.

That’s when she noticed the car itself — silent as a cathedral, sleek as hell. She couldn’t even see the driver. It felt… private. 

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that wrapped around you and made you aware of yourself — of your pulse, your breath, your heartbeat still jittering from camera flashes. The leather seats were cool against her skin. There was a touchscreen console, a discreet intercom, and a black partition that cut them off from the driver entirely.

Private. Luxurious. A little eerie.

She blinked and turned to Agatha, who caught her staring and shrugged as if to say " Yeah, I know."

“My mother insisted on this car,” Agatha said, voice calm, already leaning back like she’d done this too many times before. “Paid a ridiculous amount for it. Said something about privacy, and not trusting anyone — not even your own driver.”

Of course she did.

Rio exhaled slowly, chest loosening now that they were moving. She hadn’t even told them where to go. “Hey, can you drop me at Lilia’s?” she asked, clearing her throat.

Agatha turned. “Who’s Lilia?”

Oh. Right. How would she know?

“My manager,” Rio said, and then pulled up the address on her phone, holding it out.

“Ah. So she has a name.”

Rio chuckled, unlocking her phone and pulling up the address. “Here.”

Agatha took it from her, fingers brushing Rio’s. She didn’t rush — just leaned forward and gave instructions through the intercom like she was running the world.

And maybe she was.

Rio waited for her phone back. Hand out. Expectant.

But Agatha didn’t return it.

Instead, she swiped to the camera app.

“Hold on.”

Rio squinted. “What are you doing?”

“Commemorating our public scandal, obviously.” She angled the phone. “Smile, babe.”

“You’re not seriously trying to take a selfie right now,” Rio muttered.

“C’mon. Girls’ night. Something to remember us by when we’re hunted down by tabloids.”

Rio let out a long-suffering sigh but leaned in anyway. “You are so—”

“A girls’ night deserves evidence.”

Rio stared at her with a deadpan look. Agatha turned toward her, pouting dramatically.

“Geez, can’t you look happy?”

“Make me happy, then,” Rio shot back, teasing, letting the alcohol and adrenaline loosen her tongue.

Agatha gave her a flat look — but Rio saw the flicker in her expression. The tiny shift. That glint of mischief.

“Alright,” Agatha said, calmly.

She set the timer.

One.

Agatha leaned in.

Two.

She tilted her face toward Rio’s—

Mwah.

Three.

The shutter clicked.

“What the hell,” Rio blurted, frozen for half a beat.

Agatha was already pulling away, sliding to her side of the car, snickering as she stared down at the photo. Rio lunged for the phone.

“Give me that!”

“Nope.” Agatha swatted her hand away with ease, laughing. “You should see your face.”

She finally turned the phone so Rio could see.

There it was. Agatha kissing her cheek, casual and smug. And Rio — caught mid-glance, eyes wide and soft, lips pulled into the barest, most involuntary smile. The kind you couldn’t fake. The kind you didn’t know you were wearing until it was already there.

Agatha smirked. “Are you always this happy when people kiss you?”

Rio, heat blooming across her cheeks, didn’t answer.

Agatha’s grin widened. She liked that. She liked winning.

Then the phone rang, sharp and sudden, slicing through the moment. She flinched.

Rio seized the chance, snatching her phone back with a triumphant little smirk.

It was Lilia.

Rio answered with one finger raised toward Agatha — a wordless gesture that meant shush.

And Agatha did. Silently. Instinctively.

It was too easy, falling into silence.

It always had been.

"Be quiet",  said every voice that ever tried to shape her. Be good. Be pretty. Be useful. Be silent.

And God, why the hell was she thinking about her right now?

Like just...why — why was she thinking of her? Fuck that vodka. Two shots in and her brain was already slipping into places she didn’t want it to go. She sat back down, folding her arms, eyes flicking toward Rio every so often, half-listening, half-spinning out.

“Agatha’s going to drop me off at your place,” Rio said into the phone.

Agatha didn’t react at first — until Rio nudged her, and then tilted the phone toward her face.

“Lilia wants to say something.”

“Huh? Okay—hi?”

“Agatha?” Lilia’s voice came through. “Thank you for making sure Rio’s safe.”

Agatha blinked.

Thanked?

She didn’t know what surprised her more — the fact that Rio’s manager bothered to say it, or the way Rio looked at her after. Soft. Like she expected kindness. Like she was used to it.

Agatha tried not to shift in her seat.

“No problem,” she replied, leaning into a teasing tone. “She paid for drinks anyway, so it’s fair.”

She nudged the phone back gently, like it burned her fingers.

Rio turned away again, finishing her call. Agatha leaned into the window, letting the cool glass hold up her head. Tinted. Perfectly reflective. She stared at herself in it, but couldn’t hold her gaze.

They passed streetlights, storefronts, and flickers of traffic. Her mother’s voice echoed somewhere beneath it all. She said she needed her home. Urgently. It sounded like something — like trouble, or worse. She started to calculate, If traffic holds, thirty minutes, maybe thirty-five—

“Agatha?”

She looked at her. Rio was watching her, brows knit.

“Yeah?”

Rio tilted her head. “You gonna puke or something? You look kind of… sick.”

The words were teasing. But the tone wasn’t.

Agatha stared at her. 

She could hear it — the real question buried under it.

“Are you okay?”

Gods.

That made it worse.

Not Rio. But the gentleness. The care. Sitting on the side where her mother usually sat — the side Agatha had always reserved for someone cold, someone sharp-tongued and never curious enough to ask.

No, Evanora never asked if she was okay. Only whether she'd performed for her.

And now here was Rio.

Looking at her like her comfort mattered.

And Agatha didn’t know what to do with that.

“Calculating the time needed with the distance we have to go through with the speed of—” she muttered, voice suddenly distant, like a student reciting the laws of motion.

Rio blinked. “What?”

Agatha glanced at her, a little more lucid. “Five minutes.”

“…Till what?”

“We’re almost there,” she said. “Just five more minutes. Then you'll be off.”

Five minutes.

That was all the time Agatha had left with her.

That was all. Then it would be over. Then she’d be alone in the back seat again. Then she’d walk back into that cold marble house and see her mother’s face — tight, unreadable, already disappointed in things Agatha hadn’t done yet.

And for a flicker of a second, she hoped — horribly, selfishly hoped — that something might happen. A traffic jam. A flat tire. Anything. Anything to stretch those five minutes out into six. Seven. More.

She wanted more time.

The realization hit like a bruise being pressed. Unexpected. Deep.

“Sweetheart?”

“I want more time.”

It came out in a single breath. Small. Unprotected.

Rio turned to her. Words on her tongue, then gone. She faltered.

She had played comforting before — knew the beats, the rhythm of it. But this wasn’t a scene. This wasn’t rehearsed. This was Agatha, inches away. And it was real. And it was hard.

Then the car stopped.

Rio turned to look. Outside — Lilia’s building. Already?

“There’s still tomorrow,” she said, instead of goodbye. A small offering. Not a lie.

A hopeful half-truth.

Agatha snorted, soft and bitter. “Sure. If tomorrow comes.”

The moment unraveled.

Rio climbed out, but before she closed the door, she leaned back in. One last glance. One last line.

“Te veo.”

Agatha froze. Was she supposed to say it back? Was it like goodbye? Was it something else?

She hesitated. “You too,” she said — unsure, a little clumsy.

But Rio smiled anyway.

Then she stepped out and closed the door.

And she was alone.

Well — alone with the driver.

But that didn’t count.

Not when the seat next to her still held warmth. Not when her hand, pressed to the leather where Rio had sat, remembered the weight of her.

She hadn’t even noticed she’d been scooting closer as Rio got out.

Now she sat on her side. The side Evanora always took. Except for once, it felt like it had meant something. And now it was just a hollowed-out space again.

Something she’d just had. 

Something she just lost.

Something she never really had to begin with.

The ache of it threatened to spool out across her chest, so she did the only thing she could.

Pressed the intercom button.

“Drive,” she said. “Just—get me home.”

Her voice was quieter than before.

Because the worst part wasn’t leaving Rio behind.

It was what waited for her ahead — a house with no softness. A mother who never asked if she was okay. A life where love, if it existed at all, was always conditional. 

Rio made her stomach filled with butterflies.

Her mother made it twist like weeds.

And gods, she wasn’t sure which was harder to survive.

Chapter Text

One printed photo.

It slid across the long dining table, soundless, gliding like a blade on ice until it stopped in front of her.

Agatha stared at it.

A picture. Of Rio — laughing, loose, alive. Agatha’s arm around her shoulders. Only the side of Agatha’s face was visible, blurred in motion, but the posture said enough. Intimacy. Familiarity.

And someone had been close enough to capture it.

Her stomach dropped.

Who took this?

And who — who — put it in Evanora’s hands?

She hadn’t even sat down when her mother told her to. That was all she said — “Sit.”

Evanora remained standing.

Not because she was just upset. But because she wanted Agatha to feel small.

“I assume this is your handiwork,” Evanora said, finally breaking the silence. She wasn’t yelling. No — Evanora never needed to raise her voice. It was always worse when she didn’t.

Agatha didn’t respond.

Her mother began to pace slowly behind her, fingers tapping along the back of a chair.

“I give you an inch of freedom — a single night — and this is how you use it?”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Agatha kept her hands still in her lap. She knew better than to fidget. She knew what it meant when Evanora didn’t step into view.

A pause.

“You crave the spotlight that badly? You think this can make you special?”

Then came the slam — Evanora’s hand hitting the table, flattening the photo like a pinning knife.

“This,” she hissed, “is not what I raised you for. Wasting your youth like a common girl in heat.”

Agatha’s breath stalled in her throat. She opened her mouth. Closed it. She needed to think. Find footing. Find air.

“Mother, I can explain—”

“And with Vidal, of all people.”

Evanora ran a hand through her hair, like she’d been over this a thousand times and was exhausted by her daughter’s inability to grasp the rules.

“Did you at least go to Ralph’s trailer yesterday like I told you to? Or are you that dense?”

“I did, Mother. I went. I told him I had an idea—”

“You’re meant to be seen, Agatha. Not heard.”

Ah.

That’s why ‘Te veo’ always felt so strange coming from Rio. Because Agatha had never been raised to be seen in the way Rio meant it. Not as a person. Only as a product.

“He said it was a good idea,” Agatha muttered, “especially coming from a pretty face like mine.”

Years with a mother like Evanora taught you how to survive. She never hit her — never needed to. Appearance was everything. Bruises showed. Bruises complicated the narrative.

Evanora’s expression softened — just a fraction. A breath of approval.

“Since you have such brilliant ideas that Ralph deigns to compliment, I suppose this—” she nodded at the photo “—was Vidal’s idea?”

A getaway. She could lie.

“Well—”

“I knew it.” Evanora’s voice darkened. “Can’t believe she has it in her to play games. Using my daughter to get something from me.”

No. No.

It was too risky. Rio still worked with her mother. And even if Agatha didn’t know the full terrain of the industry, she’d heard the horror stories about what happened when actresses crossed producers.

“It was mine.”

It dropped like a blade against her neck.

Evanora looked at her like she’d seen a ghost.

“Of course,” she murmured. “Of course this was your idea.”

Disappointment.

“What are you doing with her? Clinging to an actress like some desperate fan. Do you want to be the story, Agatha? Or do you want to write it?”

She lifted the photo between two fingers, like it was infected.

“This is a child’s indulgence. A waste of your time. And worse—”

She leaned in, voice cold and quiet.

“—a waste of mine.”

The paper fluttered back down.

Agatha’s voice cracked as she reached for logic. A lie wrapped in truth. “Mother, she knows what she’s doing, alright? I went to her because I wanted to learn. To understand how she works with Ralph. She’s spent more time with him than I have. I’m just… spending time with her. Talking. About boys—”

Evanora cut her off.

“She’s not a good example to begin with. She broke off an engagement. And last I heard, she’s been refusing that businessman who promised her everything. Clearly, she has no idea what she’s doing.”

New information. That was the only good thing Agatha got from all this — something new about Rio.

Rio hadn’t said anything about a businessman.

“Mother, the prize is still Ralph. A-and, think about it — she made it all the way to an engagement. She broke it off, not him. And now there’s some businessman chasing her? That means Rio—”

“I don’t want to hear her name in this house.”

That word again. Her. Laced with distain.

Evanora’s voice sliced clean through the air.

She clapped her hands once, sharp and decisive.

One of her assistants appeared almost instantly, as if summoned from thin air, arms full of freshly printed papers. Evanora didn’t spare her a glance. She took the stack harshly, dismissing the woman with a flick of her fingers — not a word, not a look.

She laid one sheet on the table in front of Agatha like a final verdict.

“Read.”

Agatha blinked, then looked down.

EXCLUSIVE: RIO VIDAL SPOTTED OUT WITH PRODUCER’S DAUGHTER — WHO IS AGATHA HARKNESS?
Fans speculate this is the real reason behind Vidal’s broken engagement

By: Staff Contributor
Published: 10:12 PM PST

Actress Rio Vidal (30) was spotted leaving upscale LA nightclub The Coven with none other than Agatha Harkness — daughter of powerhouse producer-director Evanora Harkness.

The two were seen exiting through a side entrance at 9:31 PM, with Vidal flashing her signature camera-ready smile and the young Harkness laughing beside her. While Rio tried to downplay the scene — telling paparazzi they were “just taking a break” from filming and promoting her upcoming project — the chemistry between the pair had onlookers buzzing.

One photographer shouted, “Did you have fun on your girls' night out?”
Agatha’s response? A casual, “We did!” — followed by a pointed grin and a playful gesture toward Vidal. Not exactly subtle.

This wouldn’t be the first time Vidal’s private life made public waves. But if this sighting means anything, it’s that someone’s moved on. The internet was quick to connect the dots, especially in light of Vidal’s very recent split from tech mogul Wade Wilson. The sudden engagement breakdown had no official reason — until now?

“She’s a hell of an actor,” Agatha joked, making it clear the two definitely have a good relationship with each other.

“They looked good together,” one anonymous onlooker shared. “Not in a work way — in a real way.”

This isn’t the young Harkness’s first brush with the spotlight — though she’s largely remained behind the scenes as part of her mother’s tightly managed orbit. But if this is her soft launch into the public eye, it’s anything but quiet.

Is it a new flame? A distraction? A scandal waiting to unfold?

“Like hell they think I’m going to soft launch my daughter like this.” Evanora snapped the words, venom tucked behind control. “At least Vidal has the decency to promote the film.”

That pulled Agatha’s attention sharply back to her mother.

Not the anger. Not the disgust. Not even the avoidance of Rio’s name — she was used to all that.

But the word soft launch.

The implication that she was a brand. A campaign. A calculated reveal gone wrong.

To an outsider — someone untrained, someone untouched by Evanora’s world — it might’ve sounded like protection. Concern. Maybe even maternal instinct.

But Agatha wasn’t someone else.

She was Evanora’s daughter. Born her daughter. Raised her daughter. She would die her daughter too — it was in her DNA. Pre-written. Inescapable.

She’d spent twenty-two years learning that Evanora didn’t mind a scandal — not if she was the one controlling it.

What her mother hated was losing control of the narrative.

And now, the narrative had a photo.

And a morbid implication.

That someone else — and worse, a woman — might be touching what she had shaped.

That Agatha might be into women.

Of course that’s what burned.

Agatha said, quiet but trying, “Publicity is still publicity.”

Rio’s words, echoing. Trying to reassure. To reframe.

She tried again.

“It was just a girls' night out,” she added. “There’s nothing going on. And you said yourself — she has potential, remember?”

She held her mother’s gaze. Let it land.

“I just wanted to do what’s best for me. Like you always taught me.”

A half-truth with double meaning. Palatable. Safe. Because Agatha knew that her “best” and Evanora’s “best” were two different languages spoken in the same house.

“Agatha.”

Too gentle.

That was always the sign. The quiet voice. The sudden softness that made your skin prickle.

Agatha didn’t answer.

“You know I only want the best for you, don’t you? Don’t you want to follow in my footsteps? Don’t you want success?”

“Yes, mama.”

it was the kind of thing her mother liked to hear — sounded obedient enough to ignore the heat behind it.

The grin that Agatha received was immediate. Familiar. Ugly.

Hook, line, sinker.

“When I was your age,” Evanora said, smoothing her blouse like she was brushing off dust, “I was already engaged to your father. You were born the next year.”

Always that story. 

Always that line. 

Always missing the part where he left.

“If you want to be successful, you know what your first step is. Don’t you?”

A script. A cue. A trap.

Agatha didn’t hesitate.

“Marriage.”

“Good girl.”

That wasn’t praise. That was control disguised as warmth. “You’re meant for this life. I’ve built it for you. You won’t ever have to worry about money. About anything. You just have to do what you’re told.”

Agatha nodded once.

But in her chest, something small and sharp twisted.

Because somewhere — maybe in that club, or that SUV, or in the warmth of Rio’s laugh echoing in her memory — she had tasted something else.

Not freedom, not fully.

But something dangerously close.

“Now go to bed,” Evanora said, brushing her palm once across the table, as if clearing Agatha off with the crumbs. “You’re still coming to set tomorrow. And I don’t want this happening again.”

Agatha stilled.

What exactly was “this”?

Going out?

Getting caught?

Rio?

She didn’t ask. She knew better than to ask.

Don’t poke the bear. Not tonight. Clarity was a trap — Evanora never gave it freely, and Agatha had learned not to ask for what would be used against her.

Instead, she nodded, eyes lowered.

But her mind raced.

She was thinking about that photo.

How did they get the photo inside the club?

Paparazzi couldn’t get inside The Coven. The whole point of that place was discretion. Velvet ropes and stone-faced bouncers. That meant someone on the inside leaked it.

And how did it land so fast in Evanora’s hand? Who handed it to her? A contact? A mole? A favor owed? Or worse — was someone blackmailing them?

Blackmailing who? To ruin whose life?

Her?

Rio?

No.

Don’t spiral. Not here. Not in front of her.

“Mama… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I won’t let it happen again.”

She bit the inside of her cheek and said that, soft and penitent.

Which was true.

She’d be more careful next time to never get caught like that again

Evanora exhaled sharply, then softened. A shift that felt less like comfort and more like a predator easing into patience.

“You better be,” she said. “Look, of course I understand you. You’re young. You need someone older, someone who can guide you.”

A breath exhaled., 

“But Rio isn’t that person, child. She can barely hold a relationship, let alone teach you how to manage one. You need stability. Someone proven.”

“Rio isn’t—” Agatha started, then caught herself.

Too fast. Too defensive.

She recalibrated, tilting her head just enough to feign agreement, and then carefully laid the next piece down.

“I was hoping she could teach me how to get close , at least. Especially with Ralph,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “They just have this… great chemistry. I figured I could learn from the best.”

There.

Not too eager.

Just strategic enough.

Let her mother believe she was still focused on the goal . On Ralph . Let her think Rio was just a stepping stone — a study, not a threat.

Because if she could sell that lie, she could survive tomorrow.

She could still stand next to Rio without setting off alarms.

Evanora was watching her. Searching her face. Measuring obedience against instinct. That landed well. Her mother’s expression didn’t change, but her silence softened.

Agatha didn’t flinch.

“She’s nothing more than a reference point,” Agatha added gently. “That’s all.”

“Good,” she said. “Then focus. Don’t get distracted. You’ve got one job, Agatha. And if you do it well, everything else will fall into place.”

Agatha smiled, a little too sweetly.

She let the words pass through her like smoke.

Because she wasn’t going to stop seeing Rio.

She was just going to stop getting caught .

Agatha knew she’d won the war — or at least this round of it. The battle wasn’t over. But for tonight, she’d carved out enough ground to stand on.

And really, she wasn’t sure why she’d pushed so hard about Rio. They’d just met yesterday.

It wasn’t personal.

Definitely not personal.

It was the principle — the same defiant streak she’d always had, the one her mother spent years trying to burn out of her. Agatha had never liked being told what she could or couldn’t do. This was no different.

Right?

Right.

So with Evanora seemingly willing to let it go — at least for now — dismissing her with a flick of the wrist like she always did. But Agatha could still feel the tremor beneath it all. This wasn’t over. Agatha didn’t waste a second. She excused herself, took the stairs two at a time, and made it halfway to her room before something stopped her. A sound. A voice.

Her mother’s voice.

Even in this house, this too-big, too-empty house, Evanora always found a way to fill the silence.

Agatha slowed. Just a little. Just enough to hear.

It wasn’t eavesdropping. It was a strategy.

Knowledge was power. And power was survival.

She pressed herself lightly against the wall just past the landing, heart steady.

Evanora’s voice floated upward, low but firm. Instructing her assistant to get Rio’s manager’s contact. Something about “the photo inside the club.” And then, casually — too casually — Evanora slipped.

“It came straight to my phone,” she muttered. “Unknown number. No message. Then blocked. Just the picture.”

Agatha stilled.

Well. That was… something.

Whoever sent it wasn’t one of Evanora’s usual flies-on-the-wall. That alone was a relief — Agatha had half-wondered if her mother had been the one keeping tabs. Wouldn’t be the first time.

But this?

This rattled her. Because Evanora hated being surprised — hated being vulnerable. And this, this was both. 

Whoever sent that photo wanted it to land like a weapon — no follow-up, no trail, just the damage. Which meant someone was playing a bigger game. And Agatha didn’t like not knowing the rules.

Still.

The night was quiet again. Evanora’s voice had faded. The stairs creaked once under Agatha’s heel, and then she moved.

No time to spiral. Not now. Not here. Her heart rattled behind her ribs.

At least now she knew two things:

1) The threat wasn’t coming from inside the house.

2) She needed to move smarter next time.

Because tomorrow was another chance.

And she wouldn’t waste it.

Chapter Text

It felt like seeing her for the first time again.

Except this time, it had the distinct flavor of the morning after — and not in the fun, flirtatious way. It was the kind that tasted like dread. Like damage control.

They were side by side, again. And yet, not together.

Just… there.

Standing and pretending the world wasn’t on fire.

Technically, they weren’t alone. The lot buzzed with crew members and extras and grips pulling cables. But the air between them was still. Too still. All that noise around them, and somehow it still felt deafeningly quiet. Rio and Agatha might as well have been standing alone on a stage, with a spotlight burning straight through them.

Like they were waiting for a verdict.

Like two anxious kids while the grown-ups talked.

Lilia had marched straight into Evanora’s trailer the moment they arrived — a trailer that looked more like a war room than a place to relax. Of course Evanora had a trailer. Of course she did. The producer always had a base of operations. A throne.

And she was in there now, talking. No — scheming. Strategizing. Rio didn’t need to hear the words to know what they were discussing.

So that left Rio and Agatha outside. Together.

And in a very, very not-together way.

Rio shifted her weight, arms crossed tight across her chest. The silence was unbearable. Rio had never done well with this kind of silence.

Tense. 

Borderline radioactive.

She cracked first.

“I almost chewed my phone to pieces when I saw the photo.”

The words came out dry. Not exactly a joke. Not exactly not. 

Definitely not her smoothest line.

Agatha didn’t laugh. She didn’t even look her way.

“So it was sent to you too?” Her voice was calm, flat, like she was trying not to show that it mattered.

Still facing forward, eyes on some distant point past the crew trucks. Rio matched the posture — neither of them daring to turn fully toward the other.

“Yeah. Just popped up,” Rio said. “No name. No warning. Just… here. Deal with this.”

Agatha nodded slightly, just once. The gesture said everything.

Same.

Agatha exhaled, slow. “We weren’t even doing anything.”

“No one cares about facts,” Rio murmured. “They care about images. And right now, we’re a headline.”

A pause. Not a long one, but long enough to feel like a decision.

Then Agatha finally responded.

“Rio, who do you think took that photo?”

That made Rio turn — not all the way, just enough to let her eyes skim the edge of Agatha’s face.

“I’ve been trying to figure that out since last night.”

Neither of them said it, but they were both thinking the same thing.

The photo wasn’t from the paparazzi.

It was taken inside.

Too clean. Too close.

Too... intentional.

“You didn’t tell me about a businessman.”

The words sliced through the silence. On cue, they both turned, brown eyes locking with blue. There was an edge in Agatha’s voice — accusation, maybe. But something else too. Something softer, buried underneath.

“What man?” Rio asked, frowning.

“You know what man. Don’t make me say it.”

Silence again. it wasn’t comfortable — it pulsed between them, loaded and hot.

Rio’s face changed — like a delayed reaction finally caught up to her heartbeat.

“Wait. Do you think—?”

She stopped, dragged her hands down her face. “No. No, I don’t know. I didn’t even see him there. I didn’t think he was—”

“Who?” Agatha asked. Her voice was low. Curious, not jealous. Not yet.

Rio shook her head. “He’s someone I used to know. Well—he wanted something. I didn’t give it to him. And he… doesn’t handle rejection well.”

“Oh my god. I swear—if it’s him—” Rio groaned, rubbing at her temples, pacing in place like she was walking off panic.

Agatha watched her with something like awe. Or amusement. A flash of surprise. Like she was seeing Rio for the first time, and hadn’t expected this version of her.

Rio finally stilled, her hands falling to her sides. “Thanos,” she muttered. “He’s this businessman. Rich, persistent. Creepy, if I’m honest. He’s been trying to get close to me and won’t take no for an answer.”

Agatha’s expression shifted — not softer, just… stiller. Like she was tucking something away, filing it under Important.

“Do you think it was him?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Rio admitted, her voice quieter now. “But it makes the most sense, doesn’t it?”

She paused. Then added, more to herself than to Agatha, “It could be him…”

Her mind spiraled. Fragments of memory flickered — like a film reel out of sync. Faces at the bar, shadows moving, someone bumping into her, a phone in someone’s hand.

Who saw?

Who watched?

Why did it suddenly feel like she was in danger?

Maybe it was the fact that the producer’s daughter was standing this close to her and any of this — all of this — could go so badly, so fast.

But deep down, Rio didn’t know why the panic felt this sharp. Why it felt personal. Like something had been on the verge of becoming real — and now it was slipping through her fingers.

No. No. Definitely just the job. The work. The risk.

She ran a hand through her hair, jaw tense. “God, I could lose everything. My job, the film—Lilia is probably in there right now trying to do damage control with your mother. And we’re not even halfway through shooting. One month, Agatha. One.”

It all mattered too much. Too quickly. It scared her.

Her job meant everything — her responsibility, her anchor. And now it was all crashing, fast, because of someone she barely knew. Someone who—

A sudden brush of fingers was felt at her wrist. Not accidental. Barely even a touch — more like a suggestion of one. Her skin lit up all the same.

Rio stayed still. Turning to glance, just slightly, like looking might make it real.

It tingled.

It messed with her head.

“What?” Rio said, blinking like she could shake the sensation off.

Agatha played it cool. Like she wasn’t doing anything at all.

“We had fun at least,” Agatha said, and smiled — that smile like she knows something you don’t.

God, she was smart with her words. Too smart. Rio could hardly blame her. It takes two, after all.

“And for the record,” Agatha added, eyes gleaming, “I didn’t throw you under the bus. I saved your ass.”

Rio stared. “How?”

Agatha shrugged, faux-casual. “She thought you were trying to get something out of her — using me. I told her I was the one who made the move to invite you out. Which is technically true. Or what not.”

Rio’s breath caught. “You told her that?”

Agatha’s smile curled slowly — sly and secretive. “Mhm. And I also didn’t tell her you were just trying to earn my forgiveness.”

Rio blinked. And now she didn’t know what stunned her more — the lie or the truth inside it.

Or the fact that her chest felt like it was splitting open from the inside out, like something sharp and soft had lodged between her ribs.

She didn’t speak right away. Couldn’t. Something about what Agatha had just admitted — and not admitted — hit harder than she wanted it to.

Agatha let out a soft breath, almost like she regretted saying anything at all. Her smile tilted, just barely. “I don’t… do that with her,” she said, voice distant now. “I don’t correct her. I don’t confess things she can use against me later.”

Rio was still staring. “Why did you?”

“I don’t know,” Agatha said lightly. But they both knew that wasn’t true.

And Rio — standing there with a palm still buzzing from where Agatha’s fingers had ghosted her wrist moments ago — felt something heavy settle in her gut. Not regret. Something worse.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said quietly.

Agatha looked at her. Really looked. “I know.”

And for a second, just one suspended second, they stood there — like something real had finally formed between them, and neither of them dared to touch it.

Click.

The sharp, jarring noise of a door or a shoe or a clipboard or God — who even knew — broke the moment clean in half. They jumped apart like guilty teenagers, retreating into neutral distance. Five feet minimum. Rio suddenly found herself fascinated by a nearby potted tree that she was pretty sure was fake. Agatha examined the ground like it might open and swallow her whole.

Enter Lilia Calderu — manager, fixer, frontline defender of Rio’s career. She strode over with purpose — tablet in hand, headset askew, already two texts ahead of the current problem. Her eyes found Agatha for half a second — polite, unreadable — before settling on Rio with the focus of a woman who hadn’t slept and wouldn’t need to if it meant saving face.

“We’ve contained it,” Lilia said. Her tone was low, brisk. “The photo’s off a few gossip sites. Your name wasn’t tagged. For now.”

Rio opened her mouth.

Lilia cut her off, gentle but firm.

“That was luck, not a win,” she said. “And until we know who was in that club with a camera — no more one-on-one with her.”

She nodded toward Agatha like she wasn’t standing just a few feet away. Like she was a name on a spreadsheet, not a person.

“No side doors. No cozy corners. No second chances for someone else to blow this up.”

Agatha’s head turned at that, jaw tightening. Rio felt the flicker of heat rise in her neck.

Lilia’s tone dipped lower. “Miss Harkness is in a generous mood, apparently. Let’s not tempt her to snap out of it.”

Rio nodded, pulse thudding in her throat. “Got it.”

Lilia exhaled. “Good.”

Then, as if it had just occurred to her, she turned toward Agatha. Really looked at her.

“You ought to be careful, child. I have a feeling this is only the beginning.”

Agatha’s body went still.

There it was.

Child.

The word always came laced with ownership when Evanora used it — sugar laced with venom.

Hearing it now, from a stranger technically, sparked something sharp and sour in her gut.

“Right,” Agatha said, too flat. “Thanks for the horoscope. Now maybe go back to managing your own starlet.”

(Or in other words — "Mind your fucking business.")

“You are part of my business now,” Lilia replied, unbothered. “That happened the moment you stepped into Rio’s orbit.”

For a moment, the space between all three of them stretched tight.

Agatha said nothing.

Lilia’s gaze didn’t waver.

Rio stood there, caught between them, suddenly unsure whose silence felt heavier.

“It won’t happen again,” Agatha said, almost too softly.

She didn’t look at anyone when she said it. She just meant it — or maybe didn’t.

Even she didn’t seem sure.

And yet it hit Rio like a slap.

It won’t happen again.

Her brain snagged on the phrasing, looping it without clarity.

Did she mean… the bar?

Or…them?

Whatever “them” even was?

Before she could ask, before she could even breathe a follow-up— Lilia spoke again. Not sharp. Not even sarcastic. Just confident — like she’d already seen how the next chapter played out.

“I doubt that.”

Agatha turned toward her, bristling. “Excuse me?”

Lilia only tilted her head, the faintest smile playing at her lips. “You don’t have to believe me. Doesn’t change a thing.”

Agatha opened her mouth, then closed it. Her hands twitched — small, controlled, like she didn’t trust what they’d do if she let them speak first.

And Rio?

She stood there with that stupid sentence still ringing in her head.

It won’t happen again.

But Lilia was right.

Rio doubted that, too.

The moment dissipated as Lilia turned, saying something about needing to grab a call or a file — neither woman really caught it. It didn’t matter.

Because now it was just them again.

And the silence she left behind?

Not comfortable.

But not empty, either.

Agatha didn’t look over right away. When she did, it was casual on the surface — a flick of her eyes, a tilt of her head. “She’s good at her job.”

Rio’s arms were crossed again, more for protection than defiance. “Too good,” she muttered, her gaze still fixed on the sad, overly glossy plant by the wall.

Agatha followed her line of sight. “Is that thing even real?

“No clue,” Rio said, soft. “But it doesn’t look back when you stare at it.”

That earned a tiny twitch of Agatha’s mouth. Not quite a smile. “Yeah. Probably fake, then. That tracks.”

Her voice dropped. “Nothing real these days.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.  She tried to say it like a joke, but her voice was too bitter for it to land like one.

Rio’s eyes snapped back to hers. Steady. Searing. “Do you regret it?”

It caught Agatha by the throat.

Like a rope tightening, cruel and invisible.

She blinked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Deflect. Deflect.

Just brush it off.

Rio didn’t let her. “What else did you tell her?”

Agatha tensed.

Rio went on, quiet but cutting. “I know telling your mother it was your idea about last night would have not been enough. What else did you say?”

“You don’t know her.”

Agatha didn’t mean for it to come out so hard. But it did.

Rio didn’t press. Not at first. Just stood there, too still.

“I first met your mother six years ago.” Her voice was even. “And I’ve seen and heard enough since then to know a thing or two about her.”

“You don’t,” Agatha snapped.

“You don’t know, stop pretending.”

Agatha’s voice broke at the edges. She looked away, embarrassed by the crack in her voice — until Rio stepped forward.

She should’ve felt grateful that Rio was trying to understand. 

But somehow, it didn’t feel like understanding.

Like being seen too clearly in a mirror she never asked to stand in front of.

Maybe there was something wrong with Agatha in a molecular level. Something unclean and clawed off any goodness that she could absorbed.

And then it happened.

Rio’s hand moved — sudden, gentle — and brushed under Agatha’s eye.

Moisture.

Not sweat.

A tear.

Agatha froze.

God.

Her lips parted — maybe to speak, maybe just to breathe —

But Rio was already there again, wiping away the second.

No theatrics.

No pity.

Just that same unbearable kindness.

And maybe that was worse.

Rio’s hand hovered for a beat longer, then stilled.

“You’re vulnerable,” she said softly.

Agatha let out a breath that was almost a laugh.

“Only physically,” she snapped — quick, biting — the fire clawing its way back into her voice, even though her eyes were the color of a storm rolling in off the ocean.

Blue, distant, wet.

Rio didn’t flinch. Her voice was steady

“Te veo.”

Agatha froze. That one did something to her again.

She didn’t want it to.

She turned before she could be read again, brushing past Rio as she walked away — shoulder to shoulder, but just one second too long for it to be meaningless.

Maybe all of this was a sign that Agatha's world really was currently going through a recession.

Chapter Text

Life goes on.

Of course it does. Time doesn’t stop just because you want it to.

Time doesn’t ask if you’re ready.

So here they are again.

Agatha behind the monitor.

Her mother just a breath behind her, watching everything with that quiet, calculated stillness she wore like a second skin.

And in front of them?

Rio.

Well—no. Not Rio.

It’s Christine.

Christine, whose name sounds dangerously close to Christina, which happens to be Rio’s middle name.

No. No, no. Focus, Agatha. That’s Christine.

That is Christine, currently kissing Kenan.

Not Rio. Not Ralph.

Characters.

She repeated that to herself like a line from a prayer.

Like a lifeline.

Christine and Kenan.

Not Rio and Ralph.

It’s a scene. That’s all it is.

A well-lit, overly rehearsed, soul-sanitized scene.

Agatha found herself weirdly impressed by how well she was functioning, considering everything.

Considering last night.

Considering this morning.

Considering the way her chest still hadn’t fully unclenched.

She didn’t think watching up close would feel this strange. In school, when she used to do theatre, she never thought about the audience watching her kiss someone on stage.

But this—

This was different.

She tried to watch like a professional. Detached. Analytical.

This was acting, after all. She should admire the craft.

And there was something mesmerizing about it.

The way cameras swept past faces, the way intimacy was mapped, measured, lit.

Kissing on cue. 

Passion made choreographed.

Manufactured chemistry made to look like love.

That’s the magic of filming, wasn’t it?

Make it look real enough to make people ache.

Real enough to hurt.

Her eyes drifted—on purpose this time—toward Lilia.

The manager stood at a distance, arms folded, face unreadable. Watching everything.

They locked eyes for just a second.

Agatha smiled. Not warmly.

But Lilia returned it, passively, with her eyes alone.

Of course. She saw everything.

Agatha looked down at the script again.

She wondered—quietly, bitterly—if she could use her position to shift the direction. Push for a change.

But as long as her mother was here—living, breathing, and painfully alive—Agatha would always be second.

Her ideas, her instincts, her vision… it would all go through Evanora.

And Evanora’s word was final.

Agatha didn’t sigh.

Didn’t speak.

Just stood still and watched Rio—no, Christine—kiss someone who wasn’t her, in a scene that wasn’t real, in a world Agatha wasn’t allowed to shape.

And maybe that was what stung the most.

Not the kiss.

But the powerlessness.

The way she could be so close to something, and still have no say in how it played out.

Evanora called cut.

People clapped. Someone reset a light.

Agatha blinked.

Then looked away.

Somewhere inside, something small folded up and quietly died.

She didn’t even notice it at first.

The taste in her mouth. Sharp. Metallic. Faintly bitter.

It was only when Lilia appeared beside her—first speaking low to Evanora, then stepping closer to Agatha herself—that she noticed the handkerchief.

Agatha stared at it like it was a threat.

Her first instinct was suspicion.

Then anger.

The urge to recoil was sharp.

What do you want from me? Why are you watching me?

But then Lilia said, almost offhandedly, “Your lip.”

Agatha frowned.

Lifted her fingers.

Wet. Warm.

Not gloss.

Not smudge.

Blood.

She’d bitten too hard.

Didn’t even notice the sting until now.

She must’ve bitten down. Too hard. Too long.

The same way she always did when she couldn’t afford to speak.

A flush rose in her neck, not of embarrassment but something closer to grief.

Grief for the part of herself she keeps chewing on just to stay quiet.

She just took the handkerchief with a numb kind of grace.

Didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t have to.

“Careful,” Lilia said softly, barely above the hush of the set. “You don’t want to give her the satisfaction.”

Agatha didn’t ask who she meant.

She already knew.

Because whatever this was—whatever it looked like—Lilia had seen through it.

Seen through her.

And maybe that’s what stung more than the bite on her lip.

The taste of metal stayed in her mouth, bitter and grounding.

She glanced at the fingertips she’d pressed there. The red smear caught the light in a strange, haunting way.

Almost pretty.

Almost.

She dabbed it across her lips in one slow sweep, smearing it like lipstick. Like a mark.

Then used the handkerchief Lilia handed her to wipe off the stain on her fingertips.

Just a swipe. A little war paint.

By now, the scene had shifted—lunch break had been called. Chairs unfolded. Scripts dropped. Crew members clustered around coolers and gossip.

Agatha stayed close to her mother like a prop nobody knew what to do with.

She fluttered her lashes at Ralph the way she’d seen girls in old movies do when they wanted something. She didn’t want anything, but still — it was good to know she could.

Across the clearing, Rio looked at her.

Agatha didn’t blink.

Didn’t smile.

Agatha looked away first.

Walked right into a conversation with two crew guys about lighting rigs and how funny the fog machine had been this morning.

Laughed like she meant it.

Then Evanora’s voice rang out, perfectly timed.

“Ralph, come join us for a minute.”

And just like that, it was time. 

Showtime.

Ralph strolled over with that easy, sleazy swagger that came with being overpaid and overpraised.

“I see that you had a great night with Rio,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth. His eyebrow quirked.

Agatha didn’t miss how fast Evanora turned her head, like she was scrambling for a response that would do three things at once.

Protect the brand, sell the image, and keep Agatha small.

But Agatha was faster.

“Girls’ night,” she said airily, brushing imaginary lint off her shoulder. “We’re too young to be so boring.” She giggled—sharp and fake—like some high school girl with a crush on her teacher.

She grinned — teeth and everything — and it felt like lighting a match behind her molars.

Evanora jumped in with practiced ease.

“You know how girls can be. Talking about boys all the time.”

“Oh yeah?” Ralph leaned in, arms crossed, head tilted. “You got a boyfriend?”

Evanora inhaled like she was about to pitch her.

“Agatha’s single, never da—”

“My ex-boyfriend was in a band,” Agatha interrupted, tone breezy. “He played guitar while I sang Lou Reed.”

She smiled sweetly. Didn’t even look at her mother.

Ralph let out a bark of a laugh, clearly picturing her barefoot in some garage, lips red, voice low, probably swaying to Pale Blue Eyes like she meant it.

Charmed, of course.

Evanora, though, froze for just a beat—too long to go unnoticed—then nodded slowly, as if the memory had always belonged to her.

Agatha sipped the moment.

Technically not a lie.

Technically a middle finger.

She could still taste the dried blood on her lip.

Good.

Then Evanora’s focus snapped elsewhere—phones, walkies, decisions to make. The life of a producer: always orchestrating, never lingering.

Which left Agatha alone with Ralph.

“Well,” he said, stepping a little closer, “I’m sure you were a fun girl to be with.”

Agatha tilted her head, feigning offense so perfectly it almost shimmered.

“The past tense?” she echoed. “That’s bold of you.”

And then—just to twist the knife—she smiled again, slower this time.

“I am still a fun girl to be with.”

It landed well. Anyone could tell.

That’s how good Agatha could be.

Soft like sugar. Sharp like glass.

So sweet, with a mean streak.

Ralph laughed, just loud enough for the nearby sound tech to look up.

“I’ll have to test that theory sometime,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—big man, big schedule.”

“Of course you do,” Agatha murmured, syrupy, professional. She even tilted her head just slightly—an angle that flattered him more than it flattered her.

Then, because she could, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

It worked.

He beamed, audacity doubled, and leaned in to press an air kiss to her cheek.

Not unusual in this industry, not inappropriate. But it wasn’t casual either.

He hadn’t done that to anyone else—well, except Rio.

Not that Agatha noticed.

Except she did.

Of course she did.

He moved on, calling for coffee or someone to fix the damn lens—whatever power looked like in motion.

Agatha stayed behind, perfectly still. A studied stillness. The kind that takes effort to hold in your spine.

The lights above buzzed. A gaffer passed behind her with a coil of cable slung across his shoulders. Someone yelled “Ten-minute warning” to no one in particular.

She turned, not consciously, more like instinct.

And there—there she was.

Rio.

Leaning against a C-stand. Headset looped lazily around her wrist. Arms crossed. Her face unreadable in the backlight—but still. Unmistakably still.

Watching.

Agatha smiled. That slow, deliberate kind.

Like a promise.

Like a dare.

Like "we’re still doing this, right?"

But Rio didn’t smile back. Didn’t tilt her head. Didn’t lift a brow.

She clicked her heel once— sharp —against the floor. Then turned and walked off, back toward the trailers. 

No “Te veo.”

Not even a glance.

Agatha blinked.

Like the plot had just changed on set and no one told her.

Had she misplayed? Overplayed? Lost the thread?

Was she really that girl now—the one whose only guaranteed witness in life was her mother, the woman who made sure every camera pointed in the wrong direction?

Behind her, a sound tech clipped a belt mic too hard— clack —and the sharpness startled her more than it should’ve.

Her lip throbbed. She tasted metal.

She didn’t even remember biting down.

"Was that it?"

"Am I that easy to walk away from?"

But she didn’t let it linger.

She didn’t dare.

Just blinked, straightened her shoulders, and walked back toward her mother—who was now holding a phone between her shoulder and ear while flipping through call sheets, surrounded by people throwing around words like budget overage and line items.

And that’s when something twisted in Agatha’s gut.

Not metaphorically.

Viscerally.

Like something was wrong. Wrong in the way you feel before you know.

Then she heard someone asking for water. For a plastic bag.

Agatha didn’t wait. She moved fast. Faster than anyone expected.

She cut through two grips, rounded a lighting rig, and nearly crashed into a redhead girl crouched on the ground next to someone—

A minor supporting actress. Her name — something magical — fairy wand? No. Wanda Maximoff. Wanda. That was her name. Agatha had checked her profile before. A few years younger.

That didn’t matter now.

Because there, crouched low, was Rio.

Spitting into a plastic bag. Breathing shallow.

Wanda was patting her back, wide-eyed and useless.

Agatha dropped to her knees beside them.

“What the hell happened?” Agatha asked, more sharply than intended.

“I—I don’t know,” Wanda stammered. “Miss Vidal just said she felt like she was gonna—”

“I’m fine,” Rio cut in, not looking at either of them. She rinsed her mouth with water. Spit it out again. Sat back on her heels. The bottle shook slightly in her hand.

“Where’s Li—your manager?”

“She’s busy,” Rio said. Her voice was steadier now, rinsed clean of nausea but not of mood. “Like everyone else.”

Rio straightened slowly. Looked Agatha dead in the eyes.

And Agatha saw it.

Not exhaustion.

Not food poisoning.

Something else.

A secret third option.

Something twisted.

Something familiar.

Jealousy.

It licked through the space between them, hot and unmistakable.

And just like that, everything clicked.

“You’ve done enough,” Agatha said, eyes locked back on Wanda. “Thank you, Wanda.”

She reached for Rio’s arm without looking. Gentle, but firm.

“I can stay,” Wanda offered, hesitant. “If you need—”

“You're such a good girl, aren't you?” Agatha said, voice syrupy and sharp all at once. “It’s fine really. I’m free.”

She watched how easily Wanda nodded. How the girl just stepped back, obedient, trusting. 

"Words", Agatha thought. “God, they’re so easy when you say them right.”

Then— ouch.

Something slammed down her foot with enough force that Agatha nearly jumped.

Agatha shot a glare sideways.

Rio.

Expression blank.

Tongue tucked into her cheek, like she was suppressing a laugh. Or a murder.

Intoxicating.

Agatha bit down a grin.

A game. This she could play.

Her eyes flicked around. Her weapon— Wanda—was already a few steps away, talking to some lighting tech Agatha didn’t care enough to identify.

“Wanda!” she called sweetly, like a bell with an agenda.

The redhead stopped mid-step, back straightening like she’d just been summoned by the principal.

“I liked your scene,” Agatha said, voice sugarcoated. “You’ve got potential.”

Wanda beamed. Not politely—genuinely. That soft, heart-swelling kind of smile that made Agatha’s stomach twist.

Because it was real.

Because it was because of her.

With a flick of her fingers, she dismissed the girl like a magician ending a trick.

And then— yank.

Not enough to hurt. Just enough to ruin her posture and her day in the best way.

Agatha let out the quietest gasp of disbelief, spinning halfway—only to find Rio right there.

Close enough to smell like peppermint tea and poor decisions.

Her hand still in Agatha’s hair.

Her voice was low.

Flat.

Dangerous.

“Do you enjoy violence?”

Agatha blinked.

Did she actually—

Did Rio Vidal just yank her hair like they were in some bootleg reboot of Mean Girls?

She might’ve laughed—if it weren’t so hot.

She should’ve been offended.

Instead, she smiled.

Just a little.

Feral, delighted, just shy of dangerous.

Like someone who’d just been handed her favorite poison.

“I don’t know,” Agatha murmured, teeth glinting. “You tell me.”

Rio didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, maddeningly calm, like she hadn’t just committed a low-grade assault in full view of God and the lighting crew. Agatha could feel the looks. Background actors pretending not to look. A grip muttering something about a stand-in. The buzz of fluorescent lights and someone shouting "Last looks!" in the distance. Then Rio’s gaze darted around, subtle but sharp, like she was mapping exits or calculating damage. Agatha followed the glance, heart ticking faster. Gods—this felt like sneaking around in high school again. That same reckless thrill in her lungs.

Not that she was old, she was twenty-two, thank you, but still. This was the kind of chaos that made her feel young.

Alive.

It felt like being sixteen again and catching feelings at a detention slip.

“Not even an apology?” Agatha tsked, eyes half-lidded, voice syrupy and mean. “Damn. You’re quite rude.”

Her pupils were blown.

Her smirk was pure trouble.

Rio tilted her head. No smile. Just that glint in her eyes like she was two seconds from becoming the problem. 

“What? Was I being mean?” Agatha cooed, too soft to be safe.

“You’re not mean,” Rio said, slow, deliberate. “You just want to be seen. Born to be wild.”

Oh.

So she wanted to play.

Agatha nearly clapped. Cute. She needed to step up—

“Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?”

That did it. Agatha’s mind snapped back to last night. The bar. The weight of Rio’s gaze like gravity was optional.

“Pretty sure you’re not a cat, Miss Vidal.”

Checkmate.

Rio didn’t blink. Just pressed her lips into a flat, unreadable line—like she was trying to decide whether to kiss Agatha or commit tax fraud in her name.

Then—

“Meow.”

What the fuck.

Agatha lost it.

She blinked. Stared. Made the unmistakable mistake of picturing Rio actually meowing again.

A short, stunned silence, then a laugh ripped out of her throat, loud and involuntary. She turned around fast, like she needed to physically put space between them like putting herself in time-out or she’d combust.

One hand to her face, the other on her hip. Snorting. Actually snorting.

Agatha looked like someone who’d just been hit by a car and thanked it for the attention.

“Jesus Christ,” she breathed, eyes wide, lips parted, “what the hell is wrong with you?”

Behind her, Rio shrugged, all calm and casual, like she hadn’t just committed emotional whiplash in broad daylight.

“Guess we bring it out in each other.”

Agatha exhaled hard—half-laugh, half-wheeze—like the wind had just been knocked out of her by something ridiculous and intimate.

“I hate you,” she managed, wiping her eyes, voice still caught between a grin and a sigh. “Like so much, I hate you so much.”

Rio’s mouth twitched. Then—finally—a laugh.

A low one, lazy and warm, head tilting back slightly. She dragged a hand down her face, like maybe if she didn’t, she’d smile too big.

As if this—whatever this was—was too absurd to be allowed.

No one had ever said they hated her like that. With a laugh. With that look in their eyes.

Of course it had to be Agatha.

And god, she liked the way it sounded coming from her.

They stood there a second — still catching their breath, something lighter hanging between them now, but no less charged.

Then Agatha winked, turned and walked off like she was floating.

Confident, unbothered.

Like she knew the magnetic field would shift.

Like she already knew Rio would follow.

Rio held out for a whole two seconds.

Then followed in silence, like nothing had happened. But they both knew something had.

What was wrong with her?

She didn’t even ask where they were going. She already knew.

And Agatha—like she owned the pavement, the air, the moment—strode right to the trailer like it had always been hers.

Worse— It felt like it had always been hers.

They stopped outside the trailer.

Looked at each other for one breath or two.

Then Rio—God help her—opened the door.

And Agatha stepped inside like gravity had been waiting for this.

The door shut behind them.

The circle of life and death had begun.

“That’s Lilia’s,” Rio said, voice cutting clean as a knife. Her eyes landed on the edge of fabric poking from Agatha’s pocket. The embroidery gave it away.

Agatha blinked. She hadn’t meant to keep it. Just stuffed it there when no one was looking.

She was either impressed or terrified—maybe both—at how sharp Rio’s vision was.

“For the record, I didn’t steal it,” Agatha said lightly. “She handed it to me. Technically.”

She eased into the sofa, only after Rio nodded—like she needed permission. Like they were still pretending this was normal.

Rio stepped closer. Hand outstretched. “You can give it to me. I’ll return it.”

“Sorry. I can’t.”

Arms crossed now. Agatha leaned back, defiant and almost amused.

“And why is that, sweetheart?”

This darling of a woman.

This woman had so much patience Agatha almost wanted to ask for her therapist’s number—or her dealer.

“It's dirty,” she said, reaching into her pocket. “I’ll clean it before I return it.” Agatha pulled the handkerchief out, unfolding it slowly.

A red smear sat in the middle like something spoiled.

Like evidence.

“What’s that?” Rio asked, voice cooling.

“Oh, I painted while watching you guys, Rio!” Agatha replied far too fast, far too cheerfully.

Then, without skipping a beat, she continued.

“Obviously, it’s my organic self-produced lip stain.”

She pointed to her mouth, grinning like the world’s most dangerous Girl Scout.

Smug. Dangerous. A little insane

Rio inhaled. Long. Deep.

“And what does it taste like?”

“I’ll tell you,” Agatha murmured. “Come closer.”

An invitation.

To something dangerous.

Something that felt like the end of one thing and the start of another.

Rio stepped closer.

Agatha rose.

They were three feet apart now.

Barely enough space for a heartbeat.

Rio’s gaze dipped to her lips. Still red. Still questionable.

It had to be lipstick… right?

But Agatha had said organic.

Flowers? Maybe.

But self-produced?

There’s no way she could grow flowers out of her hands.

…Right?

No.

No way she could mean—

Oh.

“You’re a smart girl,” Agatha whispered. “I’m sure you’ve figured it out.”

She pressed her lips together. Winced slightly. Like it still stung.

Rio’s hand came up, almost automatic. Her thumb traced the corner of Agatha’s mouth.

Soft. Careful.

Too careful.

Agatha gasped.

Sharply. Softly.

And she might’ve said something.

Might’ve protested.

Might’ve pulled away—

But she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

Not when, all at once—

Rio leaned in.

And kissed her.

Chapter Text

Had you ever held something so gentle, so soft, that it physically hurt? Too pure to touch, too sharp to ignore.

The kind that bled through your layers — made you unsure whether to push or pull, or simply let it be, let it exist, simply exist? 

Agatha was having that dilemma now.

With those lips against hers.

Just a press — nothing rude, nothing greedy.

Only a brush of warmth before Rio pulled away.

And Agatha exhaled like she’d finally found oxygen — like she had been drowning until now, until her.

Rio, meanwhile, was searching Agatha’s face.

Her heart pounded in her chest — the kind of rhythm she remembered hearing in the bleachers during her high school’s marching band performances.

Then Agatha finally spoke.

“It’s fake, isn’t it?”

The words knocked something loose in Rio’s chest.

She blinked — confused, unsure whether to apologize. She didn’t even know what Agatha meant.

What’s fake? The kiss?

Her hands moved gently to Agatha’s face, almost instinctively.

And Agatha — God, Agatha was mesmerized.

She felt like she was having an out-of-body experience, like she was watching herself from across the room, too stunned to speak.

So she did the only thing she could.

She pushed Rio away.

Not violently.

Just enough to make space.

A buffer between them. A breath.

Because she needed air.

Even if Rio was the only thing that had ever made her feel like she could breathe.

“Sorry—”

Agatha cut her off.

As quick as her lips found Rio’s, she didn’t think—only felt.

A pulse of something violent, electric.

There was so much Rio could be sorry for.

For existing in her life. For looking at her like that. For those big brown eyes that made her feel seen, loved—

More than anyone else ever had, in so little time.

It was her fault.

It was all her fault.

The kiss was rough.

Agatha’s hands cradled Rio’s face, and she practically melted when the older woman parted her lips.

Perfect.

Too perfect.

Tongue. Teeth. Fire.

If someone had told her at seventeen that five years later she’d be kissing a woman she barely knew, she would’ve believed it. That tracked. But letting the other person make the first move? Letting herself need it?

No. Never.

She’d have called them a liar.

She bit Rio’s lip, and Rio didn’t stop her.

The metallic tang wasn’t hers this time.

Didn’t matter.

Agatha tasted it anyway, her tongue gliding over the sting like an apology she didn’t dare say out loud.

Her hands slid down, found Rio’s waist.

Gripped.

Steadied.

Anchored.

And then—

Gone.

They broke apart fast, breathless, like they’d been caught doing something unspeakable. Not wrong. Just… too honest.

Agatha staggered back a step. Rio stayed frozen, eyes locked, chest rising and falling like she’d run a mile.

It was Rio who broke the silence first.

“Come in!” she called out, voice almost too loud.

Agatha turned, blinking like she’d just woken up in someone else’s body. She scanned the trailer, hyper-aware of the space now that it had been filled with that.

The door creaked open.

Wanda.

Of course it was Wanda.

“Sorry,” the girl said, polite and awkward. “Mr. Bohner wants to know if the cast would like to eat together.”

Agatha's gaze snapped to her. Wanda’s eyes darted between the two women—clocking the silence, the tension, the flushed cheeks—and did her best not to react.

“Thanks,” Rio said evenly. “I’ll be there.”

Agatha muttered something under her breath—something that could’ve been “Sure you will”, or maybe just an annoyed exhale disguised as language.

“Run along now, dear,” she added more audibly, giving Wanda a sweet but practiced smile as she stepped forward and gently nudged the girl out. Wanda nodded, clearly relieved to escape, and left.

The door shut with a click.

Agatha turned back around, arms folded like she’d never been caught doing anything softer than murder.

“What’s he doing now?” she scoffed. “Trying to build team spirit with a fruit platter and some forced laughter?”

Rio leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her.

“It’s called bonding,” she said. “People do it. On sets. In life.”

Agatha gave a dry, dramatic hum. “Sounds fake, but okay.”

Rio’s lips twitched. “Oh come on. It’s not like I’m the one batting my lashes at him.”

Agatha gasped, clutching her chest like Rio had just shot her in broad daylight.

“How dare you,” she said, tongue clicking, eyes wide with wounded offense. “It’s not like you have a mother parading you around like bait for some man twice your age!”

“You’re right.”

Rio said it flatly.

“Because mine’s dead.”

Rio said it casually. Too casually. Like she was dropping a grenade in the middle of the room just to see what Agatha would do with the smoke.

Agatha raised a finger. “Okay, but—”

Rio facepalmed. Hard.

Then sighed.

Then nodded.

“Go ahead.”

“No, you’re being unfair to me now,” Agatha huffed, spinning around with all the drama of a theatre major turned heiress, arms crossed, back now facing Rio like she was sulking.

“What a cute baby”, Rio thought.

”Whoa. That’s insane. Who said that?”

She blinked.

“Was that my own mind saying that?”

Rio glanced around like she expected to find someone else responsible. Nope. Just her. Just her and this goddamn siren. Rio shook her head. Whatever. No time to interrogate the committee in her brain right now. Agatha was a deadly creature. Case closed. She stepped forward, gaze catching on Agatha’s figure.

Her hair looked soft. Her fingers twitched—not from hesitation, but from instinct, like they just needed to touch her again.

Gently, Rio reached up, letting her hand crawl up the length of Agatha’s hair, fingers brushing light as breath, weaving through the dark strands, not yanking like earlier—just touching.

A peace offering.

Agatha exhaled. Quiet. Like the kind of sound that meant surrender.

She turned to face her.

“Let’s go?” she asked.

Rio's mind flashed to the first time they met in this trailer—Agatha saying the same words with smug certainty, like it wasn’t a request. But this time, it sounded different. Like a check-in. Like we do this together, or we don’t do it at all.

She nodded.

And Agatha—being Agatha—just walked past her, opening the door like she owned the place, which she kind of did.

“Te veo.”

Agatha stopped. Turned. Met her gaze.

Oh yeah, she was cursed.

Agatha had always been told she was blessed—by her mother, by the church—but this?

This felt like being cursed.

Like baptism by fire.

And yet—Agatha smiled still.

Because what else was she supposed to do?

They left without a word.

Five feet of distance.

No talking. No glancing. Just walking in sync toward the makeshift arena where a few folding tables had been thrown together. Two, maybe three. Already surrounded by crew and cast, the low murmur of conversation filling the space.

Rio greeted each of them with a smile. She remembered all their names. Agatha couldn’t be bothered. She was terrible with names anyway. Not that it mattered. She wasn’t even meant to be here.

She wasn’t cast. She wasn’t part of the crew.

She was a stray thought. An extension of Evanora’s shadow. A legacy-in-training—an overgrown version of bring-your-kid-to-work-day. Except her mother happened to be the boss.

Speaking of which—no Evanora in sight.

Interesting.

A hand pressed gently against her back—Rio’s. Guiding her. Deciding for her.

And strangely, Agatha didn’t bristle. Didn’t snap. Didn’t roll her eyes.

She just let her.

Which brought them here.

Seated at a round table.

Agatha next to Rio. Ralph directly across from them. Two other people filled the remaining seats—names Agatha couldn’t be bothered to remember, even if she tried and she wasn’t even going to pretend. 

“Didn’t expect you here,” Ralph said, voice too casual to be casual. His eyes were on Agatha like he thought she might be a party crasher.

“She’s free to go wherever she wants,” Rio replied without missing a beat.

Agatha smiled faintly, mostly to herself.

She was free. Technically.

Free like a bird in a golden cage.

“What’s catering today?” she asked, redirecting the conversation before it could calcify into discomfort.

The guy seated beside Ralph shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.”

“Guess so,” Rio echoed, brushing against Agatha’s hand by accident—or maybe not—and clearing her throat quickly.

Agatha just crossed her arms and smiled to herself.

Soon, the table filled with food and noise.

Idle gossip. Industry chatter. The kind of conversations where no one listens unless it’s their turn to talk.

Agatha tuned most of it out.

No one asked her anything. Not a single question in fifteen minutes.

Which was almost impressive.

She wasn’t invisible—she was Evanora’s daughter. That usually earned at least a few fake smiles and shallow curiosity.

But maybe they didn’t know what to say to her.

Or maybe they thought she didn’t belong here.

Or maybe, she considered dryly, she was just that good at making people uncomfortable.

And then—

“So, what do you do now?”

It was Rio who asked it.

Spoon halfway to her mouth. Voice light. Unbothered. Like she’d just asked Agatha what time it was.

Agatha blinked.

It wasn’t the question that caught her off guard—it was the way she asked.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world to include her. To look at her.

To be kind without making it weird.

Because for Agatha, being proper and sweet and well-behaved had always felt like a full-time job.

An exhausting, thankless performance.

One wrong line and someone always noticed.

But Rio? Rio made it look easy. Like being kind wasn’t something she needed, but something she wanted to.

Especially with Agatha.

Suddenly, all eyes were on her.

Agatha huffed once. Smiled faintly. Then leaned into it.

“Well,” she said, voice smooth as honey, “as I’m sure you all know, I’m here to study the divine craft of directing.”

A few scattered laughs. The table cracked open a little.

She took her moment and ran with it.

"So why did you guys decide to be an actor?"

“For me, it’s the fact that acting requires both discipline and creativity in ways that really challenge us.”

Rio answered first. Confident, smooth.

Setting the tone like she always did.

The others followed suit—safe now. Some back-and-forth, time slipping by easily.

Then—

“You two really get along well,” Ralph said, tipping back in his chair, glass hovering at his lips.

“It's not that difficult,” Agatha replied, barely glancing at him. “She’s a nice person.”

A pause.

Too brief to be called a silence.

“We saw the news. You were out together yesterday?”

It was the guy next to Ralph—Agatha should learn his name, but not now.

Not when the table felt like it had turned into a firing squad.

She flicked her gaze to Rio, who was very clearly trying not to flick hers back.

“Girls’ night out,” Ralph added, nudging his friend with an elbow and a lifted brow. The kind of eyebrow raise men only use when they’re thinking with their worst parts.

“Do you do that often?” Now he was talking to Rio. Eyes on her.

Tone casual, but the weight behind it—loaded.

Agatha saw the slight twitch in Rio’s jaw.

Oh, what a mood.

“Be more specific?” Rio replied coolly.

But the temperature dropped.

Just a few degrees.

Enough to notice.

The air turned sharp. Fragile. Like if someone breathed too hard, it’d crack.

Agatha, however, knew exactly what Ralph was implying.

And she was one second away from leaping across the table and rearranging his entire dental history—

But there were other ways to cause damage.

“Hey,” Agatha started sweetly, as if a new subject had just occurred to her. “Speaking of girls’ night—I’m really sorry about what happened.”

Rio glanced at her. Under the table, her foot tapped against Agatha’s ankle. A warning? A challenge? Maybe both.

“You broke up again, right?” Agatha said with a soft frown, tapping her knuckles to her forehead like she was trying to recall. “With that girl…”

Ralph let out an awkward little laugh.

“Didn’t know you kept up with the gossip, Agatha.”

“I make it a point to keep track of any mess I could trip over.”

She tilted her head, casual. “It’s a safety thing.”

She smiled. Just enough to be unsettling.

“You’d be surprised how often someone else’s mess becomes yours.”

Rio choked on her water. Tried to cover it with a cough.

Agatha didn’t miss a beat, her hand moved to her back without missing a beat, patting gently.

“Oops. My bad. Note to self—no commentary while someone’s mid-sip.”

Her grin widened.

It wasn’t malicious. But it wasn’t exactly safe, either.

And Ralph, wisely, said nothing more.

The lunch crowd started thinning out, people drifting back to set. Agatha stretched, arms overhead, as if to shake off the last thirty minutes like static.

She knew she had to return to her mother soon. New location. Same chaos.

She tried—really tried—not to think about the kiss.

But God, the kiss.

She shook her head like that would erase it.

Nope. Still there.

And it wasn’t even her fault.

Rio kissed her first. Obviously.

She turned—and caught Rio looking, like she’d felt the stare.

Of course she had.

Their eyes met.

Agatha walked over, heels loud against the concrete, voice low but direct.

“Why did you kiss me back there?”

Rio blinked, slow and careful. Glanced sideways like there might be cameras hidden nearby. It suddenly felt like they were on a reality show.

“Ag—”

“No, you know what,” Agatha held up a hand. “Actually, just give me your number. Or Lilia’s.”

A beat passed.

“So I can return the handkerchief. Tomorrow. Maybe.”

She folded her arms, toe tapping against the floor like impatience was a form of armor.

Rio raised an eyebrow, that maddening smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Are you trying to get my number?”

Agatha hated— hated —how easy it was for Rio to see through her.

“You heard me. Yours or hers. I don’t care.”

Because either way, Agatha was going to get what she wanted.

And they both knew it.

“Okay, Agatha,” Rio nodded, like she was starstruck by the sheer absurdity of the situation.

“To return the handkerchief,” Agatha clarified, making sure it sounded logical — pressing on each words like punctuation.

“Yes,” Rio echoed, deadpan. “To return the handkerchief.”

It sounded like a lie. A mutual one. And that made it worse.

Agatha pulled her phone from her pocket and handed it over.

Rio typed in the number. Easy. Done

Agatha felt the goosebumps before she even registered Rio’s fingers brushing hers as she took her phone back.

“Te veo,” Rio said. Smooth. Casual. Loaded.

Like she knew something Agatha didn’t.

It landed like a stone in water — small, but rippling everywhere.

Agatha dusted off imaginary lint from her jeans, buying time. Reassembling herself.

Totally composed. Not flustered at all.

She didn’t speak — just stepped back slowly, eyes still on Rio.

Then, with two fingers, she pointed to her own eyes, then at Rio’s.

“I suggest you sleep with one eye open tonight.”

Rio didn’t miss a beat. “Oh? Why’s that? Are you going to call me?”

Agatha smirked. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Rio’s mouth parted — but no sound followed.

Finally. Silence.

Agatha turned, triumphant.

She’d found a new skill she was going to keep practicing.

Leaving Rio Vidal speechless.

Totally reasonable. Nothing weird.