Page 63 of The Temporary Bride

His acknowledgment brings a warm flush to my cheeks. It’s a subtle, reassuring validation of a part of me that often remains hidden beneath layers of corporate responsibility and societal expectations. It feels like a small victory, sharing this side of myself with him.

“Thanks,” I reply, offering a grateful smile. “I’ve always had a bit of a passion for movies. They’re like windows into different worlds, you know? And the way they’re crafted, the cinematography, the storytelling… it’s all so fascinating to me.”

Tristan nods, his expression thoughtful. “I can tell. It’s impressive,” he says sincerely.

As the credits roll on the first film, we move on to the next, our conversation seamlessly flowing from analyzing cinematography to dissecting plot points and character development. It’s a refreshing change of pace, being able to share this side of myself with him, and I find myself enjoying our movie marathon even more than I had anticipated.

Tristan’s selection for the second film is an old classic, Casablanca. It begins with the haunting melody of “As Time Goes By.” As the song plays, Tristan glances at me.

“Have you seen this one?”

I nod, not taking my eyes off the screen. “Of course.”

He chuckles softly. “You’re like an encyclopedia.”

I grin, shrugging. “Actually, I used to want to be a director. I went to film school for a while.”

The admission hangs in the air between us as I wait for Tristan’s response. Part of me wonders if he’ll judge me for my past aspirations, if he’ll see me differently now that he knows this about me. But beneath the uncertainty, there’s a glimmer of hope, a desire for him to understand this part of who I am.

Tristan falls silent, his expression unreadable as he processes my revelation. The room feels charged, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve overstepped—if revealing this part of myself so openly might have been a mistake. The flickering light of the TV casts shadows over Tristan’s face, making it harder to read his reaction.

But then, to my surprise, a hint of curiosity ignites in his eyes. He leans in slightly, his attention fully on me. “Seriously? I didn’t know that.”

“Well, now you do,” I reply, attempting to sound casual but feeling a flush creep up my cheeks.

“Did you direct anything I can watch? I’d love to see your work.”

Oh god. I haven’t thought about those old projects in years, and even though I loved shooting them, the thought of him watching my old work feels unexpectedly unnerving. Like he would see too much of me.

“Um, nothing worth watching, really,” I stammer. “Just some student projects and experimental stuff. It was all pretty amateur.”

Despite my attempts to brush it off, I can tell he’s still curious. Honestly, some small part of me is tempted to let him in, to show him a different side of who I am. But a bigger part fears the judgment, the exposure of a dream that didn’t quite pan out.

Before I can come up with a good excuse to say no, Tristan nods, seeming to catch on to my nervousness.

“I get it,” he tells me. “It’s personal. Maybe another time?”

I nod and shoot him a grateful smile, relieved he gave me an out. “Yeah. Maybe another time.”

“How’s your ankle feeling?” he asks, changing the subject.

A dull ache has begun to throb in my ankle, but I shrug, trying to downplay the discomfort.

“It’s okay. It’s hurting a bit more now, but it’s not too bad.” I pause, the memory of our earlier activities flooding back to me. “It can’t be that serious of a strain. It didn’t hurt at all when you were…”

I trail off, the words dying in my throat the second I realize what I was about to say. My face goes warm. On screen, Humphrey Bogart is saying something, but I’ve completely lost track of the plot.

Tristan shifts toward me on the couch, turning so he’s facing me. “When I was what?”

His voice has dropped, and I can feel him looking at me even though I’m staring very hard at the television. I shake my head, trying to wave it off.

“Um, nothing. Never mind.”

He doesn’t say anything, just waits, and somehow that’s worse than if he’d pushed. I can feel the question sitting there between us, and I know from experience that Tristan Thorne is not a man who lets things go. The movie keeps playing, filling the silence with old Hollywood dialogue.

I sneak a glance at him and immediately regret it, because the hunger on his face makes my stomach flip.

I look back at the screen, my thighs clenching unconsciously.