The film ran out. The red light died. The soundstage fell silent.

“I didn’t come here to direct you, Layla,” he said, his voice low and stripped of its old authority. “I came here to apologize.”

Jules let out a shuddering breath and leaned his forehead against her knee.

Layla arrived first. The stage was dustier than she remembered. The air smelled of ozone and old wood. She ran her fingers over the back of a chair—the very chair from the final, disastrous day. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

Layla reached out and placed her palm against his stubbled cheek. The camera, that silent, mechanical witness, recorded everything.

Layla felt the tears well up, hot and immediate. She had prepared a dozen speeches, a thousand accusations. But in the face of his simple, exhausted honesty, they all crumbled.