|Gryphon's POV|
The moment she steps onto set, the temperature shifts.
Not literally, of course. The AC is still blasting like the crew's scared of sweat, but when Serena Van der Bilt walks into a room, she brings her own kind of weather.
Thunder in her stilettos. Ice in her voice. Fire licking just beneath the seams of that tailored rage.
I lean against the director's chair, arms folded, watching the chaos erupt in slow motion—like a car crash built on couture, caffeine withdrawal, and ego.
Poor Benjamin's gonna need therapy after today.
Her words snap, slice, sting—one by one—and people move. Like she's royalty. Or a bomb. Maybe both.
I don't say anything. I just watch her.
I always do.
She doesn't notice me at first, too busy raining hellfire on Misty. But then it happens—her s
