When a rising starlet with fire in her veins is cast opposite a seasoned, infuriatingly controlled actor, sparks ignite behind the curtain of a dangerous new retelling of Shakespeare's most tragic lovers.
In Juliet Burning, Juliet is no innocentβshe is the flame that consumes, the girl who chooses ruin on her own terms. As Lysa Calder steps into the role, her passion collides with Max Renard's cold precision. Onstage, they are magnetic. Offstage, they are oil and waterβuntil the lines between performance and desire begin to blur.
Rehearsals become a battlefield. Love becomes a dare. And when opening night arrives, the real question is not how the story ends, but whose heart survives it.
There was a sharp intake of breath and then a silence so deep it seemed they had drawn in the sound around them. They watched as Max picked himself up off the floor, his . They knew what was coming and Katie, one of the troupe's more reserved members ducked behind Evan.
"What the fuck Carmen?!"
There it was, a classic Maximillian meltdown. Several of his colleagues rolled their eyes or even took a seat on the stage. They knew this was going to eat up time they could be using to rehearse, but now there was nothing to be done. From backstage came running a mousy little girl with her messy red hair bundled into a haphazard bun, her light green eyes already on the verge of flooding over. "Oh my God, Max are you alright?" She tried to extend a hand towards his shoulder in comfort, but it was swiped away quickly.
Max motioned to a set-piece that was crafted to resemble a small stone staircase. "No I'm not alright, I nearly busted my face open because your crew doesn't know what the fuck spacing means! Tell me Carmen," he leaned down and pulled a hand over his face dragging it down with a slight tremble, "what happens if I split open my lips or break my nose?"
"Um...uh...J-Jonathan would have to-," she squeaked out before she was quickly interrupted.
"Jonathan would have to step in as my understudy!" He clapped his hands together fiercely, sending a firecracker-like echo through the theatre. "Now, no offense to Jon, but this is something Simon and I have been working on for years. I'll be damned if all of that work goes to waste!" He looked ready to fire another barrage of insults, but was quickly cut off.
The theatre's north door slammed closed and a greying middle-aged man came walking down the aisle. "That's quite enough Max!" Simon, the founder of the Ashmoor Repertory, raised his hands into the air and clapped twice. "Take 15 minutes for some fresh air everyone, except you mister!" He leveled a finger at Max and turned it over to beckon him down off the stage.
Once everyone else had made their exit he spoke up again, "How many times are we going to have this conversation? I know you care about this production, but you can not level your anger at them like that."
Max lowered his head slightly, as though he were considering something and finally just sighed. "I'm sorry Simon, but the backstage crew needs to get their shit together. It's not just me that could be hurt up there." He began to turn away while running his fingers through his shaggy brown hair slicking it back with the sweat from his brow, but Simon caught him first.
"Have you ever considered letting them know that you are concerned for their safety? It sure sounded like it was about you a few minutes ago. Enough of that though, I would like for you to meet someone." Max had only just now taken notice of the young beauty that had followed in his mentor's wake. Her beauty was not lost on him, but he couldn't care less at that moment. Simon stepped aside so the two could come face to face. "This is Lysandra Calder, she's the new principal for the troupe and will be playing Juliet opposite you."
"Wait...what?" Max's confusion was written across his face as he rubbed the scruff of his chin, "What about Katie? I've been practicing with her for weeks now."
"And she will be Lysandra's understudy since she already knows the material. You knew she was a temporary fit Max, the troupe needs new blood and this young lady is going to make Broadway weep."
Max held out a hand still slick with sweat to the girl before him. His piercing hazel eyes finally taking in her form. His scrutiny was not motivated by any carnal desires though, he was merely calculating how he would have to adjust his blocking and frowned slightly at the thought of having to retape the stage markers. "Well I guess we're going to be working together. Hope you brushed up the material, because we are starting back in about 10 more minutes." After shaking her hand he clapped Simon on the shoulder and let lose a shrill whistle. "I sure hope you know what you're doing old man..." With that Max made his way to a cooler sitting by the stage and pulled a cold bottle of water out, drinking from it greedily.
Sitting in a chair opposite Simon's cluttered desk, the thick contract between them bearing her freshly scribbled signature. The ink hadn't even dried, and already he was talking her through rehearsal schedules, lighting revisions, and the press calendar with the sort of theatrical flourish that made him more showman than director.
"And you'll have your own dressing room, though you might have to share the mirror with a ghost or two. This place has a history," he said with a wink, sliding the papers into a worn leather folder.
She smiled politely, her nerves thinly veiled by a practised calm. "As long as they're quieter than most of the actors I've worked with, I think I'll manage."
Simon barked a laugh and rose, motioning for her to follow. As they made their way down the dim aisle of the Ashmoore's grand, but ageing theatre, Lysandra let her fingers trail along the velvet of the seatsβplush but worn, like the theatre itself.
Something in the hush of the space pulled her backwards through time.
She was seven again, curled up in the wings, her head resting on a coil of backstage rope as her father adjusted rigging above. Her motherβpoised, graceful even in exhaustionβstood nose to nose with a blonde diva who insisted her champagne wasn't cold enough and that someone "please do something about the smell of sawdust back here!"
"Maybe you're smelling the theatre," her mother had snapped. "It's alive. You're lucky to be breathing it!"
That moment stayed with Lysa. Not the insult, but the truth under it. Theatres didn't bend for egos. Theatres were ego, grit, and sacrifice. Her father used to say that if someone ever acted like they were better than the crew, they didn't deserve the stage.
So when she caught sight of Maximillion Renard storming across Ashmoore's stage like it was built for his fury, barking at the poor red-haired girl and railing about spacing, safety, and Jonathan, Lysa felt her spine stiffen.
'What a prick,' she thought to herself.
She watched him with disinterest as he dramatised a near-injury like it was a Shakespearean tragedy. The man had the presence of a king and the temperament of a tyrant. She almost rolled her eyes when he clapped, loud and petulant, like a child announcing his tantrum wasn't finished. He didn't seem to notice the way the rest of the cast subtly scattered like leaves in the wind.
Simon groaned under his breath beside her. "God's teeth, not again."
She raised a brow. "Does he throw that kind of fit every time a shadow crosses his spotlight?"
Simon winced and gave a resigned half-smile. "Max has his... process."
"I can see that," she said in a dry tone.
They made it down to the edge of the stage, just as Max's final notes of theatrical scolding rang out. Simon wasted no time in stepping into the fray, commanding calm with the authority of someone who'd wrangled wilder beasts than prima donnas.
Once the dust had settled, Simon turned to the fuming actor and gestured toward her with a flourish.
"Max, meet Lysandra Calder. She's your new Juliet."
Max turned to her, the sweat on his brow still fresh, his eyes sweeping over her with more calculation than curiosity. Lysa met his gaze evenly. When he extended his clammy hand, she hesitated for half a second, then took it with a neutral smile.
"Don't worry," she said, a voice as sweet as syrup with just the right amount of bite. "I'll try not to overshadow your ego."
She pulled her hand back delicately and wiped it on the hem of her shirt, flashing a soft glance toward Simon. "You never said I'd be partnering with someone so... hydrated."
Simon snorted.
Max muttered something under his breath and wandered off toward the cooler. Lysa let him go.
Before she could say more, a soft gasp came from just behind her.
"Oh my GodβLysandra Calder?!"
Lysa turned to find a young woman in costume, Katie, she thought, wide-eyed and grinning as though she'd seen a shooting star walk into the room.
"I saw you in The Thirteenth Step! You were unbelievable! The monologue in the final act? I had chills for days! I can't believe we're actually working together."
Lysa blinked, then softened, her pride brushing up against something gentler. "That was a hell of a show," she said warmly. "And a hell of a winter. I think we rehearsed with space heaters and tea lights."
Katie giggled and clutched her script to her chest like it was holy. "This is going to be amazing!"
Lysa nodded, her eyes flickering back to the stage where Max downed his water like it might drown the fire in his chest.
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