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.
Max finished downing his water while watching the exchange between Katie and the new girl. He really wished his colleague would show a modicum of restraint, but judging by the way she was crumpling her script in excitement he knew that wasn't happening. He pulled himself up onto the stage and tossed the empty bottle into the bin before reviewing how things were set up. It seemed the backstage crew was busy adjusting the set dressing as the earlier obstacle had been properly repositioned. He made his way over to a folding chair just off to stage left and sat down, scooping up the sheaf of papers on the hardwood floor beside it.
He began reviewing the scene they were rehearsing and grinned. Let's see just how well versed she is in the material. The thought was both devious and delightful as it crossed his mind. If she was some hot-shit up-and-comer he wanted to know what she was capable of. If she turned out to be just another wannabe starlet this little test would out her. Either way he was going to learn something today about how the situation had changed. There was a part of him that hoped she was able to keep up if for no other reason than to ensure the production went off flawlessly. Making his decision he slapped the script down and rose from his seat.
"Hey Katie," he called out to the young actress, "If you're done fan-girling over there perhaps you can go get ready for your other part." The girl squeaked in surprise and looked towards the stage before nodding vigorously. She made her apologies to Lysa and ran off towards the changing rooms. "And you, new girl...have you read up on the script well enough to give it a go?"
Before waiting for an answer he turned to the rest of the troupe. Some were sitting on the stage chatting, another had walked over to the catering table getting in a much needed snack. When Max clapped his hands the all looked up. "C'mon guys, this production isn't going to work itself." Eyes rolled and an exasperated sigh even escaped the lips of one of the actors. Despite their annoyance, they all began getting things into position and going over lines with one another.
Max faced her once more and held out an assisting hand. "Let's get a good look at our new Juliet in action."
Simon didn't say a word, he simply sat down in one of the theatre's seats and leaned back. "That boy," the older gentleman mused, "needs a good kick in the ass." He looked over to Lysa an nodded. "Why don't you go give him one. Show them all why you are Juliet."
Watching calmly as the flustered Katie, squeaking out her apologies, ran of toward the changing rooms. She offered the girl a small, grateful smile before turning her attention, finally, to Max.
She didn't say anything... Simply watched him.
It wasn't that he was loud; it was the precision of his arrogance. The way he tossed the empty bottle with barely a glance, and how his eyes lingered not out of curiosity, but calculation. Every step he took across the stage had the air of someone who thought the very boards owed him something.
She had witnessed it before... The entitled sort. Those who walked in like they built the place instead of being built by it. The kind of performer who treated everyone behind the curtain like ghosts until something went wrong.
Instead of commenting or acknowledging his remark, she turned to Simon instead.
"I'll keep it clean," she said, a smile playing on her lips. "But if he keeps flapping like that, I might accidentally upstage his shadow."
Simon laughed aloud. "Oh, I like you already."
Without another word, Lysa stepped forward and shrugged the bag from her shoulder, placing it gently in one of the front-row seats. She pulled out a perfectly prestine binder with dozens of coloured sticky tabs poking out like plumage, organised by act, emotion, alternate cues. Some pages were scribbled with notes in careful, flowing handwriting; others bore tiny marks in highlighterβbreath points, movement cues, even shorthand reminders: don't blink here, hold for silence.
Moving with a sort of quiet purpose, she placed her binder delicately on the stage edge before hopping onto the boards with an easy grace, her dancer's body at home in the space. Picking up her binder, she opened the cover and glanced back to Simon.
"Where would you like to begin?" she asked.
Simon, who was already reclining in one of the plush seats, gave her a slow wink. "Act One, Scene Five."
"The rewritten ballroom scene," he reiterated when Lysa tilted her head. "Where fire meets fury and fate pulls the strings."
She smiled, but only in knowing that dangerous way that said: 'I've been waiting for this.'
She placed her hands behind her on the stage, leaning back slightly before hopping up to stroll toward the back of the stage. Taking a deep breath, closing her eyes, she took just a moment. When she opened them again and began to step forward...
Evan took his mark as Tybalt and began his scene with James playing Capulet. They were coming along nicely even if Max thought they could use a few more runs on the delivery. Max began to run his parts, seeking out his Juliet with desire in his eyes. The lines flowed freely from him, delivering the message of his emotions with each syllable. His eyes stayed locked on her demure form, her seductive gaze. When the time finally came for him to approach her he misjudged his mark by half a step because he finally saw her...Juliet.
She was grace and perfection.
He hadn't felt her presence before, but he had not really been looking either. Now, it was unmistakable. She radiated a soft glow that seemed to gently envelop him. This was his Juliet, and now was the time to become her Romeo.
"Would it be that I defile your grace with my presence?
Might I be forgiven this gentle sin I commit?"
Max slipped Lysa's hand into his own. Gone was the sloppy handshake he offered before. Here was a grip that was warm, yet firm. His fingers were lightly calloused from years of work, but they still glided tenderly along her skin.
"I come to you, a man begging for water, and your lips are an oasis,
Will you not grant this traveler his relief?"
How long had she been practicing this role in her own time? Weeks...months even? The way she wore Juliet like a flowing gown amazed him, but it also made him think about how hard it could be for him to find a character's voice. In this moment he was no longer Maximillian Renard, he was Romeo Montague, but he had hammered that mask into shape over many sleepless nights. The conflict that raged within him wanted him to find something, anything, wrong with her performance. Not a blemish was to be found.
The air had subtly, but surely shifted into focus with the kind of hush that comes from anticipation, that held breath, just before the line is crossed.
Evan passed by with his usual careless swagger, giving her a crooked smile as he whispered just loud enough for her to hear, "Break hearts, Calder, just not mine."
She gave him a half-amused, half-steel glance before looking forward again, to the makeshift space where Act I, Scene V of Juliet Burning was about to take shape for the very first time.
Lysa stood exactly where Simon had placed her; no blocking had been finalised, but her instincts knew where to land. She wore the same soft black slacks and white blouse she had signed her contract in, sleeves rolled up slightly, collar open. Simple, but professional and unpretentious. But she stood with the bearing of someone who could turn an empty room into a palace with just a tilt of her head.
This wasn't a performance. Not yet. It was merely the edge of it.
Max had begun his lines; she could hear him finding rhythm as he paced the imaginary ballroom, the cadence of a man slipping into something familiar. He was good... annoyingly so... though, there was polish where there should have been danger. Too practised... too clean.
Still, when he reached her, when he finally lookedβreally lookedβsomething in his voice faltered by half a breath. He reached for her hand. Gone was the half-assed handshake from their first meeting merely moments ago. This touch was measured, considered. Warm, but not unguarded. She let it happen; let him find her pulse.
And then, Juliet stirred.
"Then let your sin be mine, and I'll wear it like a crown.
Your lips plead like saintsβ
But I've never been one for prayer."
She didn't blink, letting her eyes linger too long on his face as the lines fell from her lips like silk over a dagger.
Her thoughts slipped beneath the surface of the words, not quite breaking character, but not quite herself either. 'Is that surprise in your eyes, Renard?' she thought inwardly. 'You didn't expect me to carry any weight, didja...'
"Touch me again, and I'll pretend it wasn't deliberate."
Her fingers brushed his nuckles on the way down, accidental only in theory.
"But know this... I do not fall. I choose."
For one strange, perfect moment, the whole room seemed to listen to her alone. Juliet didn't blush or swoon in this version. She set the stage, and she moved first.
Max had said nothing, not yet, but his posture told her what she needed to know. He'd seen her.
Finally.
And she didn't blink beneath the weight of it. A small sound cut through the moment, soft clapping from stage left. Mara, the clipboard-wielding tech who had been eating almonds straight from the bag, gave a low whistle.
"Well, damn," she said under her breath. "She is Juliet."
Simon straightened from his seat in the front row, his arms folded like a proud father with just enough smugness to irritate everyone else. "That's what I kept telling you."
Lysa didn't look back at Max. Not yet.
'Let him figure out how to keep up,' she thought to herself.
She stepped back just slightly, letting the heat of the moment flicker down into the quiet of her breath. Then, with a faint smile to Simon, she said simply:
"You did say you wanted fire."
Simon grinned like a cat who lit the match. "And you set the whole goddamn stage on fire."
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