Vineyard Dreams (Beyond The Red Carpet #4)

Chapter 7

7

T he first thing Harper noticed was how the walls seemed to press inward. Her fingertips brushed against the rough stone, seeking an anchor point as the cellar’s shadows deepened.

Her heart skipped, then thundered against her ribs. The cool air turned thick, heavy, and it felt impossible to draw into her lungs. The space contracted, squeezing tighter with each passing second.

Dark. Small. Trapped.

The set had been like this. The prop closet they’d used to film Lena’s captivity scene. Hours crouched in that tiny space, take after take, until Harper had inhabited Lena’s terror so completely she’d forgotten where reality ended.

Her legs weakened. The stone wall scraped against her palm as she sagged against it. Sweat beaded along her hairline despite the cellar’s chill. The single light bulb blurred, doubled, tripled - just like the harsh production lights that had burned into her retinas that day.

The floor tilted beneath her feet. Her chest constricted, each breath more shallow than the last. She heard Elle’s voice, distant and muffled, as if filtering through water. But Harper couldn’t respond, couldn’t focus on anything except the crushing weight of the walls closing in.

Her throat closed. The darkness at the edges of her vision crept inward, bringing with it the phantom smell of musty wood and rope from the set. The same suffocating panic that had gripped her during filming now clawed its way up from her chest, raw and primal.

She needed air. Space. Light. But her muscles had locked, pinning her against the wall as the room spun and compressed around her.

Harper felt Elle’s warm fingers slide between her own, the touch cutting through the panic like a lifeline. Without a word, Elle guided her forward, each step pulling Harper away from the suffocating darkness.

The stone walls blurred past as they moved. Harper’s feet stumbled over the uneven floor, but Elle’s grip remained steady, anchoring her to the present. The sensation of skin against skin gave her something real to focus on beyond the crushing weight in her chest.

Cool air brushed Harper’s face as they reached the stairs. Light filtered down from above, growing stronger with each step. Elle’s hand never left hers as they climbed, their footsteps echoing in the narrow stairwell.

The pressure in Harper’s chest began to ease as they emerged into the sunlight. A breeze swept across her damp skin, and her racing heart started to slow as she recognized the vineyard’s familiar landscape spreading out before them.

Harper blinked against the sunlight, her legs moving on autopilot as Elle steered her toward a weathered wooden bench. The world tilted, then righted itself as she sank onto the seat. Her hands trembled in her lap, fingers curling into her palms.

The warmth of Elle’s presence disappeared. Harper’s chest tightened again until footsteps crunched across gravel, and Elle pressed a cold bottle of water into her hands. The plastic crinkled beneath her grip.

Heat crept up Harper’s neck and into her cheeks. Of all the people to witness her falling apart, it had to be Elle - composed, capable Elle who probably never lost control like this. She took a sip of water, letting the cool liquid wash away the metallic taste in her mouth.

“I’m sorry.” Harper’s voice came out rough. She kept her eyes fixed on the bottle, watching droplets of condensation roll down the sides. “I don’t usually... this hasn’t happened since-” The words stuck in her throat.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Elle’s voice carried a gentleness that made Harper’s chest ache. “I should have asked first if you were claustrophobic before taking you down there.”

Harper’s fingers traced the condensation on the water bottle. The truth hovered on her lips - that she’d never been claustrophobic before, that it was only after filming that scene as Lena. That this was the first time she’d felt that crushing panic since then. But the words wouldn’t come. They lodged in her throat, heavy and uncomfortable. Instead, she took another sip of water, letting the cool liquid wash away the unspoken confession.

Elle settled beside her on the bench, close enough that Harper could feel her warmth, but not so close as to crowd her. Harper took a deep, steadying breath, letting the fresh air fill her lungs. The panic had subsided, leaving her feeling raw and exposed, but thankfully the crushing weight on her chest had lifted. She glanced at Elle, who sat beside her in patient silence and felt a surge of gratitude.

“Thank you,” Harper murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “For getting me out of there so quickly. I...” She paused, searching for the right words. “I didn’t mean to...I don’t usually...”

Elle placed a gentle hand on Harper’s forearm, stopping her. “You don’t need to explain. I’m just glad I could help.”

Harper nodded, her gaze dropping to Elle’s hand on her arm. The touch sent a tiny spark of electricity through her, but Elle’s hand was gone before Harper could think any more about it.

Something about Elle’s quiet presence made her want to explain.

“I’ve never had anything like that happen before.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “But I’m not surprised, really. The last movie I did...” Harper drew in a shaky breath. “There was this scene we had to film in this tiny, dark room. Being down in the cellar just...” Her voice caught. “It took me right back there, to being in that room in this basement and everything that happened to Lena.”

She glanced down at her hand, still trembling slightly, and an image of her wrists tied tight with rough rope flashed across her mind.

Harper shook her head. “I’ve never been haunted by a movie like this. I can’t get it out of my head. All the things she went through.” A weak laugh escaped her lips. “At least that Oscar was well-earned.”

The attempt at humor fell flat, even to her own ears. She couldn’t quite meet Elle’s eyes, afraid of what she might find there - pity, judgment.

“I haven’t seen it yet,” Elle said. “But I can imagine how something like that stays with you.”

Every actor friend she knew had their own stories of difficult roles, challenging scenes that pushed their limits. She’d listened to them talk about it over drinks at industry parties, comparing war stories like badges of honor.

But this felt different. Lena’s story had burrowed under her skin, taken root in places she couldn’t reach. The thought of discussing it with her actor friends made her stomach twist. They’d understand too well, offer advice on technique and compartmentalization, tell her about their own breakthrough roles. She didn’t want to be another actor who couldn’t separate themselves from a character.

But here, sitting beside Elle, the words had spilled out naturally. Elle’s quiet presence and lack of industry knowledge made it easier somehow. No judgment, no comparisons, no well-meaning advice about method acting and emotional boundaries.

“Thank you,” Harper said, meaning it for more than just the rescue from the cellar. “It helps, talking about it with someone who isn’t...” She waved her hand vaguely. “You know, in that world.”

Elle’s eyes held a depth of understanding that made Harper’s chest tighten. “I can only imagine how difficult it must be, to inhabit a role like that so fully. I might not have seen the movie, but I did watch your acceptance speech, and it’s obvious how much you cared about telling her story, about doing it justice.”

Harper felt a flush creep up her neck at the compliment. She was used to praise from directors, producers, other actors - but coming from Elle, the words carried a different weight. A sincerity that caught her off guard.

“But anyway, I’m here, if you ever need to talk about it more. Or not talk about it at all.” A hint of a smile played at the corners of Elle’s mouth. “I’ve been told I’m an excellent listener.”

Harper found herself returning the smile, a real one this time. “I might just take you up on that.” Harper pushed herself to her feet, relieved to find her legs steady beneath her. The panic had faded, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion in its wake.

“I can drive you up, if you’d like,” Elle offered, gesturing towards her truck.

Harper hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. “Thanks, but I think I’m okay now.”

Elle nodded, understanding in her eyes. “Of course.” She reached out, giving Harper’s arm a gentle squeeze before walking away.

Harper watched as Elle headed back towards the vineyard, her figure slowly receding into the distance. She took a deep breath, letting the fresh air fill her lungs and the warm sun soak into her skin.

The memory of the panic still lingered, but for some reason, she felt lighter, relieved almost that Elle knew.

Although Elle didn’t know about the rest of it, about how Harper didn’t necessarily need to be in a tiny, dark place to relive some of the most intense scenes she’d ever filmed.

Elle didn’t know that sleep had now become a luxury. That even on nights when she was exhausted and fell asleep quickly, she almost always woke up with her heart racing, a nightmare fading into the background.

Harper wasn’t sure why she couldn’t tell Piper. A part of her was embarrassed, maybe. They did this for a living, embodying other people’s life experiences, real or fictitious, and part of that job was being able to walk away from those scenes.

Why couldn’t Harper just walk away?