Inside Soundstage 5, the air was marginally cooler but buzzing with the tense energy of a wrap day. Cables snaked across the floor. Technicians in sweat-dampened shirts shouted in rapid Italian. A towering false façade of a Roman piazza stood illuminated under the harsh glare of the arc lights.

And in the center of it all, standing perfectly still in a pool of light, was Sean Lockwood.

He was dressed in a cream-colored linen suit, the jacket slung over a director’s chair labeled with his name in stark block letters. His hair, the color of sun-bleached wheat, was meticulously styled. He held a pose, a half-smile on his face, as a photographer’s bulb flashed once, twice, three times.

A few feet away, leaning against a plaster column painted to look like marble, Elena Moretti watched. She wore a simple black shift dress, her dark hair pulled into a severe but elegant knot at the nape of her neck. In her hands was a dog-eared copy of Montale’s Ossi di Seppia. She wasn't reading it. She was observing the ritual.

The photographer finally lowered his camera with a satisfied sigh. The moment the flashing stopped, the pleasant mask on Sean’s face dissolved. The smile vanished, replaced by a weary blankness. He ran a hand through his hair, messing the perfect style, and turned away.

He began to walk toward her, navigating the clutter of equipment. A grip hurried past him with a coil of cable. Sean sidestepped automatically, his movie-star grace intact even in retreat.

He stopped a few feet from the column. The noise of the striking set continued around them, a cocoon of chaos.