Evil MC's NTR Harem

Ross didn't call cut.

He let the moment live.

He panned slowly across her face, capturing the raw emotion in her eyes—the heartbreak, the disappointment, the fury.

Then, without a word, he adjusted the focus.

It was time for him to step into the scene.

"Cut!"

"Good take, Cara! Let's do another one," Ross called out as he clapped his hands once and started packing up the equipment with practiced ease.

The camera crew, the same team from earlier, didn't need further instructions—they were already moving toward the swimming pool, chatting and adjusting gear as they went.

Music thumped softly in the background, just enough to give life to the scene without overwhelming it.

Around the pool, several contestants from the house cast were laughing, splashing water, and playfully chasing each other around.

The light from the setting sun shimmered across the water, casting a golden hue over the entire space.

It was the picture of carefree fun—except for one person.

Cara sat off to the side on a lounge chair, alone beneath a wide umbrella.

A half-melted drink rested in her manicured hand, the tiny paper umbrella in the glass drooping sadly.

Her gaze was locked on some invisible point in the distance.

Her lips were still, her expression unreadable.

But the look in her eyes—haunted and hollow—spoke volumes.

Ross noticed it immediately. He wasn't just the director—he paid attention to people.

To moments like this.

He walked over, quiet but confident, and gently took the seat beside her.

"I thought I was in the wrong place for a second," he said lightly, adjusting his posture.

Cara didn't respond right away.

She just blinked slowly and turned her head to look at him.

Her face was as stunning as ever—high cheekbones, perfect skin—but the emptiness in her expression dulled her natural glow.

"…but it seems I'm exactly where I'm meant to be," Ross continued, his voice softer now.

He extended a hand with a lopsided grin.

"Hi, I'm D."

Cara stared at the hand.

She didn't take it right away.

Her eyes flicked to his, studying him, as if unsure whether to let him in—or shut him out entirely.

But then, just barely, the corner of her lips lifted. She reached out and shook his hand.

"Does that pickup line work all the time?" she asked, her voice low and slightly hoarse. "Cara."

"Of course," Ross replied with a wink. "It hasn't failed me yet, Cara."

Cara let out a breath that was almost a laugh. Almost. Then she looked back out at the water.

Ross didn't rush. He leaned back, letting the silence settle naturally before speaking again.

"So… who's the dumb guy who made you cry?"

She turned her head slowly, caught off guard. "Is it that obvious?"

"It sure is," he said, not unkindly. "You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The kind where you're trying really hard to keep it together, but you're one bad song or one wrong word away from falling apart."

She exhaled deeply and turned her face back to the pool.

"It's not one guy. It's… a lot of things. People. Pressure. The expectation always being high. I don't know. Maybe just me being dramatic."

Ross didn't push. He let her speak at her pace.

"You ever feel like… everyone expects you to be a perfect—even when no one really is?" she continued.

"Like you forget who you are in the midst of a crowd."

Ross nodded slowly. "More than you'd think."

There was a pause, long and weighty, but not uncomfortable.

The kind of silence that only exists between two people who understand each other without needing to fill every second with noise.

Cara finally looked at him again.

"So what's your story, D? You always this smooth with sad girls?"

He smirked. "Only the ones who make silence feel like a conversation."

That got a real smile out of her—small, yes, but genuine.

The music shifted to something slower, and a breeze drifted across the pool deck, lifting strands of her hair.

For the first time since Ross sat down, she tucked the hair behind her ear and relaxed back in her seat.

"Maybe you are exactly where you're meant to be," she murmured.

Ross raised his glass of water in a mock toast. "Here's hoping."

They clinked their glasses lightly—hers, cold and sweating; his, clear and unassuming.

The scene around them buzzed with life, but in that little pocket of space beneath the umbrella, it felt like the world had slowed just for the two of them.

They talked some more, letting the conversation meander naturally from light-hearted jokes to deeper topics.

It was easy—too easy—and that ease made Cara more curious.

There was something about Ross that didn't quite fit into the usual mold of overconfident men who came and went like scenes in a show.

After a brief lull, Cara tilted her head, studying him more closely.

Her gaze lingered on the black mask that covered the upper half of his face—sleek, minimal, but clearly deliberate.

"So…" she began, swirling the straw in her drink. "What's with the mask? Are you a spy or something?"

Ross chuckled, the kind of low, relaxed laugh that made it hard to tell whether he was amused or hiding something.

He reached up and tapped the side of the mask lightly.

"I had an accident when I was younger," he said casually, though there was a flicker of something more serious in his voice.

"Left me disfigured. Now I'm the beast—just waiting for my beauty to show up."

He turned slightly toward her, and though she couldn't see the full expression beneath the mask, his tone softened.

"And judging by the way you're looking at me, I think I won't have to wait much longer to hold her in my arms."

Cara laughed, the sound sweet and bright, chasing away the weight of his words.

She shook her head, smiling as she took another sip from her drink.

"I find that hard to believe," she said, eyebrows raised in mock disbelief.

"With how smooth you are, I'd bet half the women here have already fallen head over heels."