Delaney
Filming begins in a dusty, abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. The set for ‘Echo Creek’ is not glamorous. It smells of damp concrete and sawdust. There are no five-star craft service tables, no trailers with my name on the door. There is a folding chair, a lukewarm bottle of water, and a script that feels more real than my own skin. It’s perfect.
Marcus Rylan, the director, moves with a quiet intensity that sets the tone for the entire crew. He doesn’t shout. He barely raises his voice. He’ll watch a take, his eyes focused on something no one else can see, and then walk over to me.
“Less broken,” he says after our first take of the day. His voice is a low murmur, just for me. “More haunted. She’s a ghost in her own life, not a victim of it.”
I nod, the direction clicking into place with a clarity that feels electric. “The fight is already gone. She just doesn’t know how to lie down yet.”
A rare, small smile touches his lips. “Exactly.”
He walks away, and I feel a sense of collaboration I never once experienced in my first life. Here, I am not a prop to be positioned. I am an artist.
In the makeshift wardrobe department, a corner of the warehouse sectioned off by black curtains, I meet Chloe.
She holds up a faded flannel shirt against my shoulders, her head cocked to the side. Her own hair is a vibrant shock of purple, and her glasses are perched on the end of her nose. “The texture is a lie and the thread count is a tragedy, but the exact shade of blue is perfect for your particular brand of melancholia.”
I can’t help but smile. “My brand of melancholia?”
“Oh, absolutely,” she says, pinning the hem with sharp, precise movements. “It’s very specific. Not the whiny, ‘my-boyfriend-left-me’ kind. It’s more… ancient. Like you’ve seen empires fall. It’s fantastic for costume design.”
I laugh, a real, genuine sound. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should. Most actors your age just look vaguely confused. You look like you know how the world ends.” She straightens up and grins. “Chloe. I’m your designer, therapist, and designated truth-teller for the next six weeks.”
“Delaney,” I say, feeling an instant, easy connection. “It’s good to have one.”
Two weeks into filming, Leo calls. His voice is practically vibrating through the phone.
“There’s an industry mixer tonight. For the premiere of that new space opera. Everyone who’s anyone will be there.”
I groan, leaning against the gritty brick wall of the warehouse. “Leo, I hate those things. It’s a swamp of fake smiles and desperation.”
“It’s a swamp you need to swim in,” he counters, his voice sharp. “People are talking about you tearing up Sterling’s contract. They think you’re unstable. We need to show them you’re not hiding. We need to show them you’re working, you’re confident, and you don’t give a damn.”
He has a point. Perception is everything in this town. “Fine. But I’m only staying for an hour.”
“Stay for forty-five minutes. Just make sure the right people see you. And Delaney?”
“Yes?”
“I heard Serena Croft is on the guest list. Her blockbuster just wrapped.”
My hand tightens on the phone. “Good to know.”
The mixer is held at a ridiculously lavish rooftop bar in Beverly Hills. Fairy lights glitter in the trees, and the air is thick with expensive perfume and ambition. Chloe came with me for moral support, looking spectacular in a black jumpsuit and bright yellow heels.
“Okay, I’ve identified three producers you should accidentally bump into, a casting director you should smile at, and at least six people who are definitely wearing rented clothes,” she whispers, handing me a glass of champagne.
“You’re a lifesaver,” I murmur back.
And then I see her. Serena. She’s the center of a laughing, fawning circle, dressed in a silver gown that looks like it was woven from moonlight. It clings to every curve. She’s holding a champagne flute like a scepter.
Our eyes meet across the crowded patio. Her smile doesn’t falter, but it hardens. It becomes a display. The show is about to begin.
She turns to the starlet next to her, pitching her voice just loud enough to carry. “The budget was just astronomical. We spent a month on a soundstage in London that was bigger than a football field. It’s a different world, you know? The pressure is immense.”
The starlet nods enthusiastically. “I can’t even imagine.”
“Oh, it’s not for everyone,” Serena continues, her gaze flicking towards me for a half-second. “Some people just don’t have the temperament for the big leagues. They’re better suited for… smaller things. More personal projects.”
The insult is so perfectly delivered, so wrapped in condescending pity, that it’s almost a work of art. The old me would have shrunk. The old me would have felt the sting of humiliation and made an excuse to leave.
I do nothing. I take a sip of my champagne and turn back to Chloe.
“So, this hat you’re designing for the uncle character,” I say, my voice calm and even. “Are you really going with the pheasant feather?”
Chloe grins, playing along instantly. “Absolutely. It has to be a pheasant. It screams ‘quiet desperation and a deep-seated love of taxidermy’.”
I laugh, and the sound is easy. I don’t look over at Serena’s circle. I don’t acknowledge her performance. I am an audience of one, and I am not watching her show.
This unnerves her more than any retort ever could. Her voice gets a little louder.
“My co-star is just a dream,” she practically announces to the rooftop. “He flew in a private chef from Paris just for the cast. The things you get to experience on a real movie set… it spoils you for anything less.”
A few people glance in my direction, caught in the drama. They expect a reaction. A flicker of envy, of anger. They expect me to look like the girl who threw it all away.
I just smile at Chloe. My lack of engagement is a black hole, sucking the energy out of Serena’s attack. She’s trying to light a fire, and I’m not giving her any fuel.
I see her grip tighten on her glass. Her smile is starting to look painted on, brittle. She came here tonight expecting me to be broken. Begging for forgiveness. Or at least miserable. She can’t stand that I’m not.
“Well,” Serena says, her voice suddenly sharp and clipped as she sets her glass down with a clink. “It has been lovely, but I have a fitting in the morning. For the Oscars, you know.”
She sweeps past my table without a word, her silver dress rustling. But as she passes, I catch her eye. The mask is gone. The carefully constructed pity is gone. What’s left is pure, undiluted fury. It’s the look of a predator whose prey has simply refused to be afraid.
Chloe lets out a low whistle after she’s gone. “Wow. She really, really hates that you’re not crying in a corner somewhere.”
“I’ve wasted enough tears on her in one lifetime,” I say, taking another sip of champagne. It tastes like victory.
I look out over the glittering lights of the city. Serena thinks we’re playing the same game. She thinks this is a race to the top of the same poisoned ladder. She has no idea I’m building a whole new ladder, one she’ll never be able to climb.
