Second act

The engine's low hum faded as I parked just outside the studio, watching the seconds tick by on the dashboard clock. Twenty minutes early.

Not typical for me, but today, I'd rather linger here than face the smothering air of fawning staff and fellow actors, all of whom would be watching for any hint of weakness, any crack in my aloof exterior.

I settled back, tapping my fingers on the wheel. The more attention they could avoid giving me, the better.

The stillness inside the car was soothing, a small buffer before the rehearsals. As I glanced out the window, the sunlight just skimmed the rooftop of the building, casting long shadows on the lot. It was peaceful in its way, a sharp contrast to what was waiting for me beyond those doors.

I pulled out my phone, thumbing idly through social media, but my mind kept drifting back to the rules I'd set for myself. Just do the job. No feelings, no attachments.

The entertainment industry was designed to wear people down, chew them up. There was no room for softness here, no room for vulnerability. So I kept my distance, played my role, and let the world think I was made of ice.

Five minutes left. With a sigh, I stowed my phone and took a last, steadying breath. I slipped on a pair of oversized sunglasses to shield myself from the prying stares of anyone who might be watching.

With one last check in the mirror, I stepped out, locking the car behind me with a sharp click that echoed across the empty parking lot.

I walked toward the studio entrance, each step dragging with reluctance. My heels clicked against the asphalt, a stark rhythm that matched my simmering frustration. The doors swung open, and I was met with the usual rush of artificial air and fluorescent lights.

Two staff members at the reception desk noticed me immediately, their faces lighting up with polite enthusiasm.

"Good morning, Zaya," one of them greeted me, almost too eagerly.

I nodded, curt and unbothered, muttering a barely audible, "Morning." They exchanged glances, unsure whether to engage further.

My indifference must have been obvious, as they quickly pointed me down a hallway toward the rehearsal room.

The studio's interior was polished but clinical, all smooth, impersonal surfaces and white walls. Framed posters of past blockbusters lined the hall, faces of past actors frozen in poses meant to look intense or brooding.

I paid them no mind, barely glancing at the unfamiliar titles. The sterile atmosphere held none of the allure people might imagine in a "real studio"—just the stale smell of recycled air and overly eager staff members.

As I approached the room, voices filtered through the door, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter. I pushed it open and slipped inside.

Five main actors were gathered, mingling with an assortment of background cast who loitered along the edges. It didn't take long to assess who was who, or rather, who mattered.

Near the center stood a woman who must be playing the princess's best friend.

She looked vibrant and warm, her clothes more colorful than her reserved expression hinted at. Standing beside her, a tall, well-groomed man likely set to play the princess's fiancée—his posture practically screamed overconfidence.

A self-assured smirk etched itself into his face as he glanced around the room, clearly relishing the spotlight.

Across from them, the actor meant to play the royal advisor a middle-aged man with a stern brow reviewed his lines with the quiet intensity of someone who took their role a little too seriously.

Then there was the young woman likely cast as the playful younger sister. Her energy was palpable even from a distance, her expression bouncing from one conversation to the next, taking in every interaction with enthusiasm.

I noted each of them with a detached eye, my interest hovering just above apathy. None of them appeared particularly remarkable, yet they filled the room with a manufactured charisma that almost made up for it. But Layla, the actress who would be playing the princess, was nowhere in sight.

The minutes ticked by. Everyone's voices and energy filled the room, but I remained near the door, content to observe and keep my distance. My expression must have been obvious because the fiancée leaned over to offer a smug comment.

"You seem thrilled to be here," he remarked, eyebrow raised.

"Overjoyed," I replied, deadpan. He chuckled and shook his head, perhaps chalking it up to "artistic temperament" or whatever excuse they liked to make for anyone they couldn't easily understand.

By now, Layla was a full thirty minutes late, and her absence weighed on the room. Eyes kept drifting to the door, to the clock, to the casting assistant who'd been sending furtive glances at her watch. I sighed, crossing my arms.

Waiting on others was one thing I could not tolerate. How was it that someone supposedly prepared to lead a major film couldn't manage something as basic as punctuality?

Just as my irritation was about to turn into an outright complaint, the door swung open, and in stumbled Layla, flushed and slightly out of breath.

Her hair looked a little disheveled, and there was an endearing albeit entirely unprofessional awkwardness in her hasty entrance. She looked around the room, catching her breath as she met a wave of curious stares.

"Sorry I'm late," she blurted, her voice tinged with embarrassment.

A faint, unbidden smile tugged at my lips.