Second act

Two years had passed since that fateful perfume shoot with Zaya Swanson, and though my life had changed dramatically since then, I still thought about her.

How could I not? It wasn't just the way she looked that day powerful, untouchable, devastating in that perfectly tailored suit.

It was the way she carried herself, the way she treated me when I was an anxious mess, overthinking every movement. Her calm, her strength, it had lingered in my mind long after we had gone our separate ways.

But a lot had changed since then.

I was no longer that wide-eyed actress, trembling under the weight of her first big gig. I had grown into my own. I had taken on roles I never thought I'd get, and slowly, my name began to mean something in the industry.

People started to notice me not just for my looks, but for my talent. For my work. I wasn't just the "girl in the perfume ad with Zaya Swanson" anymore.

I was Layla Nightshade, a rising actress, and I was damn proud of how far I'd come.

My phone buzzed as I sat at the vanity in my dressing room, adjusting the delicate straps of the gown I'd chosen for the night. It was simple yet elegant, a deep burgundy that hugged my figure, the fabric shimmering under the soft lights.

I caught my reflection in the mirror and almost didn't recognize myself. My hair, once streaked with rebellious purple, now fell in soft waves, dyed back to its natural black. My eyes, once filled with doubt, now held a quiet confidence. 

I'd worked hard to get here. The late nights memorizing scripts, the endless auditions, the whispered judgments from those who didn't think I'd make it. But here I was, one of the nominees for the Best Progression Award. I had made it.

"Are you ready?" Maya's voice broke through my thoughts, and I turned to see her standing by the door, her face creased with worry. She looked more nervous than I felt.

"Yeah," I said, standing up and smoothing the fabric of my gown. "More than ready." I could see her relief in the small smile she gave me, but her eyes were still filled with anxiety.

"You sure?" she pressed, walking over to adjust my gown unnecessarily, her fingers fidgeting with the material. "I mean, this is a big night, Layla. You've come so far, and... well, you deserve this."

I reached out and gently squeezed her hand, trying to calm her nerves. "Maya, breathe. I'm okay. Really. It's just an award. If I don't win, it's not the end of the world."

Her eyes searched mine, and after a long moment, she sighed, letting go of my hand. "Okay, okay. You're right. I'm just... I'm proud of you, you know?"

"I know," I said softly, giving her a reassuring smile. "And that means more to me than any award."

We made our way to the venue in the back of a sleek black car that Maya had arranged. The streets of New York blurred past the tinted windows, the city buzzing with life as always. But tonight, it felt different.

There was a special kind of energy in the air, the kind that only a room full of celebrities and industry powerhouses could bring. 

As we pulled up to the red carpet, I could see flashes of cameras, the chaotic energy of reporters shouting out names, hoping for a moment of attention.

Maya and I stepped out of the car, the cool night air brushing against my skin as I took a deep breath, my nerves fluttering for just a moment before I pushed them down. I was ready for this.

Inside the venue, the air was thick with anticipation. The room was massive, with elegant chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, casting a golden glow over everything.

Round tables were set up throughout the space, each one adorned with extravagant floral centerpieces and candles that flickered gently.

It felt like a dream surreal, opulent, a far cry from the small apartment in Brooklyn where I'd lived just a couple of years ago.

The room was filled with stars actors, models, directors, all dressed in the most glamorous outfits. I spotted familiar faces, people I'd seen on magazine covers or in blockbuster films.

But my attention was drawn to one figure in particular, across the room, walking toward the stage. 

Zaya.

I hadn't seen her since that shoot two years ago, but there she was, looking even more incredible than I remembered.

She was dressed in a sleek, tailored suit, the jacket fitted perfectly to her slim, muscular frame. The suit was charcoal gray with a subtle shimmer, the kind that caught the light just right and made her look almost ethereal.

The shirt underneath was crisp white, the collar sharp and precise, with a thin black tie knotted perfectly at her throat.

A silver Rolex gleamed on her wrist, and she wore the same ring on her finger that I remembered from before simple but bold, adding to her dangerous, edgy look.

She looked like she owned the night, her fiery red hair cascading in waves over her shoulders, the vibrant color a sharp contrast to the dark suit.

She walked with purpose, her head held high, eyes forward, completely unbothered by the attention around her. I couldn't take my eyes off her.

She looked… untouchable. Like someone who had never doubted themselves for a second.

When she reached the stage, the room quieted, all eyes turning toward her as she accepted her award for Public Favorite Female Model. It was no surprise she'd won. She was an icon, after all.

"Thank you," Zaya began, her voice smooth and commanding as she addressed the room.

"I want to thank everyone who voted for me, who believed in me and supported me throughout my career." She paused for a moment, her eyes scanning the crowd, but they didn't land on me.

"This industry can be tough, but it's moments like these that remind me why I keep going. Thank you."

The applause was thunderous, filling the room as Zaya stepped down from the stage. I watched as she disappeared into the crowd, the tension in my chest loosening as I realized I hadn't breathed in what felt like minutes.

But now, it was my turn to wait.

The Best Progression Award was coming up, and the tension at our table was palpable. Maya couldn't stop fidgeting, her fingers tapping nervously against the tablecloth.

I, on the other hand, felt surprisingly calm. I knew I had worked hard, that I had earned my place here. But I also knew that if I didn't win, it wouldn't take away from everything I had accomplished.

The presenter stepped up to the microphone, and the room fell silent once again. My heart rate picked up slightly as the names of the nominees flashed across the screen. There I was, right in the middle of the list, my face smiling back at me from the screen.

The presenter began to list the names, drawing out the tension with each one.

"And the nominees for Best Progression are: Layla Nightshade..."

A ripple of applause.

"...Sarah Goldman..."

More applause.

"...Daniel Hawthorne..."

The names continued, but I was only half-listening. My eyes were glued to the screen, waiting for the last name.

"...Elena Vargas."

The room seemed to hold its breath as Elena's name was announced. She was stunning her dark skin glowing under the lights, her black curly hair framing her face in perfect, voluminous waves.

She wore a striking emerald-green gown that clung to her curves, the fabric shimmering as she moved. She looked like she belonged in this world, like she had been born for this moment.

"And the winner is..." the presenter paused for dramatic effect, the entire room hanging on the edge of their seats.

"Elena Vargas."

The applause was deafening as Elena rose from her seat, a radiant smile on her face as she made her way to the stage.

I sat back, the tension in my shoulders melting away. I wasn't disappointed. Not really. Elena deserved this. She had worked just as hard, if not harder, to get where she was.

As the applause thundered around me, I couldn't help but glance across the room, searching for Zaya's face in the crowd. But she was nowhere to be seen.