Second act

One week had passed, and today was the first day of repetition. The morning light slipped through my window like an uninvited guest, nudging me awake. It was too early for this, too bright, too real.

I groaned, rubbing my eyes and willing the day to vanish. A few more hours of sleep would have been nice, but the reminders were there contracts, commitments, and the ever-insistent Nicole, who'd somehow convinced me to take on this project.

I'd signed up for this movie, though "coerced" might be more accurate. Nicole had a way of roping me into things with her unbreakable logic and unwavering support, both of which made me feel guilty if I resisted too hard. I agreed to do it, and now I was here, so I'd at least follow through.

Still, that didn't dissolve the bitterness stirring inside, simmering beneath the surface like a wound that refused to heal.

This bitterness was familiar. It was the same prickly sensation I'd felt at every family dinner, listening to my parents recount Kael's latest triumphs. While they gushed over his every move, my accomplishments disappeared into the background, barely worth a nod.

Magazine covers, film deals, award nominations—I could list them all, and still, it would be overshadowed by Kael's latest "heroic" endeavor.

Their disappointment wasn't blatant, but I could feel it in every sideways glance, in the quiet conversations that cut off when I entered the room. As if I'd taken a detour into a life they couldn't understand or approve of.

The weight of their quiet judgment clung to me this morning, heavier than usual, as I finally forced myself out of bed and into the bathroom.

I stared at my reflection hair mussed, face groggy and splashed cold water over my face.

The shock jolted me awake, but it did nothing to calm the low, dull irritation brewing inside. Letting the faucet run until steam filled the room, I stepped into the shower, hoping the heat might ease the tension coiled in my muscles.

I waited, letting the water drum against my back, but the agitation only grew sharper, amplified by the echoes of their voices in my mind. How many times had I tried to shrug it off? To convince myself I didn't care? But today, I couldn't shake it.

Eventually, I stepped out, dressed, and put on my armor a sleek black turtleneck and tailored pants, minimalist yet sharp, a no-nonsense look that told the world I meant business.

I pulled on my coat, grabbed my bag, and made my way toward the door, hoping I'd be out before anyone stopped me.

"Zaya." The voice was gentle but unmistakable. I turned, finding my grandmother in the hallway, her frame small but her presence somehow towering.

She watched me with those penetrating eyes, eyes that saw beyond facades and bravado. She knew me too well.

"Don't be too grumpy, huh?" she murmured, a slight smile softening her words. Her tone was so tender, it took the edge off my mood, if only for a moment. 

I forced a faint smile and bent to hug her, inhaling the familiar scent of lavender and tea. "I'll try," I whispered, her warmth momentarily grounding me. She patted my back, and I let myself linger, just for a second, before pulling away.

Her words lingered even after I closed the door behind me, tugging at the frayed edges of my resolve as I walked to my car.

I settled into the driver's seat, and as the engine hummed to life, I let my mind wander. The city rushed by, blurred figures on sidewalks, glass towers stretching into the sky, the gray horizon barely visible through the haze of my thoughts.

I hardly noticed any of it. Instead, I focused on my rules, the ones I'd set long ago to keep me safe from the distractions and entanglements of this industry.

Rule number one: Just do the job. Get in, do what's expected, and get out. Emotions were only baggage. This was work—professional, efficient, detached.

Rule number two: No feelings involved. I'd learned that early on. Modeling, acting—it was all about constructing images, crafting illusions. Real feelings had no place here, not if I wanted to keep my sanity.

Rule number three: No falling in love. Not with the project, not with the people, and certainly not with anyone involved. I scoffed softly, thinking of the last rule. As if anyone here had ever sparked anything beyond a superficial interest.

People came and went. Friendships, romances, alliances they were fleeting, disposable. Attachment was a luxury I didn't have time for, nor did I want to make time for it.

I wasn't here to make friends, and I especially wasn't here to make friends with the new actress, Layla. All I knew was that she was new, buzzworthy, probably overenthusiastic. I could already imagine her doe-eyed excitement, eager to please, to prove herself, to be liked.

But I had no intention of letting anyone least of all someone with that kind of energy chip away at my carefully constructed walls. I wasn't here to play nice. I was here to work.

The road stretched ahead of me, long and straight, and as I drove, the distant hum of traffic merged with the low, steady rhythm of my thoughts.

This was the path I'd chosen, the one I'd walked a hundred times before, with all the clarity of knowing exactly where I was going. I might have been resigned, but at least I knew who I was. And as I sped toward the set, I reminded myself to hold onto that.