Vengeance In The Spotlight

Camille.

The beeping was the only friend she had left. Steady, then not so steady. A frantic rhythm for a frantic end.

Cold. The thin hospital blanket did nothing. The air tasted sterile, like bleach and regret.

On the small television bolted to the wall, beautiful people were giving each other golden statues.

"And the Oscar for Best Actor goes to... Marcus Vale for 'Velvet Night'!"

The applause was a distant, mocking thunder. Marcus. Her Marcus. He looked handsome in his tuxedo. He blew a kiss to the camera. Not to her. Never to her.

"I want to thank everyone," he said, his voice thick with fake emotion. "But especially the memory of my muse, Camille. Her tragedy gave me the pain I needed for this role. I only wish she could see this."

A single, hot tear slid down her temple. He didn't even use her last name. Just Camille. A footnote in his story.

The beeping of the monitor grew faster, a frantic bird trapped in her chest.

"Liar," she whispered, her voice a dry rasp. "You broke me for that role."

Her vision blurred. The golden statues and smiling faces swam into a meaningless soup of light.

The beeping stopped. A long, final note hung in the air. The sound of nothing.

Silence.

Then, a gasp.

Her own. Loud. Ripping through the quiet.

The air wasn't sterile anymore. It smelled of expensive coffee and old paper. The light wasn't the dim glow of a television; it was a harsh, fluorescent glare.

She was sitting. Not lying down. Her back was straight in a stiff leather chair. A heavy pen was clutched between her fingers, its nib hovering over a thick stack of papers.

"Camille, sweetie? Are you okay?"

That voice. That sickly sweet, venomous voice. Linda.

Camille blinked, her eyes focusing. She was in a boardroom. Polished mahogany table. City skyline through the floor-to-ceiling window. And the faces. Oh god, the faces.

Mr. Sterling, the CEO of Apex Media, sat at the head of the table, his smile like a shark's. His two lawyers, flanking him like vultures. And Linda, her manager, her supposed friend, her betrayer, hovering at her shoulder.

"You just zoned out for a second there," Linda said with a nervous little laugh. "Big day jitters. We all get them."

"Just sign on the dotted line, Ms. Rivers," Mr. Sterling purred, gesturing with a manicured hand. "And your new life begins."

Her new life. Her old life. The life that ended with a flatline and a liar on a television screen.

Camille's gaze dropped to the contract. The bold heading read: EXCLUSIVE TALENT AGREEMENT. And the date, printed in the top right corner. October 22nd. Five years ago. To the day.

The pen in her hand felt impossibly heavy. This was it. The moment it all went wrong. The slave contract she had signed out of desperation and terrible advice.

A wave of nausea hit her, followed by something else. Something cold and hard and pure. Rage. It started in her gut and spread through her veins like ice water.

She let out a small, quiet laugh.

Linda’s hand landed on her shoulder. "Camille?"

"Don't touch me," Camille said. Her voice was low, but it cut through the room like glass.

She lifted her head, and the dazed, hopeful girl from five years ago was gone. In her place was the ghost of the woman who died alone in a hospital bed. And that ghost knew things.

Mr. Sterling’s smile faltered. "Is there a problem, Ms. Rivers?"

"Problem?" Camille looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time. Not as an idol or a kingmaker, but as a parasite. "No. No problem at all. Just a moment of clarity."

With a flick of her wrist, she sent the expensive fountain pen flying across the room. It hit the far wall with a sharp crack, leaving a small black splatter of ink like a dead spider.

Gasps echoed around the table.

"What do you think you're doing?" Linda shrieked, her sweet facade melting away.

Camille stood up slowly, her chair scraping against the floor. She pushed it back and turned to face her manager.

"I'm rewriting the ending, Linda."

"What are you talking about? Sit down, you're making a scene."

"A scene?" Camille laughed again, a sound with no humor in it. "You haven't seen a scene yet. Let's talk about this contract. The one you told me was 'standard industry practice'."

"It is standard," one of the lawyers muttered.

"Is a thirty-five percent commission standard?" Camille asked, her eyes locked on Linda. "Is signing away my music rights in perpetuity standard? Is the non-compete clause that would leave me unable to even sing in the shower for ten years if I leave this label standard?"

Linda’s face went pale. "How did you... you read the fine print?"

"I did more than that. I lived it. And let me tell you, the ending sucks."

She turned her attention to Mr. Sterling, who was watching her with narrowed, reptilian eyes.

"And you. You must think I'm so stupid. A desperate little girl from nowhere, so grateful for the attention she'll sign anything."

"Ms. Rivers, I suggest you reconsider your tone," Sterling said, his voice dangerously low.

"And I suggest you reconsider your business model. Because I'm not signing your contract. Not today. Not ever."

"You'll be blacklisted," Linda hissed. "I'll make sure you never work in this town again. You'll be nothing without me!"

"Nothing?" Camille walked around the table until she was standing directly in front of Linda. She was taller. She never realized she was taller. "Let me tell you what nothing looks like, Linda. Nothing is calling your star client while she's in the hospital, not to see how she is, but to tell her she's been dropped for breach of contract because she's too sick to perform."

Linda recoiled as if struck. "I would never..."

"Nothing is skimming an extra ten percent off her endorsement deals and hiding it in an offshore account in the Caymans."

The color drained completely from Linda’s face. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

"And nothing," Camille continued, her voice dropping to a whisper, "is selling her private songbook to the very man who broke her heart."

She leaned in closer. "Does the name Marcus Vale ring a bell?"

"Security!" Sterling finally shouted, slamming his hand on the table. "Get her out of here!"

"Don't bother. I'm leaving," Camille said, straightening up. She grabbed her cheap purse from the floor beside her chair.

She walked towards the door, her steps confident and sure. She was no longer the scared girl who walked in here an hour ago. She was a woman who had already died once. What was there left to be afraid of?

She paused at the door, her hand on the handle, and looked back at the stunned faces.

"You should have let me die, Linda," she said, a chillingly sweet smile gracing her lips. "It would have been kinder."

"You'll regret this!" Sterling bellowed, his face turning purple. "You're finished, Camille Rivers! Finished!"

Camille's smile didn't waver. "No, Mr. Sterling. I'm just getting started."

And with that, she turned and walked out of the room, leaving the architects of her ruin sitting in stunned silence, surrounded by the wreckage of a future that would never happen. The click of the door closing behind her was the most satisfying sound she had ever heard. It was the sound of a cage springing open. It was the sound of her first real breath.