Camille.
The cold motel room air did nothing to cool the fire in her veins. Revenge was a plan, not just a feeling. It needed a target. It needed a stage. And she knew the perfect one.
"Velvet Night."
In her first life, they had offered her the female lead, a fragile, broken woman named Aubrey. She’d turned it down. The role was too dark, too raw. Linda had convinced her it would ruin her girl next door image. So Marcus took the male lead, played opposite a more established actress, and used the film’s grim aesthetic to launch his career as a serious, tortured artist.
He had stolen her pain and called it acting. This time, she would show him what real pain looked like.
She used the motel’s spotty wifi to search for the audition details. It was the last day of callbacks. A closed session. She didn’t have an agent anymore. She didn’t have an invitation. It didn’t matter.
The casting agency was in a nondescript building in Burbank. The lobby was filled with anxious actors, all beautiful, all desperate. Camille walked past them, her cheap duffel bag slung over her shoulder, and went straight to the reception desk.
"I'm here for the 'Velvet Night' audition," she said, her voice calm and even.
The harried receptionist didn’t look up from her computer screen. "Name?"
"Camille Rivers."
The clicking of the keyboard stopped. The receptionist finally looked up, her expression a mixture of pity and annoyance. "I don't have an Camille Rivers on the list. Callbacks are by appointment only."
"There’s been a mistake," Camille said smoothly. "Could you please just let the director, Mr. Sterling, know that I'm here?"
"Mr. Sterling isn't the director. And I can't just..."
"Please," Camille interrupted, leaning forward slightly. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn't have to. "Tell the casting director, Helen Croft, that Camille Rivers is in her lobby. Tell her it will be the most interesting five minutes of her day."
Something in her tone, a quiet, unshakeable certainty, made the receptionist pause. After a moment's hesitation, she picked up her phone and spoke in a low murmur. She hung up, looking surprised.
"Third door on the left. Don't make me regret this."
"You won't," Camille promised.
She walked down the hallway, her heart a steady, heavy drum. This wasn't like the boardroom. That was instinct. This was a calculated attack.
She pushed open the door. The room was dark, save for a single bright light pointed at a stool in the center. Three figures sat behind a long table: a tired looking woman she recognized as Helen Croft, a younger man with a laptop, and the director, a notoriously difficult man named Alistair Finch.
And standing near the table, looking bored and arrogant in a leather jacket, was Marcus Vale.
His eyes widened when he saw her. A slow, condescending smirk spread across his handsome face. "Ellie? What are you doing here? I heard you had a little meltdown over at Apex. Did you come to beg for a job?"
Helen Croft looked between them, her eyebrows raised. "You two know each other?"
"We used to," Camille said, her voice like ice. She ignored Marcus and addressed the table. "My name is Camille Rivers. I’m here to read for Aubrey."
Alistair Finch leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "Ms. Rivers, we have our final choices. This is highly irregular."
"I know," Camille said. "But you don't have your Aubrey yet. Otherwise you wouldn't still be here."
The director’s lip twitched. She had him.
"The part requires a certain fragility, a vulnerability," Helen said, not unkindly. "From your headshot, your brand has always been more... wholesome."
"My brand is whatever I say it is," Camille replied. "Give me five minutes. Give me the scene where she confronts him in the gallery. The one after she finds the letters."
Marcus laughed out loud. "Ellie, you can’t handle that scene. It’s too much for you. You’re too sweet."
Camille finally turned her gaze fully on him. The sheer force of her hatred felt like a physical blow. She wanted to claw his perfect face. She wanted to scream. Instead, she smiled. A small, cold curve of her lips.
"Read with me, Marcus," she challenged. "If you think you can keep up."
His smirk faltered. He saw something in her eyes he didn’t recognize. But his ego wouldn't let him back down.
"Fine," he scoffed. "Don’t say I didn’t warn you."
Camille walked to the center of the room, into the stark white light. She didn’t need a script. She knew the words. In her past life, she had read them over and over, wondering how the actress who got the part had managed to channel so much pain.
She didn’t have to wonder anymore.
Marcus stood opposite her, holding his script like a shield. "Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart."
Camille closed her eyes for a single second. She wasn’t in an audition room. She was in a hospital bed. She could smell the bleach. She could hear the flatline. She opened her eyes, and all the agony of that lonely, forgotten death was right there on the surface.
"You told me they were love letters," she began, her voice a raw, broken whisper. It wasn’t acting. It was a memory. "You said he wrote them for you."
Marcus read his line from the page, his tone flat. "They were. A long time ago."
"Were they?" Camille took a step closer. The air in the room grew thick, heavy. "Or were they written for her? The woman in the paintings. The one you said meant nothing."
"Aubrey, it’s complicated."
"No, it’s not complicated!" Her voice suddenly ripped through the quiet room, full of glass and fury. Everyone flinched. "It is the simplest thing in the world! You lied!"
A single tear traced a path down her cheek. It was perfect. It was real.
"Every touch," she whispered, her voice dropping again, drawing them in. "Every promise. Was it all just for this? For your art? Was I just a color on your palette? Something to be used up and then washed down the drain?"
She was looking at Marcus, but she was seeing the man who stood on an Oscar stage and called her memory his muse.
Marcus was staring at her, the script forgotten in his hand. He looked genuinely unnerved. This wasn't the sweet, pliable Ellie he knew. This was a stranger, a terrifying, beautiful stranger.
"Tell me," Camille breathed, taking the final step until she was inches from him. She reached up, her hand trembling, and gently touched his cheek, just as the script dictated. But her touch was not one of love. It was cold. It felt like a threat. "Was any of it real?"
He was supposed to have a final line, but he said nothing. He just stared, mesmerized and horrified.
Camille held his gaze for a long moment, letting the silence stretch until it was almost unbearable. Then she dropped her hand, the character of Aubrey vanishing as if she’d never been there. The raw pain in her eyes was replaced by an icy, chilling calm.
She turned back to the table. The three of them were speechless. Helen Croft’s mouth was slightly open. Alistair Finch was leaning forward, his eyes boring into her as if he was seeing her for the very first time.
"Thank you for your time," Camille said politely, her voice back to normal. She picked up her duffel bag from where she’d left it by the door.
"Wait," Alistair Finch said, his voice hoarse. "Don't leave."
Camille paused, her hand on the doorknob. She glanced back at Marcus. He was still standing in the middle of the room, looking pale and confused.
"What was that?" he muttered, more to himself than to her.
Camille gave him a slow, deliberate smile. It was not sweet. It was not kind. It was the smile of a predator that knew it had just drawn blood. Seductive. Terrifying.
"That, Marcus," she said, her voice a soft purr that still managed to cut him to the bone, "was acting."
She turned and walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind her, leaving the chaos of her performance hanging in the air like gunpowder smoke.
