The smell of heavy makeup, damp costumes, and dust from old velvet curtains filled the air backstage. Sharon Countbell sat in front of a mirror lined with flickering bulbs, her reflection illuminated under the harsh light. Her fingers tapped against the wooden table, restless and eager. Tonight wasn't just another performance. Tonight, a casting director from Silverline Studios was rumoured to be in the audience — the kind of opportunity that could catapult an aspiring actress into stardom.
She leaned closer to the mirror, her hazel eyes scanning every detail of her face. Perfectly arched brows, lips painted in a deep crimson shade, skin flawless from hours of preparation. If someone from St. Helena Academy walked past her now, they wouldn't recognise her. The girl they once mocked was gone.
"Sharon," a voice called from the doorway.
She turned to see Clara, another actress from the troupe. Clara was older, with a sharp tongue and sharper ambition. She wasn't cruel exactly, but there was always a hint of competition in her tone.
"You ready? Big night," Clara said, adjusting the feathered hat perched on her head.
"Always," Sharon replied smoothly, standing up with effortless poise. Her heels clicked against the wooden floor, each step echoing the confidence she had trained herself to wear like a mask.
Clara smirked, though her eyes narrowed briefly. "Break a leg, then."
***
When the curtains rose, Sharon transformed.
The role was a supporting one — a betrayed noblewoman in a period drama. But Sharon poured her entire being into it. Every gesture, every glance, every line dripped with raw emotion. The audience gasped when she cried out in anguish, leaned forward when she whispered words of sorrow, and erupted into applause as the final scene ended.
It was intoxicating.
As she stepped off the stage, chest heaving, sweat glistening at her temples, Sharon felt the familiar rush. The stage was her sanctuary. Out there, she wasn't the ugly duckling. She was a queen, a warrior, a goddess. She was whoever she chose to be.
Backstage, the troupe buzzed with excitement, congratulating each other. Sharon kept her composure, offering polite smiles, though her heart raced with a single thought: Did the casting director notice me?
***
Later that night, after the stage had emptied, Sharon lingered in the quiet dressing room. She began removing her makeup slowly, savouring the silence. That was when a knock echoed against the door.
"Come in," she said, half expecting Clara.
Instead, a man in a sleek black suit stepped inside. His eyes were sharp behind rimless glasses, his expression unreadable. He carried an air of authority, the kind Sharon recognised instantly.
"Miss Countbell?"
"Yes," she replied, straightening her posture.
The man offered his hand. "Richard Blake. Casting director, Silverline Studios. You were… impressive tonight."
Sharon's pulse quickened. She shook his hand firmly, suppressing the urge to smile too widely.
"Thank you, Mr. Blake."
"I'd like to see you audition for a new project," he continued. "It's still under wraps, but the role demands someone with… fire. I believe you might have it."
Fire.
The word lingered in her mind.
"When would the audition be?" she asked calmly, though her heart hammered against her ribs.
"Next week. I'll send the details. Be ready."
He gave a curt nod before leaving, the door clicking shut behind him.
Sharon stared at her reflection again, lips curling into a slow smile. This was it. This was the beginning.
***
The week leading to the audition was a blur of preparation. Sharon read the script until she could recite every line in her sleep. She studied the character — a young woman seeking vengeance after being wronged. The irony wasn't lost on her. She didn't just understand the role; she *was* the role.
On the morning of the audition, she dressed with precision. A sleek black dress, heels that clicked like power itself, and a coat that flared dramatically as she walked. When she entered the Silverline Studios building, heads turned. That, too, was part of the performance.
The waiting room was filled with women — tall, elegant, confident. Some glanced at her with polite disinterest, others with subtle disdain. Sharon ignored them. She had learned long ago that attention wasn't given; it was taken.
When her name was called, she stepped into the audition room with measured grace. Three judges sat behind a long table. Richard Blake was among them, his eyes watchful.
"You may begin," one of the judges said.
Sharon closed her eyes briefly, inhaling. Then, she became the character.
Her voice trembled with sorrow, then sharpened with rage. Her movements were deliberate, her gaze piercing. When the script called for her to fall to her knees, she did so with raw intensity that made the room fall silent. By the time she finished, her chest heaved, and her eyes glistened with real tears.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Richard Blake leaned forward.
"Thank you, Miss Countbell. That was… remarkable."
She inclined her head. "Thank you."
As she left the room, Sharon knew. She didn't need their words. She felt it. The role was hers.
***
Two weeks later, the news arrived.
She had been chosen.
Sharon Countbell was about to star in her first major film.
***
The months that followed were gruelling. Filming demanded everything — her body, her voice, her emotions. She spent long nights memorising scripts, early mornings on set, and endless hours in costumes and makeup. But Sharon thrived. The camera loved her, and she gave it everything.
The director praised her. Her co-stars admired her. Crew members whispered about her intensity. Slowly, word spread beyond the set. A new actress was rising — mysterious, beautiful, and unforgettable.
When the film premiered, Sharon's world shifted.
The red carpet glowed under flashes of cameras. Reporters shouted her name, fans reached out to her, and journalists wrote about her stunning debut. The reviews were glowing, praising her performance as "hauntingly powerful." Overnight, Sharon Countbell became a name people recognised.
She had arrived.
But amid the glamour, the parties, and the growing fame, Sharon never forgot.
Every spotlight on her face was a weapon she sharpened for the day she would meet him again.
Arga Bridgman.
***
One evening, Sharon sat in her penthouse apartment, overlooking the glittering city. She held a glass of red wine, the taste rich and bitter on her tongue. On the table beside her lay a magazine featuring her face on the cover. The New Star of Silverline.
Her phone buzzed with a notification. She glanced at it absently — until her breath caught.
A headline.
"Arga Bridgman, Heir to Bridgman Enterprises, Returns to the City."
The article detailed his return after years abroad, his achievements in business, his charm, his influence, and.
Sharon's lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile.
The past was no longer a memory. It was here.
And she was ready.