The echo of the audition room still followed me home.
I couldn't shake the memory of Andre's eyes on mine, that moment when the script fell away and something real—something electric—hummed between us. It should've felt like victory. Instead, it felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for someone to push.
I didn't realize my phone was ringing until it vibrated in my palm. Eida's name blinked on the screen.
I almost smiled. A distraction was exactly what I needed. But the moment I answered, her voice carried a tone that immediately tightened my chest.
Venny… your mom's here."
"I stopped walking. The noise of traffic, chatter, even the wind—everything vanished for a moment.
"My—my what?"
"Your mom. She came to see you. She's in my living room right now."
My mouth went dry. "You're joking."
"Do I sound like I'm joking? She's asking for you."
I couldn't find words. I stood there with the phone pressed against my ear, heartbeat loud enough to drown out her voice.
"Venny? Hello? Can you hear me?"
I could hear her. I just couldn't move. The air felt heavier, as if someone had laid bricks on my shoulders. My mother was here. Not a call. Not a message. Not one of her assistants. Her.
A dozen excuses fought to form in my throat—traffic, sickness, work. But none of them could survive Eida's stubbornness.
"Venny," she said again, gentler this time, "come home. You can't avoid this forever."
And that was the end of it.
Eida's apartment always felt comforting like serenity— my favorite scented candles, lemon polish, the faint sweetness of vanilla. But that evening, it felt colder. I recognized the hum of expensive silence before I even stepped into the living room.
My mother sat there like a scene out of a magazine.
Designer dress. Diamond watch. Sunglasses indoors.
Every inch of her screamed control.
She didn't rise when I entered. She just turned her head slightly, her lips curving into something that might have been a smile on someone else.
"So, the prodigal daughter finally shows up."
"Hey, Mom." My voice came out steadier than I felt.
Her gaze swept over me, from my worn jeans to the creased denim jacket. "Still dressing like one of those backstreet girls, I see. I thought Eida's influence would have at least improved your taste."
I stayed standing. "What do you want?"
She leaned back against the couch, crossing one leg over the other. "What do I want? To understand why my daughter has decided to disgrace the family name, for starters."
I let out a quiet laugh. "You came all the way here just to say that?"
"I came because I'm tired of your games, Venny. You were raised for more than this." Her eyes narrowed. "Where exactly have you been working? You said you took a proper job. What was the title again?"
I looked away, toward the tall windows. "Why does it matter?"
"Because your brother is managing the company while you're off… pretending to be something you're not."
Her voice dripped with disdain. "Acting. That's what they call it, isn't it?"
She noticed it then—the script poking out of my bag. The sight changed her expression instantly. The air between us cracked.
"So it's true." She rose to her feet. "You've been lying to us. Lying to your family."
"I didn't lie." My words felt like gravel. "I did get a job."
Her hand moved faster than my thoughts. The sound of the slap echoed through the room before I could flinch.
The sting burned across my cheek. My skin throbbed, but my mind was somewhere else, staring through her as if I could blink and vanish.
"Ungrateful child," she hissed. "Do you know how much we sacrificed for you? To turn you into someone respectable? And this… this is what you've become?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. Words had stopped meaning anything.
Then, as if the silence offended her, she added sharply,
"I knew this would happen the moment you started staying with her."
My eyes lifted. "Her?"
"Eida," she spat. "That girl has filled your head with nonsense. Always encouraging you to chase ridiculous dreams instead of settling down like a proper woman. She's the reason you're straying from your path."
My chest tightened, anger cutting through the numbness. "Don't you dare talk about her like that. Eida has done more for me than you ever could."
The words came out colder than I intended. For a heartbeat, we just stared at each other—mother and daughter, two strangers tied by blood and disappointment.
That's when Eida's voice broke through from the hallway.
"What was that sound?"
She appeared at the door, her expression twisting as she saw my face. "You hit her?"
"This is none of your business," my mother snapped.
"The hell it isn't," Eida shot back, stepping between us. "She's your daughter, not your employee!"
"Daughter?" My mother laughed. "She stopped being one the day she started listening to you."
Eida didn't back down. "Then act like a grown ass mother and tell her something worth listening to."
The two women stood there, mirror opposites—Eida in her loose sundress, warmth and fire in her tone; my mother in her flawless attire, a statue carved from cruelty.
My mother was the first to look away. She reached into her purse, pulled out a glossy envelope, and tossed it onto the table between us.
"Our family's annual business gala is this weekend. Do try to show up for once. Who knows? You might find yourself a real career."
Then she turned and walked out—no goodbye, no backward glance. Just perfume and the echo of her heels.
Eida's shoulders slumped. She looked at me for a long moment, searching for words, then gave up on them. She just placed a hand on my arm and said quietly, "You don't have to keep putting up with her shit."
I nodded, staring at the empty doorway. "I know."
Upstairs, the shower hissed as I stood under it, letting the water blur the sting on my cheek. I didn't cry. The tears stayed trapped somewhere deeper, in a place the water couldn't reach.
When I finally sat on the edge of my bed, towel wrapped around me, the glow of my phone lit the room. I scrolled aimlessly—and then stopped.
Andre was trending.
A new designer campaign—shirtless, confident, all angles and ease. Every comment worshipped him: Magnetic. Charismatic. Effortless.
My thumb hovered over the screen. His expression in the photo was cool, sure, the kind of confidence that never asked for permission to exist.
It was unfair how easy it seemed for him—to stand there and command attention without apology. To own the space he walked into.
I stared until my reflection appeared on the darkened screen beside his image.
Our worlds were far apart. One of steel composure. The other of quiet survival.
My cheek still stung from my mother's slap. The gala invitation sat downstairs like a trap waiting to spring.
But as I looked at Andre's face on my phone—perfect, untouchable. He was everything I wasn't—I felt something sharper than pain.
I felt furious.
If they're eager to see me fail, I will prove them all wrong.
Starting with that callback. Starting with that role.
I set my phone down, the screen going dark.
Tomorrow, I'd find out if I got the part. Tomorrow, everything could change.
Or I could lose it all.
Either way, I wasn't going to apologize for chasing my dreams anymore.