POV: VIVIAN
Los Angeles looked like every movie I'd ever seen about it. Palm trees against blue sky, endless highways, buildings that gleamed white in the sunshine. It was nothing like New York. Everything was spread out, open, full of possibility and desperation in equal measure.
I stood outside Marcus Webb's production office in Beverly Hills, checking my reflection in my phone screen one last time. Hair perfect. Makeup flawless. Dress expensive enough to look successful but not so expensive he'd think I didn't need this meeting.
I'd been in LA for five days. Five days of auditions, networking events, industry parties where everyone smiled with too many teeth and promised things they'd never deliver. Five days of pretending the Chase Sterling scandal wasn't following me everywhere I went.
Because it was. Every audition, every meeting, someone would recognize my name. "Oh, you're the girl from the graduation video." Like that was my defining characteristic now. Not valedictorian. Not talented actress. Just the girl who'd rejected a billionaire.
But Marcus Webb had actually called me back. Had asked for this meeting specifically. That meant something.
I walked into the building, all glass and marble and the kind of casual wealth that LA did better than anywhere else. The receptionist barely looked up.
"Vivian Ashford for Marcus Webb."
"Fifth floor. He's expecting you."
The elevator ride felt like it took forever. I checked my phone. Three missed calls from my mother, probably wanting to know if I'd reconsidered groveling to Chase. I hadn't. Wouldn't.
A text from Sienna: "Still not talking to me?"
I deleted it without responding. Sienna had texted every day since graduation. Apologizing, explaining, begging me to understand it wasn't her fault. I knew it wasn't her fault. Rationally, I knew Chase had used her as a weapon.
But I couldn't look at her without seeing that kiss. Without remembering my perfect moment collapsing. Without wondering if maybe she'd wanted it, just a little.
The elevator doors opened. Marcus Webb's office took up half the fifth floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Beverly Hills, modern art on the walls, assistants moving with purpose through the open workspace.
A woman in her twenties with a headset approached me. "Vivian? Marcus is ready for you."
She led me through the office to a corner room that was more windows than walls. Marcus Webb sat behind a desk that looked like it cost more than my entire year's rent, talking on the phone. He was exactly what I'd expected: mid-forties, handsome in that Hollywood producer way where you couldn't tell what was natural and what was cosmetic, expensive suit, watch that probably cost six figures.
He saw me and held up one finger. Wait.
I waited. Stood there like a supplicant while he finished his phone call, laughing at something whoever was on the other end said. Everything about his body language said he knew I needed him more than he needed me.
He was probably right.
"Sorry about that." He hung up, stood, came around the desk with his hand extended. "Vivian Ashford. Thanks for coming in."
"Thank you for the meeting." I shook his hand. Firm grip, held a second too long. I'd been in enough meetings to recognize the power play.
"Sit, please." He gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?"
"I'm fine, thank you."
He leaned against his desk, casual but calculated. Studying me. "I've been following your story. The graduation incident. Very dramatic."
Of course he had. Everyone had. "I'm here to talk about my career, not my personal life."
"In this town, there's no difference." He smiled. "But I respect the boundary. Let's talk business. I saw your reel. You're talented. Raw, but talented. With the right project, the right guidance, you could be something."
Could be something. Not "you are something." A reminder that I was nothing yet. That he held all the cards.
"I'm ready to work." I kept my voice steady. "I'm ready to prove myself."
"Good. Because I have a project. Independent film, small budget, but the script is solid. Female lead, your age, complex character. Shooting starts in six weeks." He picked up a script from his desk, held it out. "Read this. If you're interested, we'll do a screen test next week."
I took the script. "What's the catch?"
"Smart girl." His smile widened. "The catch is I need someone committed. Someone willing to do what it takes. This isn't a guaranteed hit. It's a risk. But if it works, if you're as good as I think you could be, it could launch you."
"And if I sign with you as my manager?"
"Then I make sure you get the right roles. The right attention. I've launched careers before, Vivian. I can do it again." He crossed his arms. "But I need loyalty. Complete commitment. No distractions."
The way he said distractions made it clear he meant Chase.
"Chase Sterling isn't a distraction. He's not even in my life anymore."
"Good. Keep it that way." Marcus moved back behind his desk, pulled out a contract. "This is a standard management agreement. Read it, have your lawyer look at it if you want, but I need an answer by end of week. The role won't wait forever."
I took the contract, flipped through it. Standard terms, probably. I didn't have a lawyer. Could barely afford this dress, let alone legal representation.
"I'll read it tonight."
"Perfect." He stood, which meant the meeting was over. "Vivian, you have potential. Don't waste it on revenge plots or social media wars. Focus on the work. That's what matters."
I left his office with the script and contract clutched in my hands, feeling like I'd just made a deal with the devil but not entirely sure what I'd agreed to.
My phone buzzed as I waited for the elevator. Instagram notification. I shouldn't have looked. I looked anyway.
Chase had posted. Again.
This time it was a photo from a Sterling Industries board meeting. Him at the head of a massive table, surrounded by men in suits who were all at least twenty years older. He looked like he belonged there. Cold. Powerful. Nothing like the boy who'd studied philosophy with me at 2 AM.
The caption: "Day one. Let's build an empire. #SterlingIndustries #NewLeadership"
Two hundred thousand likes. Comments full of business people congratulating him, women throwing themselves at him, everyone acting like he was some kind of conquering hero.
I opened the comments, hating myself for it.
"This is what a real leader looks like."
"Youngest CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Impressive."
"Forget that girl who rejected you. You're better off."
"Can you hire me? I'm much more loyal than your ex."
I closed the app. Posted my own photo before I could overthink it. Me outside Marcus Webb's office, holding the script, smiling like I didn't have a care in the world.
Caption: "First meeting in LA. Dreams are made of hard work and determination. #ActressLife #NewBeginnings #LABound"
Within minutes, the likes started coming. My theater friends from Columbia. Random followers who loved the drama. A few snarky comments from Chase's crowd.
But I didn't care about them. I cared about one person seeing it.
And I knew he would. Chase was watching my social media as obsessively as I was watching his. This was our new battlefield. Public. Petty. Perfectly toxic.