Richard Lovett wasted no time. Within hours of Rose's portfolio hitting the digital desks of the agencies, his familiar voice beckoned her into his West Hollywood office. She found him behind a glass-topped desk, sleeves rolled, face radiant with the thrill of career resurrection. The lobby outside still hummed with the foot traffic of anxious hopefuls, but in here, the world seemed distilled into pure possibility. Richard greeted her with a conspiratorial smile and gestured to the pair of ergonomic chairs flanking his desk, as if inviting her into a secret society.,,
He spread out a stack of scripts and call sheets, each one tagged with fluorescent sticky notes and annotated margins. "You've made quite the impression," he said, flipping through the pile with relish. "I have three auditions lined up for you by tomorrow. And I'm not talking bit parts in web series—these are serious roles, Rose. People want to see you." His fingers hovered over a folder labeled in neat block letters: LEON: THE PROFESSIONAL – AUDITION MATERIALS.
The audition circuit was a blur of sterile reading rooms, blank-faced casting panels, and the endless recitation of lines that Rose tried to make sound new each time. She came out of each appointment feeling as though she'd left some essential part of herself in the room, like a trace of perfume or a forgotten hairpin. But that was the job: to be memorable and invisible, to transform and then disappear.
It surprised her how quickly the callbacks came. The second one, for a supporting role in a streaming crime drama, was so swift that she'd barely returned home before Richard called. "They want you," he said, voice crackling with pride. "They're sending over a contract today." By the end of the week, she'd accepted two major jobs, and the prospect of months spent on set—juggling lines, wardrobe changes, and the logistics of had become her new reality.
.
Still, when the dawn broke over the hills and she stood in front of the makeup mirror, lines from Leon: The Professional etched into the script pages in her lap, Rose felt a familiar surge of determination. This was her inheritance, yes, but it was also her choice.
The studio was a maze of cables and plywood facades, but the moment the director called her to set, the chaos coalesced into a kind of ballet. Rose hit her marks. She found her light. She delivered her lines with a rawness that surprised even her. By lunchtime on day one, the director pulled her aside, an unreadable look in his eyes, and said, quietly, "You've got it."
For the first time in months, Rose let herself believe it, too.
Richard Lovett wasted no time. Within hours of Rose's portfolio hitting the digital desks of the agencies, his familiar voice beckoned her into his West Hollywood office. She found him behind a glass-topped desk, sleeves rolled, face radiant with the thrill of career resurrection. The lobby outside still hummed with the foot traffic of anxious hopefuls, but in here, the world seemed distilled into pure possibility. Richard greeted her with a conspiratorial smile and gestured to the pair of ergonomic chairs flanking his desk, as if inviting her into a secret society.
He spread out a stack of scripts and call sheets, each one tagged with fluorescent sticky notes and annotated margins. "You've made quite the impression," he said, flipping through the pile with relish. "I have three auditions lined up for you by tomorrow. And I'm not talking bit parts in web series—these are serious roles, Rose. People want to see you." His fingers hovered over a folder labeled in neat block letters: LEON: THE PROFESSIONAL – AUDITION MATERIALS.
The audition circuit was a blur of sterile reading rooms, blank-faced casting panels, and the endless recitation of lines that Rose tried to make sound new each time. She came out of each appointment feeling as though she'd left some essential part of herself in the room, like a trace of perfume or a forgotten hairpin. But that was the job: to be memorable and invisible, to transform and then disappear.
It surprised her how quickly the callbacks came. The second one, for a supporting role in a streaming crime drama, was so swift that she'd barely returned home before Richard called. "They want you," he said, voice crackling with pride. "They're sending over a contract today." By the end of the week, she'd accepted two major jobs, and the prospect of months spent on set—juggling lines, wardrobe changes.
Still, when the dawn broke over the hills and she stood in front of the makeup mirror, lines from Leon: The Professional etched into the script pages in her lap, Rose felt a familiar surge of determination. This was her inheritance, yes, but it was also her choice.
The studio was a maze of cables and plywood facades, but the moment the director called her to set, the chaos coalesced into a kind of ballet. Rose hit her marks. She found her light. She delivered her lines with a rawness that surprised even her. By lunchtime on day one, the director pulled her aside, an unreadable look in his eyes, and said, quietly, "You've got it."
For the first time in months, Rose let herself believe it, too.