VIVIAN
Los Angeles looks different at night. The city sprawls beneath me, all glittering lights and impossible dreams, visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Marcus Webb's office. He sits behind his desk, perfectly tailored suit, silver hair, the kind of smile that promises everything and guarantees nothing.
"You have something special, Vivian." He slides a contract across the polished surface. "Raw talent. The camera loves you. But talent only gets you so far in this town. You need someone who knows how to package it. Sell it. Make you a star."
I scan the contract. Three-year exclusive representation. Marcus Webb Productions. Industry standard percentages, non-compete clauses, the usual legal labyrinth.
"What's the catch?" I ask.
His smile widens. "Smart girl. No catch. Just commitment. I invest in you, you give me loyalty. I get you auditions you'd never see otherwise. Connections. Access. But if you sign with me, you're mine. No other agents, no side deals, no playing the field."
"For three years."
"Three years to make you a household name." He leans back, fingers steepled. "Or three years to prove you don't have what it takes. Your choice."
I think about the texts still flooding my phone back east. The messages calling me a gold digger, a fool, trash. I think about Chase's face on that talk show, calling me a mistake he won't revisit.
I pick up the pen.
"Where do I sign?"
Marcus's smile turns genuine. "Welcome to the family, Vivian."
I sign my name three times, initial twice more. When I hand the contract back, I feel it. The weight of choice. The point of no return.
"First thing Monday," Marcus says, "you're reading for a Netflix pilot. Lead role. Smart, ambitious lawyer. It's perfect for you."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when you're accepting your first award." He stands, extends his hand. "Go celebrate. You've earned it."
The handshake feels like sealing a deal with something older than Hollywood contracts. But I push the thought away. This is what I came here for. This is how I win.
Outside, the LA night wraps around me like a promise. My phone buzzes as I walk to my car. A notification from Instagram. My follower count jumped another ten thousand today.
I open the app. My last post, a photo of the LA skyline with the caption New chapter, new me, has 50,000 likes. Comments flood in:
You're glowing! LA looks good on you!
Forget Chase Sterling. You're going to be huge.
Can't wait to see you on screen!
I scroll through, feeling something warm uncurl in my chest. Not everyone hates me. Some people actually believe in me.
Then I see the other side. The gossip blogs. TMZ posted a photo of Chase leaving his office building, flanked by suited executives. The headline: "Sterling Heir Goes Ice Cold: New CEO Fires 200 Employees on First Day."
I click the article.
Chase Sterling, 24, wasted no time establishing himself as one of the most ruthless CEOs in the industry. Sources inside Sterling Industries report that the young heir fired over 200 employees within his first week, restructured three divisions, and personally terminated several longtime executives who questioned his authority.
"He's nothing like his grandfather," one anonymous employee stated. "Dominic was tough but fair. Chase is just cruel. He doesn't care who he hurts."
The article includes a photo from a board meeting. Chase at the head of the table, surrounded by men twice his age, all of them looking like he just took their souls. His expression is carved from ice.
That's not the Chase I knew.
But maybe I never knew him at all.
My phone buzzes again. This time, a text from an unknown number.
Congratulations on the contract. Marcus Webb is a good choice. Ambitious. Exactly your type.
My blood runs cold.
I know that tone. Calm, controlled, hiding knives beneath every word.
Me: How did you get this number?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
I'm Chase Sterling. I can get anything I want.
My hands shake as I type.
Me: What do you want?
Nothing. Just wanted to wish you well. We both got what we wanted, didn't we? You got LA. I got the empire. Everyone's happy.
The words drip with venom.
Me: Then why are you texting me?
Because I'm polite. And because I thought you should know: I'm watching. Every audition, every contract, every move you make. I'll be watching.
Me: That's called stalking.
That's called staying informed. Enjoy your new beginning, Vivian. Try not to fuck this one up too.
The conversation goes silent. He's gone, disappearing back into whatever penthouse fortress he's built for himself.
I stare at the screen, pulse hammering.
He's watching. Keeping tabs. Why? To gloat? To sabotage? To remind me he still exists in my world whether I want him there or not?
I shove the phone in my pocket and drive home.
My apartment is small, barely furnished, but it's mine. Ground floor, palm tree visible through the window, the sound of traffic a constant hum. Not the penthouse I'll have someday, but it's a start.
I pour myself wine, collapse on the couch, pull up social media again. More notifications. More likes. More people choosing sides.
#TeamVivian is trending. So is #SterlingHeir.
The world has turned us into a spectator sport.
I'm scrolling through comments when the lights flicker.
Just once. Quick. Almost imperceptible.
I pause, wine glass halfway to my lips.
The temperature drops. Sudden, sharp, like someone opened a window to the arctic. My breath mists in the air.
"What the hell..."
I set the wine down, pull my cardigan tighter. The thermostat reads 72 degrees, but it feels like 40.
The lights flicker again. Longer this time. On, off, on.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
"Faulty wiring," I say out loud. "Just old building bullshit."
But my voice sounds thin. Unconvincing.
The cold intensifies. It's not coming from outside. It's coming from inside. From nowhere and everywhere at once.
I stand slowly, every instinct screaming at me to run. But run where? This is my apartment. My space.
The lights go out completely.
Darkness swallows everything. Just me and the cold and the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
Then, in the blackness, I hear it.
Breathing.
Not mine.
Someone else's.
Slow. Deliberate. Right behind me.
I spin around, but there's nothing. No one. Just empty darkness and that goddamn cold seeping into my bones.
The lights flicker back on.
I'm alone.
Completely, utterly alone.
But the cold remains, clinging to my skin like invisible fingers.
And somewhere, thousands of miles away in a New York penthouse, I know Chase Sterling is smiling.