“Is all of this for us?” Priyal asked, leaning closer to inspect her options.
Someone perusing the fruit selection shot her a look. “For actors, actually,” he said, making Priyal flush and retract her hand.
He was blond, muscular, and a few inches shorter than Dimple. It didn’t take long to place him as her co-star and on-screen love interest, Chris Porter. If he recognized Dimple, he didn’t show it. Thankfully, he left this interaction much less obtrusively than he arrived. Apple in hand, whistling to himself as he went.
Having been on-screen since he was a child, Chris was the only truly well-known name amongInsomnia’s cast. Dimple didn’t even want to know what he was being paid to be here. Her compensation was surely pennies in comparison, despite being a co-lead.
The lanky man working the craft table gave Priyal an apologetic look and Dimple had a sudden inkling that she’d seen him somewhere before as well. He turned to Dimple, giving her such an intense stare, it was a wonder she didn’t burst into flames. Was he expecting her to say something? She looked down for a name tag and found none. It was all Dimple could do to turn away and pray he didn’t attempt to strike up a conversation.
She could still remember her first day on a film set, terrified of being kicked off for breathing wrong. Actors often had egos far bigger than the quality of their work warranted. Some took it out on anyone they deemed lesser than. Dimple’s version of Chris Porter had been a bit older, perpetually upset he was no longer the heartthrob of the era. Under the guise of mentoring, he’d nitpicked all of the extras’ work even more than the director. But none more so than Dimple’s. Perhaps it had been because the others had broken long before her, all clenched fists and hastily dried tears. But Dimple wasn’t so easy. In the end, it was the acting he’d called stiff, the nose he’d called distracting, the expressions he’d called dead, that had landed her this role. Priyal needed to see that too—that it would be worth it in the end.
“Take whatever you’d like,” Dimple whispered, low enough for only Priyal to hear. “If anyone says anything, tell them it’s for me.”Priyal nodded like a soldier accepting orders and snatched three sandwiches before Dimple could pull her away.
As Priyal exchanged cheery greetings with everyone they passed, Dimple tried to reconcile with the fact that this wasn’t a dream. Her assistant stomping on her toe by accident helped to solidify the moment, if only a little, but it wasn’t until someone stopped Dimple to point her in the direction of her trailer that it began to sinkin.
Dimple had waited her whole life for this and yet she couldn’t help dragging her feet on the way there. She was half afraid this would all dissolve into a mirage. The other half was convinced she didn’t deserve it. This was supposed to be Irene’s role. Irene’s trailer.
They stepped outside, heels crunching across the gravel. A cool breeze had her hair standing on end—although that could’ve been nerves. The aforementioned trailer didn’t look like anything special on the outside. Taped to the door, though, was a paper with Dimple’s full name printed on it, the corners ticking up with the force of the wind.
Her name, not Irene’s.
It was a bit of a shock when she firmly grasped the icy metal of the door handle and it didn’t fade away. However she’d gotten this role, she had worked for it. She’d spent her whole life thinking she was at the lowest point she could possibly be and then sinking even lower. All to hope that, by some stroke of luck, she’d end up here one day. And that was exactly what had happened. Dimple swung the door open with all her might, holding her breath. She wasn’t sure if she or Priyal gasped louder.
“Oh wow,” Priyal breathed.
The trailer was bigger and nicer than Dimple’s first LA apartment. It was temperature controlled, whereas her first apartment had always been swelteringly hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter, with no hot water. Smooth brown hardwood and the smell of lemon cleaning product compared to ambiguously stained carpet and a lingering sour smell. From community plays to acting classes, Dimple had scrambled for any opportunity to be onstage. All of them exhilarating, but none of them paid. Not at first, at least.There were several weeks she’d come home bone-tired and convinced she’d made a mistake packing her bags and moving to Los Angeles.
But Dimple had persevered, if only for a taste of the same feeling she got in the middle of the night in her childhood home, watching silent films on the old VHS tapes her mother had left behind. She could turn the sound all the way off and still understand the story, the simple black and white of the screen subtle enough not to awaken her aunt and uncle. At times it felt like her mother was right there beside her. And Hollywoodwasbeautiful, but it was the kind of beauty you had to work for. Dimple could see that now more than ever, standing in the trailer she could call her own.
“I can’t believe all of this is yours,” Priyal said, poking her head into the empty cabinets.
Hers.It felt right. Dimple’s fingertips danced across the countertop. She didn’t have Irene’s money or connections. Ultimately, it was Dimple’s talents and her talents alone that had gotten her to second place. If everyone else had something extra to bolster them to first, then why couldn’t she have the same?
For the first time in a long while, she felt completely at home.
—
After a longfirst day of filming, the sun having set hours ago, Dimple had never felt more confident in her choice to take this role. Her co-lead, Chris Porter, while an utter buffoon, was a much more capable actor than he appeared. His character was serious and he adapted to it well, years of experience translating into confidence on set. And Jerome Bardoux was just as ruthless and ambitious as she’d expected. They were already running ahead of schedule, and she had never felt so fulfilled after a single day’s work.
Priyal had gone home earlier in the day. She wasn’t technically supposed to be on set in the first place—Jerome ruled his kingdom with an iron fist—but Dimple hadn’t seen the harm in letting the girl sit in on a bit of the process. She was an aspiring actress, after all.
Not that Priyal had told Dimple of her aspirations so explicitly, but other than to break into the industry, there was little reason forsomeone in their early twenties to move to LA and work as a personal assistant, of all things.
She wrenched her trailer door open to collect her belongings. Usually, this level of bone-tiredness alone would be enough to knock her out, but the adrenaline thrumming under her skin kept her from rest. The familiar—but never any less unsettling—image of Irene’s motionless corpse flashed across the back of her eyelids every time she blinked. As though her brain had simply bookmarked it for later.
Dimple forced herself to move through a budding migraine and burning eyes until something caught her attention. Any other day, she would’ve ignored it. Today, she was on edge and desperate for a distraction.
There it was—something blue stuck to her mirror. Probably a note from the assistant director. Snatching it from the glass, Dimple held it up to the light. It left behind a faint sticky residue and that only worsened her mood, but she was too busy trying to make out the messy handwriting to focus on that.
I know you pushed her, and I have proof. If you don’t want me going to the police, make the call.
Chapter Six
February 2, 2026
Monday found Saffialone in the office. Andino and Taylor must be working from home. She didn’t bother informing them of her arrival, figuring she’d wait until she had something of substance to discuss.
The case had not officially been closed, but the general consensus was that Irene had slipped. It seemed that even the Singhs were beginning to buy into this narrative. Apparently, they were in the process of suing the fashion brand Salomé. The claim itself was ridiculous—that the shoes their daughter had been wearing were what caused her to fall—but Saffi supposed they had the funds to rewrite the narrative however they desired. It was as easy as finding a new target to bear the brunt of their ever-shifting blame.
