She came to a stop in front of a young woman’s likeness fashioned in stone. Her fingers darted out, tracing the dips and curves of her nose, her cheeks, trying to vicariously understand what it was to be immortalized. The statue was beautiful, with an arched nose and thick brows. This—the touching—was surely not allowed amongst such precious artifacts, but there wasn’t so much as a security camera in sight.
Such was the folly of the rich. To let their wealth speak for them.Look at our jewels, see how little we care what happens to them. Take it, break it if you dare. We will buy hundreds more to replace it.It sent a thrill down Dimple’s spine.
There was something fascinating in art, inverse to that of life. Wherein women in this business lost value with age, this stone woman would only grow in value as time went on. The statue would be remembered exactly like this—young and beautiful, forever. Unlike Dimple. As of now, nothing of hers would stand the test of time. And neither would she.
Dimple pressed her palm against the statue, contemplating pushing. Smashing it to pieces on the ground. Subjecting it to the same fate she couldn’t seem to escape; to be discarded, forgotten. But it wasn’t a fate she would wish upon anyone. Not even stone.
She dropped her hand.
There was a grand staircase at the center of the mansion, starkwhite in comparison to its blood-red runner and just as ostentatious as the chandelier that hung above it. Dimple scanned the empty balcony of the second floor. The difference in popularity between the two stories was evident; Irene Singh did not allow people upstairs, where her family’s rooms were.
As she climbed, Dimple could almost pretend she was the star of this event. A crowd staring up at her as though she were holier than the sun. Camera shutters and blinding flashes vying for her attention. Perhaps this was how Irene felt every day.
Dimple reached the second-story landing, heart stuttering as she took in the unforgiving marble from her new vantage point. A twenty-foot drop, the police reports would later confirm.
The sound of another pair of heels had her stiffening, fantasies dashed yet again. She braced herself, putting on her most somber face. It felt oddly as though she’d been caught amidst committing some sort of misdeed.
“Hello, Irene,” she greeted the owner of the mansion before turning to face her.
They assessed each other at the top of the grand staircase. Irene Singh was, of course, dressed entirely in the exclusive fashion brand Salomé. Dimple had never once been offered the opportunity to don one of their gowns, let alone one as beautiful and expensive as Irene’s velvet black number.
“What are you doing up here?” Irene’s smile was polite, but the sharpness of her gaze was anything but.
“I could ask you the same question,” Dimple replied.
“I live here,” she said, which was fair. “You on the other hand—well, I’m surprised you showed up at all.”
“How could I say no to a personal invitation?”
“The last thing I’d want is for you to feel left out,” Irene said, false pity overtaking her soft features. “But just because I have reason to celebrate doesn’t mean you have to put on a brave face.”
“I’m not—”
“I know how hard you work. If only it paid off,” she said, sickeningly sweet.
Any amount of calm Dimple had managed of herself had been fornaught. Irene was talented in many things; acting was not one of them, but irritating Dimple certainly was.
She loathed admitting it, but it was because they were so similar that they were constantly competing for roles. And not just in their long brown hair and golden skin. Both Dimple and her manager had thought the sweet, doe-eyed girl-next-door in real life contrasted with the intense horror actress on-screen would be a unique niche for her. And then came Irene.
Dimple couldn’t help the way her jaw clenched in annoyance. “Speaking of,” she said pleasantly, “congratulations.”
As though unable to hold herself back any longer, Irene reached forward and clasped both of Dimple’s hands in her own, shaking them with excitement. Dimple instinctively took a step back, heartbeat jumping to her throat. Irene’s breath carried whatever she’d been drinking and Dimple couldn’t help feeling like easy prey.
“You have no idea how hard it’s been to keep this a secret! You’re the only one who knows.”
She said it like it was something to be proud of, something exclusive between close friends. Dimple knew about the role Irene had landed only because it had almost been hers. The invitation to this party had come less than an hour after the call that she hadn’t booked it. The tears on her cheeks hadn’t the time to dry before sending the RSVP.
Dimple bit back a scowl and pulled away, but judging by her smirk, Irene didn’t miss the resentment that had snuck into Dimple’s expression. Blood rushed in her ears. As much as Irene claimed a desire to forge her own path, she had her family name backing her. Singh Sr. was so often pictured in magazines playing golf with the rest of Hollywood’s biggest producers, Dimple wondered if he did anything else.
Irene had stepped into the spotlight years after her, but it wasn’t long before they were glaring daggers at each other outside audition rooms. It was impossible not to see each other as competition with how often they were mistakenly called the other’s name. The difference was that after every failed audition, Irene went home to her mansion.
Sometimes, a lost role still left a chance to be cast as a minor character if she made a good enough impression on the director. But if Irene was cast, Dimple looked far too similar to be given any other role, no matter how small. The same was true vice versa. Directors had joked that the only way they’d both make it in the industry was if they trained in stunt work so they could substitute for each other. The constant passive aggressive barbs didn’t help either. Irene had won the first victory, and so she’d been the one to start that tradition.
And now she’d be the one to end it. Irene had landed her breakout lead role, and just like that, Dimple had lost their short-lived cold war. Considering that Irene was only the latest of many actresses who had beat her to the finish line, Dimple figured there had to come a point where she accepted that her career had died before it had even begun.
“You might think you want this, Dimple, but it’s hard always being in the spotlight,” Irene said, eyes shining. She looked out forlornly over her mansion. “You don’t realize how lucky you are.”
“I appreciate the advice from such a seasoned actress as yourself.” Nobody could claim that Dimple didn’t at least attempt pleasantries.
