“Selena Carmichael?” Director Cho asked, glancing up from her notes.
Her voice sounded calm, neutral, giving nothing away.
“Yes,” I said, forcing myself to take a few steps forward, even though my instinct was to hover near the door and make a run for it if things went badly.
“Come in. We’ll try a few different reads today.”
There was no chair this time. Just open space in the middle of the room, like a stage stripped down to its barest form. I moved into it anyway, gripping the script they’d handed me a little too tightly, as if the paper itself might steady me.
“Let’s start with Hero,” Cho said. “Act four. The wedding scene.”
I glanced down at the page, my throat already tightening.
Hero was gentle, soft-spoken—and then suddenly, brutally exposed. Accused. Shattered in front of everyone.Perfect.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
I nodded, though I wasn’t ready at all.
I took a breath, opened my mouth— and nothing came out.
Heat crept up the back of my neck, my fingers tightening around the edges of the script as I stared down at the words, willing them to settle into something I could actually say.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “Just—one second.”
No one rushed me or tried to fill the silence.
They just waited, which somehow made it worse.
I swallowed, forcing another breath into my lungs.
It’s just reading. Just words. Just a room. No one here knows anything about you. They don’tknow.
I lifted my head again, and this time, I started.
“I talked with no man at that hour, my lord?—”
The line came out too subdued, too uncertain, and I felt it immediately, the wrongness of it, like wearing something that didn’t quite fit. My instinct was to stop, to apologize, to ask to start again before I made it worse.
But something in me resisted.No. If I was going to fail, I was at least going to finish.
I steadied myself, forced my shoulders back just a fraction, and tried again, letting the words settle before I spoke.
“I talked with no man at that hour, my lord.”
Better. Still quiet, but steadier, less fragile.
I made myself look up this time, meeting their eyes instead of hiding behind the page.
“They know that do accuse me. I know none.”
My voice caught slightly, not on purpose, but it worked, because suddenly I wasn’t thinking about how I sounded anymore. I wasn’t trying to perform it right.
I was reacting.
Being watched. Being doubted. Being told I was something I wasn’t.
The room blurred at the edges.
