Second act

I sat in the middle of my tiny New York apartment, legs crossed on the faded couch, fingers drumming against my thighs, trying to stop my mind from spiraling into oblivion.

The space around me seemed to close in, as it often did when I let my thoughts take control.

The room, which once felt cozy, now seemed suffocating. The chipped paint on the walls, the single window that barely let in light from the streets below, the clutter of magazines and scripts scattered everywhere all of it felt like it was mocking me.

Maya, my manager, was pacing back and forth in front of me. Her footsteps sounded louder than usual, each step a reminder of what was coming.

Her reassuring smile, though genuine, barely reached my core. She was always the calm in my storm, but today, not even her presence could pull me out of the mental labyrinth I'd created for myself.

"Layla, you're going to be fantastic. This is just another job," she said for what felt like the hundredth time.

She paused, brushing a strand of her light brown hair behind her ear, her eyes locking onto mine. I appreciated her optimism, but she wasn't the one about to be thrown into the lion's den.

I bit my lip, trying to focus on the sound of her voice, but the buzzing in my mind drowned it out. "It's not just another job, Maya," I muttered.

"It's a freaking perfume ad… for one of the biggest brands. Why would they pick me? There are hundreds of better actresses, more experienced models—"

Maya shook her head, cutting me off before I could spiral any further. "They picked you because you're good, Layla. You've been working your ass off for 1year. This is your time."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. The dim light flickered slightly. "Yeah, but... Zaya Swanson is going to be there." The name lingered in the air, as heavy as the tension in my chest.

Everyone knew Zaya Swanson. The unreachable model. The one with the perfect face, the perfect reputation, the perfect career.

I'd never met her, and yet, the idea of being in the same room with her, let alone doing a couple shoot, sent a wave of nausea through me.

"I don't even know her, but I already feel like I'm going to mess this up," I whispered, closing my eyes. My mind raced with images of every possible way this day could go wrong.

Maya sat down beside me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. "You're not going to mess it up. Just breathe. It's one shoot. You've handled worse."

I nodded, but the tightness in my chest didn't ease. My thoughts were like a whirlwind, one moment latching onto my insecurities, the next spiraling into the unknowns of the day.

What if I tripped in front of everyone? What if I froze when the cameras rolled? What if Zaya looked at me like I wasn't even worth her time?

I stood abruptly, needing to move, needing to do something to distract myself from the hurricane in my head.

My feet padded across the worn wooden floor as I moved toward the window, looking out at the bustling street below. Cars honked, people moved about their day, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me.

Maya's voice was soft but firm. "We need to leave soon."

I nodded again, though my legs felt like they were made of lead. The reality of it all was crashing down on me, heavier than before.

I reached for my jacket, an old leather one that was fraying at the edges. "Do you think… do you think she'll hate me?" I asked, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Maya chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Layla, she doesn't even know you. Give her a chance, alright? She might surprise you."

I forced a small smile, though it didn't reach my eyes. Doubt lingered in every corner of my mind as I grabbed my things.

The apartment felt even smaller as we headed toward the door, the weight of the day pressing down on me with each step.

The moment we stepped outside, the cool October air hit me, sharp against my skin. The city was alive, as it always was.

The constant hum of traffic, the distant chatter of people, the occasional gust of wind pulling at my hair it all felt both familiar and distant at the same time.

Maya led the way down the narrow stairwell of our building, her heels clicking against the concrete with a rhythm that was almost comforting.

Waiting outside was a car. Nothing fancy just a simple black sedan with tinted windows. I appreciated the simplicity. No grand entrances, no unnecessary attention.

Just… simple. I slid into the backseat, the leather cool beneath my fingers. The space inside was quiet, the hum of the engine a low, soothing sound as we pulled away from the curb.

As we drove through the streets of New York, the city's energy buzzed outside, but inside the car, it was like being in a bubble. My mind, however, was anything but calm.

I tried to focus on the world passing by the towering buildings, the flashing lights of Times Square in the distance but all I could think about was what awaited me at the studio.

The brand. It was massive. Iconic. To be contacted for this shoot felt surreal, like something out of a dream. But with that dream came pressure, the kind that made my chest tight and my hands fidget in my lap.

Maya, sitting beside me, seemed to sense my unease. "Layla, focus on what you can control. Be yourself. That's why they chose you."

I nodded, but the knots in my stomach wouldn't ease.

When we finally arrived at the studio, my breath caught in my throat. It was massive, even from the outside intimidating in its sheer size.

The stark, modern building loomed over us, its sleek lines and glass windows reflecting the bustling city around it. My heart pounded harder as we walked inside, the echo of our footsteps bouncing off the polished floors.

Inside, it was even more overwhelming. People rushed around, setting up lights, adjusting cameras, their voices a constant hum of activity.

The smell of coffee and freshly applied hairspray filled the air. I stood there for a moment, feeling like an outsider in the midst of professionals, until Maya nudged me forward.

A group of makeup artists and stylists quickly surrounded me, ushering me toward a vanity where bright lights reflected off the large mirror.

My heart raced as they began working on me dusting powder on my face, pulling at my hair, brushing and teasing it into perfection.

I tried to focus on the sensation of the brush against my skin, the tug of hairpins, the buzz of conversation around me, but my mind was elsewhere.

The gown they put me in was stunning. A soft, flowing fabric in a deep shade of burgundy that clung to my body in all the right places. It shimmered under the lights, elegant and ethereal.

The jewelry was simple but striking delicate silver chains that draped over my collarbones, with earrings that caught the light whenever I moved.

And then, I heard it. Her name.

"Zaya Swanson's going to be here soon," someone whispered behind me.

My stomach dropped. I tried to steady my breathing, but the thought of her arrival made my heart race even faster. I glanced at my reflection in the mirror, my brown eyes wide with nerves.

Was I really going to be in a couple shoot with her?

The room seemed to tense as whispers of Zaya's arrival floated through the air. People's postures shifted, their movements becoming more deliberate, as if preparing for a queen to walk in.

And then she entered.

Zaya Swanson.