Chapter 1 — The Red Carpet Disaster
Third Person
The flashbulbs erupted in a frenzy, transforming Hollywood Boulevard into a kaleidoscope of shimmering chaos. Amara Voss stood poised at the edge of the red carpet’s gilded expanse, her hazel eyes scanning the throng of reporters and camera lenses. She was a vision in emerald green satin, the gown sculpting her figure like liquid art, its dramatic train trailing behind her like the tail of a comet. The scent of fresh roses from oversized floral arrangements mingled with hints of perfume and the faint tang of city asphalt, grounding the surreal glamour of the moment.
Sofia Price’s hand rested firmly against Amara’s lower back, a subtle but commanding gesture. “This is your moment, Amara,” Sofia murmured, her voice a low hum of resolute confidence that carried just beneath the din.
Amara adjusted the emerald cuff on her wrist, her thumb grazing over the engraved words “Be your own light.” Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, a quiet reminder of the sacrifices that had brought her here. The metal was cool against her skin, a tether to reality amidst the electric air. She inhaled deeply and stepped forward, her heels clicking against the polished pavement. The crowd’s buzz swelled, the roar of voices and camera flashes rising to a crescendo as she began her ascent toward the pinnacle of Hollywood stardom.
And then it happened.
A sharp, unmistakable sound—fabric tearing—sliced through the chaos like a knife. The gasp caught in Amara’s throat as she froze mid-step, a ripple of panic coursing through her. She registered the cool brush of air against her thigh, the delicate seam of the gown’s side slit betraying her, revealing far more than intended.
Her heart raced as she instinctively clutched at the torn fabric, her hands trembling. The once-seamless elegance of her look had unraveled in a single, catastrophic moment. The crowd hadn’t noticed yet, but the cameras were relentless, their lenses trained on her every move. Whispers in the crowd filtered through the chaos, a murmur of curiosity that threatened to grow louder. The humiliation settled like a weight in her chest, her mind racing with the headlines that would undoubtedly follow.
“Oh no,” she whispered under her breath, her polished demeanor cracking as the magnitude of the moment enveloped her. A flush crept up her neck, heat blooming under her makeup. Her pulse pounded, each beat amplifying the fear of being exposed—not just physically, but emotionally. This was the fear she worked tirelessly to keep at bay: the fear of being seen as less than perfect, less than deserving.
Sofia was at her side in an instant, her gray eyes sharp and assessing. “Keep walking. Smile. No one knows yet,” she hissed, her tone urgent but calm.
Amara’s lips curved into an automatic smile, the kind she’d perfected in countless photo calls and press junkets. But the edges wavered, betraying the fortress of confidence she usually carried so effortlessly. Each step forward was a gamble, the precarious state of her gown threatening to expose her further. Somewhere down the carpet, Harper Lake’s golden figure posed effortlessly, radiant and untouched by mishap. Harper’s laugh rang out like a bell, crystal clear above the din, and Amara’s chest tightened—a reminder of the unrelenting scrutiny she faced as both an actress and a woman of color in a world designed to magnify her every flaw.
When they reached the edge of the carpet where the first cluster of interviews awaited, Sofia leaned closer. “Go. Backstage. Now.”
Amara nodded, her throat tight, and turned on her heel. Her head was held high, her smile frozen in place, but her feet carried her swiftly toward a side entrance, away from the glaring lights and murmuring crowd. The walkway seemed endless, the camera flashes searing her retreat into her memory, each click a nail in the coffin of her confidence.
The transition from the red carpet’s dazzling spectacle to the backstage corridor was jarring—the warmth of the spotlight gave way to the cold, utilitarian hum of the Oscars’ inner workings. As she stepped into the dimly lit hallway, the air shifted. It smelled faintly metallic, an undercurrent of stale air conditioning and the chemical tang of hairspray. Black-clad crew members wove between cases of equipment and exposed cables, their voices low but urgent, the quiet machinery of Hollywood’s most glamorous night grinding on without pause.
Amara clutched the torn fabric to her thigh, grounding herself with a deep breath. Her composure, already fragile, was slipping under the weight of her spiraling thoughts. What would they say about her tomorrow? “Amara Voss can act, but she can’t even wear a gown without it falling apart.” The thought tightened her chest, the sting of imagined ridicule sharper than the cool air on her skin.
“Hollywood’s golden girl, huh?” A voice, low and sardonic, broke through her internal storm. “I guess even couture has its off days.”
Amara spun around, startled. Leaning casually against the wall was a man with tousled dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses perched slightly askew on his nose. His button-up shirt was wrinkled, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and he held a coffee cup in one hand, its lid slightly ajar. He was the polar opposite of the sleek, polished stars on the red carpet, an outsider in this meticulously curated world.
“Excuse me?” Her tone was sharp, edged with the defensive heat of embarrassment, though her cheeks flamed.
The man arched an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. “I’m just saying, you made quite the entrance out there. Didn’t think the Oscars needed more drama, but hey, you’re full of surprises.”
Her hazel eyes narrowed, irritation kindling in the wake of his audacity. “And who, exactly, are you supposed to be?”
He straightened slightly, his smirk softening into something more self-deprecating. “Julian Hayes. Screenwriter. And someone who definitely doesn’t belong here. But judging by that exit,” he gestured vaguely toward the red carpet, “maybe we’ve got that in common.”
Julian Hayes. She recognized the name immediately. He’d written that critically praised indie script last year, the one that had taken the film world by storm. His reputation preceded him: a brilliant writer who had little patience for Hollywood’s excess.
“Well, Mr. Hayes,” she replied, her voice steadying as she adjusted her grip on the torn gown, “it’s a good thing you’re not in front of the cameras, because sneering at people’s misfortune isn’t exactly a great look.”
He chuckled, the sound warm and surprisingly disarming. “Fair enough. Consider this my awkward attempt at small talk. Not my strong suit.”
“Clearly.” Despite herself, a flicker of amusement tugged at her lips. The absurdity of the situation—the gown, the cameras, the gall of this disheveled screenwriter—was beginning to chip away at her panic. “And for the record, I didn’t ‘bolt.’ I’m regrouping.”
“Regrouping.” He repeated the word slowly, as though testing its weight. “I like that. Sounds better than ‘fleeing the scene.’”
She rolled her eyes but found herself smiling, just barely. “Do you always comment on strangers’ disasters, or am I just lucky?”
“Not usually. You caught me on an off day,” he said, his tone turning wry. “But for what it’s worth, they’ll probably forget about it by tomorrow. Hollywood’s got the attention span of a goldfish.”
The remark, delivered so casually, struck a chord. It was true, she realized. Tonight’s disaster would fade, replaced by the next viral moment. The weight in her chest eased, if only slightly.
Before she could respond, Sofia swept into view, a seamstress in tow with an emergency sewing kit. “Amara, we’ve got five minutes to fix this and get you back out there,” Sofia declared, her tone brisk but steady.
Amara squared her shoulders, the spark of resilience flaring to life. “Let’s do it.”
As Sofia ushered her toward a makeshift dressing area, Julian stepped aside, his gaze following her. “Good luck, Amara,” he said, his voice quieter now, carrying a sincerity that softened the edges of his earlier sarcasm.
She paused, glancing back over her shoulder. Her lips curved into a small, genuine smile. “Thanks. And next time? Work on your small talk.”
His low laughter followed her as she disappeared down the corridor, the sound lingering like a thread of warmth in the cold, chaotic backstage. For the first time that evening, Amara felt something shift within her—a reminder that even in moments of collapse, there was space for levity, for resilience. She wasn’t sure why, but Julian Hayes had managed the impossible: he’d made her forget, if only for a moment, the crushing weight of the expectations she carried.
