Chapter 2 — Behind the Curtain
Third Person
The backstage corridor was a world stripped of the red carpet’s glamour, its harsh fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, casting stark, unflattering shadows on the walls lined with metallic cases and bundled cables. The faint scent of hairspray and fabric glue lingered in the air, mingling with the quiet hum of walkie-talkies and hurried footsteps. Beyond the walls, the muffled roar of the crowd outside ebbed and swelled, a reminder of the chaos Amara had momentarily escaped.
Amara stood motionless near a cluster of crew members, her trembling fingers clutching the torn fabric of her gown. Her breath hitched unevenly, her chest tight with embarrassment and dread. The jagged split in the emerald satin felt like a physical manifestation of her deepest fear: imperfection laid bare for the world to see.
Sofia Price was beside her in an instant, her sharp gray eyes scanning the situation with practiced precision. With the smooth efficiency of someone who had weathered countless crises, Sofia placed a steadying hand on Amara’s arm. “Amara, look at me,” she said, her voice firm but grounding, like the snap of a taut rope in the middle of a storm.
Amara turned her head reluctantly, her hazel eyes wide with humiliation. “I—Sofia, it’s ruined,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she gestured helplessly to the gaping tear.
“It’s not ruined,” Sofia replied with conviction, her tone cutting through the haze of Amara’s panic. “It’s a setback. And setbacks are temporary. Now breathe.”
Amara sucked in a shaky breath, her fingers brushing the cool metal of her emerald cuff. The engraved words—“Be your own light”—echoed faintly in her mind, but they felt impossibly distant, like a faint star against the vast sky of her spiraling thoughts. Her chest tightened again, her mind racing. She could already see the headlines: “Oscar Nominee’s Wardrobe Catastrophe” or “Amara Voss: A Red Carpet Rip to Remember.” Worse still, she could almost hear Harper Lake’s crystalline laughter echoing through exclusive afterparties, retelling the moment with her signature sweet venom.
Sofia’s voice cut through her anxiety like a lifeline. “Amara, this is Hollywood. They only care about how you recover, not the fall itself. Let me handle the gown. You handle the rest.”
Amara nodded faintly, though her hands remained clenched on the ruined fabric. “Recover,” she mouthed, willing the word to take root within her.
Across the corridor, Julian Hayes leaned against a stack of black equipment cases, coffee cup in hand and a distant frown on his face. The scene before him played out like a microcosm of everything he hated about Hollywood: the contrived perfection, the absurdly high stakes, the invisible but palpable pressure to perform. He adjusted his ill-fitting blazer—a last-minute concession to his agent’s insistence that he “play the part”—and fiddled absently with the cup lid. The lukewarm coffee’s bitter scent wafted upward, grounding him in the unvarnished reality of the moment.
His gaze lingered on Amara. He hadn’t meant to notice her, but even in distress, she was impossible to ignore. She radiated something—grace, maybe, or sheer determination—despite the visible cracks in her polished composure. The split in her gown caught the light like a deliberate design, though the way she clutched at it betrayed the raw vulnerability beneath.
Julian sighed, guilt nudging at his earlier sarcastic remark. Sarcasm was his armor, a reflexive shield against the absurdity of nights like this. But watching her now, visibly shaken, he felt a twinge of something unexpected: regret.
Sofia stepped aside briefly, her phone pressed to her ear as she organized reinforcements. Amara stood alone for a moment, her panic barely concealed beneath her poised surface. Julian hesitated, then cleared his throat softly. “Looks like the regrouping strategy’s starting to take shape,” he said, his tone gentler this time.
Her head snapped in his direction, her hazel eyes narrowing, though a flicker of recognition tempered the sharpness of her glare. “You’re still here?” she asked, raising a perfectly shaped brow, her voice steadier than she felt.
He shrugged, lifting his coffee cup in a mock toast. “Guilty as charged. Just trying to provide some commentary for the occasion. Keeps things interesting.”
Her lips twitched, almost against her will. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”
“Not one of my strengths,” he admitted with a faint smirk. His tone softened further as he added, “For what it’s worth, you’re handling this better than most would.”
“Yeah, well, the bar is pretty low when you’re the disaster of the evening,” she shot back, trying to ignore the heat creeping up her neck. Still, the faint humor in their exchange settled her nerves, if only slightly.
“It’s the Oscars,” Julian replied, his voice turning wry. “They forget faster than they applaud.”
Amara let out a soft, incredulous laugh, the sound catching her by surprise. “And here I thought you were just another cynic.”
He tilted his head thoughtfully. “I am. But even cynics know when to give credit where it’s due.”
Before she could respond, Sofia returned with a seamstress in tow, a petite woman armed with a sewing kit and an air of calm efficiency. “We’ve got this under control,” Sofia announced briskly. “Amara, come with me.”
Amara nodded, casting one last glance at Julian. “Thanks… for whatever that was.”
“Anytime,” he replied, watching as she disappeared behind a makeshift dressing area flanked by black curtains. The faint clatter of sewing tools and Sofia’s commanding voice faded into the background, leaving Julian alone with his coffee and his thoughts.
He took a slow sip, his gaze lingering on the spot where Amara had stood. For a moment, he tried to turn his attention back to the ceremony, to the endless parade of speeches and staged smiles. But the image of her hazel eyes—bright and defiant, yet shadowed by something deeper—clung to him. Against his better judgment, he found himself hoping she’d step back onto that red carpet, not for the cameras or the critics, but for herself.
Behind the curtain, the seamstress worked swiftly, her hands moving with practiced precision as she stitched the torn fabric. Amara stood still, her body tense, her hands gripping the edges of a nearby table. The adrenaline still buzzed faintly in her veins, but Sofia’s presence beside her was steadying. For a moment, she caught the faintest ghost of a smile on Sofia’s lips, and it made something inside her loosen.
“You’re going to be fine,” Sofia said, her tone firm but reassuring. “This will be just another story you tell someday. And you’ll laugh about it.”
Amara tried to picture it—herself on a late-night talk show, recounting the incident with humor and grace. It still felt impossibly far away, but the thought offered a fragile thread of hope. She glanced down at the emerald cuff on her wrist, its subtle gleam catching the light. “Be your own light,” it whispered, and this time, the words felt closer.
The seamstress finished with a careful snip of the thread and stepped back. “All done,” she said, her voice calm and confident. “Just avoid any sharp movements.”
Amara nodded, running her hands over the repaired fabric. The tear was gone, hidden behind an almost invisible seam. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice steadying. She turned to Sofia, who gave her an approving nod.
“Let’s get back out there,” Sofia said, her tone decisive.
Amara squared her shoulders, inhaling deeply. As she stepped back into the corridor, the hum of the crew and the distant applause from the ceremony swirled around her. Her heels clicked softly against the floor, and her posture straightened, buoyed by a tentative but growing sense of resolve. The emerald cuff on her wrist caught the fluorescent light, a quiet reminder of the strength she was still learning to claim.
Julian, still leaning against the equipment cases, watched her walk away. A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Regrouping,” he murmured to himself, the word tasting heavier now. “Not bad.”
