Chapter 1 — Welcome to the Spotlight

Y/n

The towering glass doors of the studio building gleam in the early morning sun, streaks of gold and blue reflecting off their sleek surface. I stand frozen on the steps, clutching the strap of my bag with one hand and my leather-bound journal tucked tightly in the other. My palms are damp, and my fingers trace the journal’s worn edges, as if its familiar texture might keep me grounded. My heart pounds so hard I’m sure someone could hear it if they got close enough.

“Just go in, Y/n,” I whisper under my breath, but the words sound hollow, unconvincing. A deep breath would help, but my chest feels like it's caught in a vise. My mind races with everything that could go wrong today. What if I mess up? What if everyone realizes I’m just some clueless newbie who doesn’t deserve to be here?

I clutch the journal tighter—it feels more like a shield than a notebook now. The leather is warm from my hold, grounding me in the present. I let out a shaky breath and take a cautious step forward as the automatic doors whoosh open. The cool, air-conditioned interior hits me like a wave, carrying a mix of sawdust, paint, and coffee. The strange blend of creation and exhaustion fills my senses.

The set sprawls out in front of me like a labyrinth of cables, scaffolding, and towering green screens. Elaborate props dot the space—one in particular catches my eye, a vintage rotary phone that seems oddly out of place yet commands attention. Even from a distance, it feels ominous, like it knows the story we’re here to tell. My stomach twists as I think of the film: haunting, chilling, and so much bigger than I feel right now. The weight of it all presses down on me, and for a moment, I’m not sure I can move.

“Y/n!”

The sharp call jolts me out of my head. I turn to see Madeleine striding toward me, her long blonde hair catching the light like a halo. She looks effortlessly glamorous in a chic, bohemian-inspired outfit, her warm smile cutting through the chaos around us.

“There you are!” she says, enveloping me in a hug that smells like vanilla and citrus. “I was worried you might get swallowed whole by this place. It’s a lot, isn’t it?”

I manage a weak laugh, though my voice trembles. “It’s... overwhelming. I mean, it’s amazing, but—yeah. A lot.”

Madeleine links her arm through mine like we’ve been friends forever, her touch easing some of the tension in my chest. “Come on, I’ll show you to the cast lounge. You’ll love it—terrible coffee, decent snacks, and couches that will ruin your posture in a week.”

Her humor coaxes a small smile from me as she guides me through the maze of equipment and bustling crew. I try to focus on her steady presence, but my eyes keep darting to the set around me. A crew member shouts directions over the clatter of equipment. The hum of voices feels like static, pressing in from every direction. We pass a shadowy corner draped with black fabric, the kind of space that makes your skin crawl without knowing why. The air feels electric here, like the story is alive, waiting for us to bring it to life.

As we walk, we pass a scene being prepped—a dimly lit replica of a basement, complete with an old, creaking staircase. A crew member adjusts a flickering yellow bulb overhead. The eerie atmosphere sends a shiver down my spine, but it’s also mesmerizing. For a moment, my nerves fade, replaced by awe. The sheer scale of it all—the effort, the detail—it’s incredible. This is what I’ve always dreamed of being part of, and yet it feels so far out of my reach.

We reach the cast lounge, and the buzz of activity fades into a quieter hum. The room is a mix of sleek modern design and lived-in chaos. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a view of the city skyline, the morning light bouncing off the gleaming skyscrapers. Scripts, coffee cups, and snack wrappers litter the low tables, and a mismatched rug struggles to cover scuffed hardwood floors. It’s opulent but messy, like the lives we’re all supposed to lead.

Three people occupy the lounge, each radiating their own distinct energy.

Bay is sprawled across a couch, one leg hooked over the armrest as he tosses jellybeans into the air, catching most of them but letting a few bounce onto the floor. His graphic tee and sneakers complete the image of someone who exudes effortless charm.

Becca sits in the corner, her gaze sharp and focused on her phone. She’s dressed in her signature edgy style—a cropped leather jacket, combat boots resting on the coffee table, and an aura that screams “don’t mess with me.” Her stoic expression only makes her seem cooler, more intimidating. I notice the way her fingers occasionally tap against her phone, as if she’s thinking faster than she’s typing. There’s something about her quiet focus that feels deliberate, like she’s always one step ahead of everyone around her.

And then there’s Samuel.

He leans against the far wall, legs crossed at the ankles, absently flicking a silver lighter open and closed. The faint metallic *click-click* fills the room, cutting through the ambient noise. His dark, unruly hair falls just enough into his piercing blue eyes to make him look effortlessly disheveled, though I suspect it’s entirely intentional. Even though he’s holding his phone, scrolling like he doesn’t have a care in the world, there’s a tension to him—a quiet command of the room that feels impossible to ignore.

“Hey, new girl,” Bay calls out, waving a jellybean in my direction. “Welcome to the circus. Jellybean? They’re organic. Or maybe radioactive. Hard to say.”

I smile despite myself. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs and pops another jellybean into his mouth, grinning like he’s won some unspoken game.

Madeleine squeezes my arm lightly. “Don’t mind him. He’s harmless. Mostly.” She gestures toward the others. “You’ve met Samuel and Becca, right? Briefly at the table read?”

Before I can answer, Samuel glances up, his smirk sharp enough to cut glass. “Ah, the newbie. Didn’t think you’d show up,” he says, his tone casual but layered with challenge.

My pulse quickens, and my throat tightens under the weight of his gaze. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugs, flicking the lighter again. “Nerves. Happens to the best of us. Or so I hear.”

The jab lands, and heat rushes to my cheeks. I want to say something clever, something that would prove I belong here, but the words stick in my throat.

Madeleine steps in, her tone light but firm. “Samuel, play nice. It’s her first day.”

“Playing nice is overrated,” Becca mutters, her eyes still on her phone, though a faint smirk tugs at the corner of her lips.

“See? Becca gets it,” Samuel replies, his own smirk widening.

Madeleine sighs dramatically. “You’re both impossible. Anyway, Y/n, ignore him. He’s like a stray cat—hisses a lot but might warm up to you eventually.”

“I don’t hiss,” Samuel retorts, though there’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

I hold my breath, watching the exchange, and notice the way Samuel’s lighter flickers for a fraction of a second before he closes it again. The sound lingers, sharp and precise, as if it’s keeping time. My frustration with him twists with something I can’t quite name—curiosity, maybe? I shake the feeling off, trying to focus on Madeleine’s words.

Madeleine launches into a story about a wardrobe malfunction during one of her earlier roles. Her animated retelling draws a laugh from Bay and even a small smile from Becca, who glances up briefly to add a cutting remark about fashion disasters. I relax bit by bit, though I can’t seem to shake the feeling of Samuel’s gaze flitting toward me, sharp and assessing, like he’s trying to figure me out.

Hours later, after the day’s chaos subsides, I retreat to my small bedroom in the luxury suite. The city lights twinkle beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but I barely notice them as I curl up on the bed with my journal. The leather cover feels warm and familiar in my hands, grounding me as I flip it open and press pen to paper.

*"Today was overwhelming. The set, the cast, the pressure—it’s all so much. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, one wrong step away from proving I don’t belong here. And Samuel... He’s infuriating. But there’s something about him. Something I can’t quite figure out, and I’m not sure I want to.*

*But I won’t let any of this scare me off. I’ve worked too hard to get here. Tomorrow, I’ll be better. I have to be better. I’ll prove I belong."*

I close the journal and clutch it to my chest, letting out a long, shaky breath. The knot of anxiety in my stomach loosens just slightly, replaced by a flicker of resolve. Tomorrow is a new day, and I’m not going to let my nerves win.