Flashback
1182 Words
Before the glass hotels and sleepless suites, before Louis Foster even knew her name, Serena Wen had another life.
It was quieter. Smaller. Grimy in a way that seeped into your pores and never really left.
She was twenty-three and broke, living in a shared studio above a laundromat in East Hollywood. The ceiling leaked when it rained, the walls were paper-thin, and the AC rattled like it was possessed. Her roommate was a girl named Tiff who ran an eyebrow threader business from their bathroom, and every morning smelled like cheap wax and burnt hair.
But rent was rent.
And every night, just before eight, Serena packed her mic, threw on red lipstick, and walked down three blocks to The Rusty Note—a dive bar tucked behind a shuttered pawn shop where the beer was flat and the speakers squealed if you hit too high a note.
She sang for tips. Not contracts, not headlines. Just tips.
Most nights, it was old covers: Norah Jones, Alicia Keys, a little Amy Winehouse if the crowd was drunk enough. Her voice wasn’t pitch-perfect, but it was smoky and warm—easy on the ears. She knew how to hold a room without trying too hard. That was the trick. Don’t try, just be.
One night, a man showed up in a too-expensive coat and shiny loafers. He sat alone at the back table, sipping top-shelf whiskey that didn’t belong in a place like this. Serena noticed him instantly. Everyone did. He looked like money.
When her set ended, he waved her over.
“You’re wasted in a dump like this,” he said, casually, like he was commenting on the weather. “Ever think of singing somewhere better?”
She laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Like where? The Grammys?”
He smiled like she was a puppy who thought it was a wolf. “Like somewhere you’d actually be seen.”
His name was Wesley. Wesley Smith. He handed her a business card that night—thick, embossed, slick as hell. Talent Coordinator, WestEnd Entertainment.
She’d never heard of it. But the card felt real. Heavy. Important.
“Call me,” he said. “If you’re serious.”
Serena didn’t call right away. She Googled the name, read through vague press releases and blurry photos of red carpet nobodies, and asked around.
Most people hadn’t heard of Wesley.
The ones who had told her the same thing: he knew people. Real ones. Casting directors, producers, music execs. Not the big leagues, but connected enough to open the right doors.
She called three days later.
Wesley didn’t waste time. He had her meet him at a nicer bar this time—downtown, swanky, overpriced drinks and mirrored walls. She wore a thrifted black dress and heels that pinched.
He listened to her sing three songs, recorded them, and sent them off to someone on the spot.
“You’ve got the voice,” he said. “But you need presence. People don’t want just talent—they want packaging. Image.”
“I don’t want to be fake,” she said, arms folded.
He laughed. “No one’s asking you to fake it. Just… exaggerate the truth.”
The next few months blurred together. She quit The Rusty Note, upgraded to a wine bar in Silver Lake where the clientele wore suits and actually tipped more than singles. Wesley dropped in once a week with notes—change this, try that, work on posture, flirt more with the front row. He started introducing her to people too: indie film producers, club owners, background casting assistants. People who talked big but only ever promised possibilities.
Still, it felt like movement.
And then one night, Wesley introduced her to Veronica.
She was tall. Gorgeous in a glossy, studio-approved kind of way. Perfect lashes, manicured nails, heels too high for casual conversation. She looked like the kind of girl who didn’t sweat. The kind who was always fifteen minutes late and never apologized for it.
“She’s got something coming up,” Wesley said as they sipped overpriced cocktails in a lounge that smelled like rosewater and gin.
“Big audition. Studio-backed. But she’s missing something. Edge. Depth. Vulnerability. You two should talk.”
Veronica looked her over with mild interest. “You’re the singer?”
Serena nodded, wary.
“She’s got range,” Wesley said. “In more ways than one.”
What followed was a strange week. Veronica started showing up at her gigs. Watching, sometimes recording. She asked odd questions—“How do you cry on cue?” “What do you think about before you sing something sad?” “How did you learn to sound like that?”
Serena didn’t know how to answer half of them.
Then came the weirdest ask of all.
“There’s this dinner,” Wesley said one night, fiddling with his lighter. “Producer thing. Intimate. Just a few people. Veronica’s supposed to go, but she’s… tired. Hungover. Whatever. They won’t know the difference if someone else shows up looking like her.”
Serena stared at him. “You want me to pretend to be Veronica?”
“Not exactly. Just… step in. Smile. Laugh. Play nice. Keep the men happy. You know how this town works.”
She didn’t. Not really. But the rent was late again, and her mom’s prescriptions were stacking up, and Wesley had already offered her five hundred dollars.
So she did it.
Once.
Then again.
And again, with the same person.
It wasn’t s*x work, not exactly. But it wasn’t clean either.
But then came one of the many nights.
Wesley handed her a dress, told her the name, the room number, and the role to play.
“Use the softer voice,” he said. “She has a way of talking. Whispery. Innocent.”
She almost walked out right there.
But her mom had just been diagnosed again. New hospital. New treatment plan. New debt.
And Serena—stupid, desperate Serena—had a voice and a face close enough to Veronica’s to make it work.
That night changed everything.
That night, the man was acting differently, without the usual drunk-dazed look.
Quiet. Observant. Cold, almost, like he was watching her from somewhere far away.
They slept together, but it didn’t feel transactional. Not like the others.
When she accidentally spoke in her normal tone—low, throaty, firm—he paused. Looked at her like he’d just seen a glitch in the Matrix.
“That’s not your usual voice,” he’d said.
She smiled without answering.
He didn’t press.
In the morning, she slipped out without looking back.
Two days later, Veronica landed the role of her career.
And Serena got ghosted.
Wesley stopped returning her calls. The gigs dried up. Whatever they’d needed from her, they got it.
That should’ve been the end of it.
But then she woke up in her old body. Two years back. Same world. Same memory. Different chance.
And this time, she wouldn’t be anyone’s stand-in.
- Writer
