Three Years Wasted, So I Reclaim Everything

Chapter 2

Clutching a crumpled receipt, I went to the hotel in my faded sweatshirt, its collar stretched out of shape.

The Regent Hotel lobby floor was covered in thick hand-knotted carpet. Light from the crystal chandeliers glared in my eyes.

I instinctively studied one of them. It was a replica of a 19th-century royal fixture worth at least 300,000 dollars, though a tiny welding defect marred its brass base.

I immediately looked away and forced myself back into the role of a poor young woman.

The receptionist took in my shabby appearance with open contempt.

"The rooftop bar is for VIP guests only. You need to leave."

"I'm Julian's girlfriend," I explained without conviction. My voice sounded ridiculous in the vast lobby.

The receptionist said nothing. Her expression had already dismissed me as delusional.

VIP guests passed with looks of disgust, as if poverty were contagious.

I waited on a cold lobby sofa for an hour until my hands and feet went numb.

The elevator doors opened, and Julian emerged with Violet Hart.

Violet wore a custom black gown and a dazzling Bulgari diamond necklace. She wasn't merely Julian's lead actress. A second-tier investor had made casting her a condition of his investment.

"Alyssa?" Julian's face tightened the moment he saw me. Irritation and disgust filled his eyes. "Why are you here? Who told you to come?"

"I paid the location fee. Here's the receipt."

I held it out. My fingers shook from the cold, but my mind was perfectly clear.

He ignored the paper and glanced behind me before lowering his voice.

"I told you not to come to the hotel. Your clothes smell like cooking oil. You're bothering Violet."

"Julian, who is this?" Violet stepped closer, surveyed my stained canvas shoes and rough hands, and let out a sharp laugh.

Julian shifted protectively in front of her. His businesslike tone was as cold as if I were a stranger.

"She's a production assistant. She came to deliver a receipt."

To him, I was just a production assistant delivering a receipt.

My hand remained frozen in the air. The scene was almost too absurd to hurt.

Violet covered a laugh and stepped forward. Her 4-inch stiletto landed squarely on my canvas shoe, then ground down. The heel pierced my toe with blinding pain.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Nothing in her expression suggested regret. "Just hand the receipt to the director and run along, little assistant. This isn't a place for you. If you stain the carpet, can you afford to replace it?"

I looked at Julian.

He didn't tell her to release my foot. Instead, he spoke gently to her.

"It's fine. She's leaving. Don't upset yourself over someone beneath you."

Then he turned his icy gaze on me.

"Leave the receipt at the front desk and go. I'm meeting an investor tonight. Don't get in the way."

He escorted Violet toward the revolving doors. A doorman opened their car, and Julian carefully shielded her head from the frame with a tenderness he had never shown me.

Through the glass wall, I watched their Porsche merge into traffic.

Julian never once thanked me.

That night, Violet posted on Twitter:

The Regent rooftop. Candlelight. Champagne. The best creative sparks don't happen only on set. Thank you for choosing me.

Julian liked the post. The red heart on my screen felt like a slap.

Lying in my leaking apartment with the wind howling outside, I opened the screenplay notebook I always carried and struck Julian's name out with a single hard line.

My ideal had no room for a hypocrite cast as the hero.