The Billionaire's Ghost Bride: The Contract of Lies

Chapter 6: Back on Set

Mornings at Universal Studios Hollywood were always crazy busy.

Crew trucks and equipment vans packed the streets outside. Huge bounce boards and dozens of massive spotlights lit up the temporary soundstages like it was broad daylight. The opening ceremony for *Night Loop* was taking place right here.

A line of black, bulletproof SUVs pulled up smoothly right outside the set's red carpet.

The doors slid open.

Several massive security guards in matching black suits stepped out first, quickly clearing a path through the crowd. The media and reporters, who had been waiting for ages, immediately raised their cameras. The sound of shutters clicking blurred into one continuous roar.

Avery stepped out.

Today, she was wearing a sharply tailored, dark green haute couture trench coat. The fabric had this subtle, expensive sheen under the sun. Since she didn't have to attend one of those suffocating galas, she wore a soft white silk shirt underneath. Her long, dark chestnut wavy hair was pinned back in a messy bun, making her look totally refreshed and sharp.

This was the place she used to know best.

Back in the day, she was always stuck in a faded, washed-out hoodie, clutching a crumpled resume. She used to pace outside the gates of this massive vanity fair, standing in the scorching sun for hours just for a background gig with zero lines. And usually, all she got was a cold glare and a swift rejection from the casting director.

But now? She was walking the red carpet surrounded by top-tier bodyguards, stepping into the spotlight as the absolute female lead of this massive blockbuster.

Anyone else dealing with this insane glow-up might feel a wave of bitterness, thinking about all the unfairness they’d been through. But walking down that red carpet, Avery didn't feel a single drop of sadness or self-pity.

Instead, she just saw it as a super efficient rule of the game. She had played her best hand to earn her chips for the table. It made perfect sense. This straightforward mindset gave her a calm aura that wasn't faked at all—it was the quiet strength of someone who totally understood how the real world worked.

Flashing a polite smile, Avery smoothly signed "Isabella" on the backdrop.

The opening ceremony wrapped up quickly. The whole crew moved over to Soundstage 1 to prep for the first major scene of the day.

The air inside the studio was a bit stuffy with all the heavy equipment running.

Avery took off her trench coat, left only in her thin costume, and sat in her own dedicated cast chair. The makeup artist was doing some final touch-ups on her.

Just then, a loud commotion and the sound of heavy footsteps came from the entrance of the stage.

"Move it. Why is the lighting at this angle? Do you think we're shooting some cheap soap opera?"

A raspy, incredibly sleazy voice echoed through the studio.

It was Marcus.

The same producer who had thrown a hotel room key in Avery's face and tried to completely ruin her career. Right now, he still had a few scabbed-over burn marks on his head. He was wearing an out-of-place black fedora, obviously trying to cover up his bald, injured head.

But his fat face was just as arrogant as ever. He was here as a "consultant" for the investors, trailed by a few suck-up assistants.

Marcus swaggered across the set tracks, walking straight up to the director behind the monitors. He unapologetically pulled up a chair next to the director, plopped down, and propped his thick legs up on an equipment case.

"You guys are really shooting this emotional breakdown scene today?" Marcus picked up the script, flipped a couple of pages, and shot a nasty, sideways glare at Avery across the room.

"Yes, Mr. Marcus. This is the core turning point for the character," the director explained, trying to stay patient.

"I seriously doubt if this setup makes any sense." Marcus slammed the script down on the table, deliberately raising his voice. He wasn't just talking to the director; he wanted the entire crew to hear him.

He was used to throwing his weight around on set, loving this kind of workplace bullying to mark his territory.

"This so-called socialite princess probably doesn't even know how to speak up in real life. You really think she can play such a complex, gritty role?" Marcus sneered. "I say we cut her lines in half. Or better yet, make her drag sandbags around the lot for ten laps so she can actually feel the physical exhaustion of the character. Stop wasting the investors' money and film."

It was blatant workplace harassment.

The crew exchanged nervous looks. Even the director frowned, but because of Marcus's title as an investor consultant, no one dared to call him out on it directly.

If this were the old Avery, a struggling nobody with zero backing, she probably would have teared up at this kind of malicious hazing, feeling totally humiliated by the toxic industry. But sitting right there, Avery didn't even skip a heartbeat when she heard him.

She didn't even bother analyzing the malice in Marcus's words. To her, it was just pathetic, useless noise. Her emotional defenses were thick as solid bulletproof glass.

No shock. No pushback. And definitely zero anger.

Avery stood up.

She walked over to the monitors, her gaze calmly sweeping past Marcus's greasy face before locking onto the director.

"Lighting is set. I'm ready," Avery said, her tone dead calm, practically radiating a low-key *'let's get to work'* energy. "We can just roll."

Instead of arguing, she completely bypassed his tantrum, taking over the set's pacing with absolute professionalism.

The director immediately breathed a sigh of relief and shouted, "All departments, prep! Clear the set!"

Marcus scoffed, crossing his arms and glaring daggers at the monitor screen. He just wanted to watch this woman embarrass herself so he could rip her to shreds.

The clapperboard snapped. A sharp *clack* echoed through the room.

The main lights dimmed, leaving only a dim, yellow spotlight on the center of the set.

It was a breakdown scene—the moment the character confronted a traitor after losing every last way out.

The camera pushed in.

Avery was sitting in the corner of the set. The exact second the director yelled "Action," her entire vibe completely transformed.

She didn't need to force herself to remember past traumas just to squeeze out fake tears; she had elite muscle control and method acting skills. Her shoulders slumped slightly. Her normally perfect posture instantly bent into a gut-wrenchingly real slump, like the crushing weight of reality had just been slammed onto her tiny frame.

She slowly looked up.

Her amber eyes, usually so chill and unbothered, were now filled with raw terror and absolute desperation. But the one thing missing was defeat.

"You think just because you took those things, I've got nothing left?" Avery's voice changed. It was raspy, dry, sounding like the wind howling across a gritty wasteland.

She stood up, step by step, and walked forward. No over-the-top arm flailing, just pure tension carried by her breathing and tiny facial twitches. It perfectly captured the vibe of someone ready to completely shatter, but ready to drag you down to hell with them.

Behind the monitors, the director was literally holding his breath.

It didn't even feel like acting. It was like she really was a cornered animal fighting fate in the dark.

When Avery delivered her final line, locking eyes dead into the lens, the entire studio was dead silent.

Even the grips moving props in the back had stopped what they were doing. A crazy heavy, immersive silence totally swallowed the room.

"Cut!"

It took a solid five seconds before the director finally jumped out of his chair. His face was lit up with pure hype as he clapped his hands hard.

"Amazing! Flawless! We got it in one take!" The director’s voice was actually shaking from the adrenaline.

Following his lead, the whole studio erupted into massive cheers. Tons of crew members started clapping, giving totally unprompted props to the small but insanely powerful figure in the center of the set.

Avery instantly snapped out of character. The heavy gloom vanished from her face, replaced by her calm, slightly distant, but super polite smile. She gave a small nod of thanks to the crew around her.

No cocky gloating, no snarky clapbacks about the hazing she just took. True dominance didn't need words; her pure, undeniable talent did all the talking.

In the crowd, Marcus's face had turned the color of dirty concrete.

All the nasty, toxic comments he'd been saving up got totally choked back down his throat by that performance. Even if he wanted to nitpick, he couldn't deny that it was a masterclass acting job that would shut up the harshest critics.

Marcus felt like he was sitting on needles. Surrounded by the roaring applause, his chunky body looked like an absolute joke. He aggressively stood up, knocking over a plastic water bottle next to him. Without saying a single word, he and his pathetic assistants practically ran out the back door of the studio.

But Marcus’s problems were just starting.

Meanwhile. Downtown LA. The top floor of Starlight Media HQ.

Eleanor stood against the light of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. Her pitch-black suit made her look untouchable and sharply defined.

Behind the giant desk, over a dozen top-tier corporate lawyers in sharp suits were lined up in absolute silence.

Harper was holding a file covered in red "TOP SECRET" stamps. She sounded like a totally emotionless news anchor as she gave her report.

"Boss. The legal team has finished compiling all the dirt on Marcus. We didn't just verify multiple massive cases of contract fraud he committed using his position over the last five years. We also secured nineteen notarized whistleblower letters with real names. They detail his workplace bullying and financial extortion on various sets."

Harper's voice didn't waver.

In this massive media empire, ripping out a toxic cancer in the industry didn't require any illegal mob tactics. Just a perfectly legal sledgehammer was enough to completely crush him to dust.

"The entire chain of evidence is packaged and ready to go," Harper paused for a second. "Ten minutes ago, our lead counsel officially submitted this six-hundred-page file of allegations to the Federal Industry Oversight Committee and the Commercial Crimes Bureau."

Every single word in that evidence file was an iron nail that would permanently pin Marcus to a guilty verdict.

Eleanor didn't look back.

Her eyes stared through the bulletproof glass at the dense, block-like city skyline in the distance. Her right thumb was slowly rubbing the platinum wedding band on her ring finger in a steady rhythm.

Marcus was dead meat. He would never get near another actor in this industry again, let alone Avery.

The second the feds dropped the paperwork, this cocky sleazebag would instantly lose every license and credential he had. His bank accounts would be frozen to pay off massive breach-of-contract fines and victim settlements. He'd spend the rest of his life drowning in lawsuits and debt, bouncing between courtrooms and prison cells.

Karma might need billionaire resources to hit the gas pedal, but in the face of absolute power, it never missed.

"Have PR draft a statement," Eleanor turned around, her icy blue eyes completely unbothered. "I don't want to see a single word related to this man in any corner of the industry ever again."

Harper sharply closed the file.

"Understood. Getting on it right now."