Girls Like Us Don’t Survive

Chapter Two: Before the Fame

The casting director didn’t even look up.

"Next!"

The word echoed off the sterile white walls of the casting studio, flat and uncaring.

Serena stood up immediately, taking a slow, deep breath to steady the fluttering in her stomach before walking onto the taped blue X in the middle of the concrete floor.

She had learned the brutal math of auditions early on. If you hesitated, they forgot you before you even left the room. If you smiled too much, you looked desperate. If you didn't smile enough, you looked difficult. There was always a ready-made reason to reject you.

She discreetly tugged at the cuffs of the white blazer she'd borrowed from her neighbor. It was a size too big, but the fabric was heavy enough to pass for designer if no one looked too closely at the slightly frayed seams. The cheap heels she’d bought on discount pinched her pinky toes with every step. Her makeup, applied in a rush in a subway bathroom three hours ago, was starting to cake around her nose.

She didn't care. By this time tomorrow, if things went right, none of this would matter.

There were four people sitting behind a long, polished white table. Behind them stood rolling racks filled with designer evening gowns; beaded silks, layers of tulle, garments worth more than Serena had earned in the last two years combined.

The woman in the center barely glanced at Serena’s thin résumé before sliding it into a stack. "Name?"

"Serena Vale."

"Age?"

"Twenty-one."

"Height?"

"Five foot eight."

The casting director’s pen scratched dryly against his notepad. "Turn."

Serena pivoted, keeping her core tight.

"Again."

She turned back to face them.

"Smile."

She flashed her practiced, symmetrical smile.

The director frowned, tapping his pen. "No. Not that smile. A natural smile."

Serena adjusted, softening her eyes, projecting a warmth she didn't feel.

The photographer beside the table raised his camera. Click. Click. The blinding flash left purple spots in her vision.

The casting director leaned back, checking his watch. "Walk."

Serena inhaled slowly, letting the oxygen settle her nerves. Then, she walked.

Every single movement was a rehearsed calculation. Shoulders rolled back, chin slightly raised, eyes fixed on an imaginary point on the back wall. In her mind, she played her favorite mental tape: cameras flashing, a crowd chanting her name, her face on a billboard. The fantasy always made her posture better.

She reached the end of the tape, executed a flawless runway turn, and walked back.

The room remained suffocatingly silent.

Finally, the stylist on the end whispered something to the casting director. He nodded slowly, not looking at Serena.

"Thank you, Serena."

That was it. No feedback. No questions. No polite small talk.

She kept her smile locked in place. "Thank you for your time."

She walked out, her head held high, though her chest felt hollow. She had heard those words enough to know their true translation: You’re not what we’re looking for.

As the heavy glass door clicked shut behind her, she heard the receptionist's voice cut through the waiting room.

"Send in Chloe."

Serena stopped, glancing back through the glass window. A girl with perfect golden-blonde highlights stepped inside. She wore designer sunglasses pushed up onto her head and carried a handbag Serena recognized instantly from fashion blogs; a limited-edition Hermès Birkin in emerald green. It was worth nearly eighty thousand dollars.

Chloe hadn't needed to borrow clothes for this audition.

Outside the door, a man in a sharp, tailored gray suit patted Chloe’s shoulder encouragingly before taking a seat on the leather sofa. Her manager. Or maybe her father. Either way, someone with power believed in her enough to be there.

Serena looked down at her own reflection in the polished elevator doors. Borrowed blazer. Scuffed discount heels. An empty wallet tucked inside a cheap tote.

She tightened her grip on her bag, her knuckles turning white.

One day, she promised her reflection. One day, they’ll wait in hallways for me. Because they will need me.

It didn't feel like a standard motivational thought. It felt hot, sharp, and ravenous.

Outside, a cold, persistent autumn rain had started to fall.

Serena pulled the borrowed blazer tight around her chest and crossed the street toward the bus stop, her heels squelching slightly in the puddles.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. The screen read: UNKNOWN NUMBER.

She swiped answer immediately, her heart leaping into her throat. "Hello?"

"Miss Vale?" a polite, detached voice asked.

"Yes, this is she."

"We're calling regarding your call-back for the Belle Maison campaign."

Her breath hitched. She pressed the phone tighter to her ear to drown out the sound of the traffic.

"We truly appreciate the time you spent with us," the voice continued, "but we've decided to move forward with another candidate at this time. We wish you the best of luck."

The world became strangely quiet. The red city buses kept rolling, people kept rushing past under their umbrellas, the rain kept falling. But Serena felt entirely frozen on the pavement.

"I understand," she managed to say, her voice miraculously level. "Thank you."

The call ended.

She stared at the dark screen. That made twelve rejections this month. Twelve doors slammed in her face.

She let out a short, sharp laugh. It wasn't because anything was funny. It was because if she didn't laugh, she was going to scream right there on the street.

A sleek black luxury SUV rolled past, splashing rainwater onto the sidewalk, missing her shoes by inches. Serena looked up just in time to see Chloe sitting in the passenger seat, laughing at something on her phone.

Serena watched the red taillights of the SUV fade into the gray rain.

"She's not better than me," Serena whispered to the empty street. "She’s just lucky."

The thought stayed with her, heavy and sour, for the entire forty-minute bus ride home.

Home was a cramped, drafty one-bedroom apartment squeezed between a noisy 24-hour laundromat and a dusty pawn shop. The air inside smelled faintly of damp drywall, radiator steam, and cheap tomato soup.

Every few minutes, the old iron radiator clanged loudly, like it was arguing with the pipes. Rainwater dripped steadily from the ceiling into a metal saucepan sitting on the kitchen counter.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

The landlord had promised to fix the roof eight months ago.

Serena unlocked the door as gently as she could. In the corner of the small living room, the television flickered silently, casting blue light over the worn floral couch. Subtitles scrolled across a rerun of an old soap opera.

Her mother sat on the edge of the sofa, a needle and thread in her hands, carefully sewing a loose seam on one of Serena’s casting outfits. Even without hearing the door, she felt the subtle shift in the room's draft.

She looked up, her face instantly lighting up with a warm, tired smile. Her hearing aids sat on the cluttered coffee table beside a plastic orange bottle of medication they could barely afford to refill this month.

Her mother’s hands moved gracefully, signing: How did the audition go?

Serena froze in the doorway. For one fleeting second, the urge to break down was overwhelming. She wanted to drop her bag, sit on the floor, and admit she was exhausted. She wanted to tell her mother that they were drowning.

Instead, she forced her mouth into the same bright, flawless smile she’d given the casting directors.

She signed back: They're still deciding. The producers loved the look.

Her mother’s eyes brightened with relief. I told you. Good things take time.

Serena forced herself to nod, a heavy, cold guilt settling in her stomach. She hated lying to her mother, but she hated the thought of extinguishing the fragile hope in those eyes even more.

Her mother reached into a small metal tea tin on the side table, counting out a few folded, worn bills. She stood up, her joints popping slightly, and pressed the money into Serena’s palm.

Serena looked down. It was barely twenty dollars, but she knew what it represented.

"No," Serena said aloud, shaking her head and trying to push the money back.

Her mother gently but firmly closed Serena’s fingers over the bills, signing: For fresh vegetables. You need to eat well for your cameras.

Serena's throat tightened so hard it ached. This woman had spent twenty years cleaning hotel rooms; scrubbing the toilets of wealthy tourists, vacuuming around expensive luggage, and skipping her own lunches just to make sure Serena had school supplies. And even now, with her joints swollen and her hearing fading, she was still trying to carry them both.

Serena gently kissed her mother’s cheek, then signed slowly: Keep it. I have a paid shoot tomorrow. I’ll bring home dinner.

Her mother smiled, believing her instantly. That blind faith was the heaviest burden Serena had ever carried.

That night, after her mother went to sleep, Serena dragged her cheap ring light from beneath her bed. One of its plastic tripod legs had snapped months ago, so she carefully balanced it against a stack of heavy textbooks.

She mounted her phone; its screen map-cracked, held together by a fading pink case, and spent the next two hours changing outfits, adjusting the lighting, and trying to find an angle that made her tiny bedroom look like a minimalist studio.

She opened her Socialgram app.

Followers: 2,183.

Her last video;a makeup tutorial using drugstore products, had two likes and one comment.

She took a deep breath, looked directly into the camera lens, and pressed record. Instantly, her face transformed. "Hey, everyone! Today I’m showing you—"

She stopped. Her voice sounded thin, forced. She deleted it.

She tried again. "Hi, beautiful people! I wanted to share—"

Delete.

By the twentieth take, her jaw literally ached from holding the artificial smile. Finally, she uploaded a fifteen-second clip discussing affordable styling tips.

She hit refresh.

3 views.

5 views.

Ten minutes later, it was still stuck at eight.

A notification bubbled up on the screen. Her heart gave a pathetic little flutter, and she tapped it quickly.

Nice video! 💖

It was from her mother’s account; the one Serena had set up for her so she could feel connected. Serena smiled softly, but the warmth was instantly snuffed out by the next notification that popped up.

It was a push notification featuring a new post from Chloe.

Followers: 1.8 Million.

"Beyond grateful to announce I am the official new face of the Belle Maison campaign! Dreams really do come true when you work hard. ✨"

The video already had three hundred thousand views. The comment section was a waterfall of emojis, blue checkmarks, and major brands offering congratulations.

Serena watched the video once. Then again, her eyes fixed on the effortless glow of Chloe’s skin, the casual way she held her eighty-thousand-dollar bag.

She locked her phone and tossed it onto the thin mattress.

"It isn't talent," she whispered into the dark room, staring up at the water stain on the ceiling. She repeated it, slower this time, letting the bitter truth settle into her bones. "It’s connection. It’s never been about talent."

Outside, the rain continued to beat a cold, relentless rhythm against the window. Inside, the last of Serena’s patience quietly died, replaced by a cold, dangerous resolve.

The next morning’s job was a far cry from the glamorous world of Belle Maison.

It was a catalogue shoot for a discount local sportswear brand, held in a drafty, concrete warehouse on the edge of the industrial district. The pay was terrible, but it was immediate cash.

Thumping house music blasted from a portable speaker, trying to inject some energy into the freezing space. Assistants rushed past carrying tangled cables, and a few other models sat on folding chairs, shivering in thin spandex.

Serena checked in, changed into a neon-orange athletic set that felt paper-thin, and stepped onto the seamless backdrop.

The photographer, a guy in his late twenties with a quiet, observant energy, adjusted his lens and looked up. "You're tense, Serena. Relax your shoulders."

"I am relaxed," she said, automatically throwing her head back and offering her signature smile.

The photographer chuckled, lowering his camera. "No, you're not. You're giving me a performance of someone who is relaxed. You have a habit."

Serena blinked, caught off guard. "What habit?"

"You smile beautifully with your mouth," he said, pointing a finger toward his own eyes. "But it doesn't reach here. Your eyes look like you're planning a robbery."

Serena’s heart skipped a beat, but she masked it with a light laugh.

During the lunch break, Serena sat alone on a plastic crate, chewing on a dry turkey sandwich wrapped in foil. A few yards away, three other models were huddled together, comparing their phones.

"I just hit three hundred thousand on Socialgram," one giggled. "A skincare brand offered to double my rate for a sponsored reel."

"I had to turn down two reality casting calls last week," another sighed. "Too much drama."

Serena looked down at her sandwich. Turned down? She would have crawled through broken glass for those opportunities.

"Mind if I sit?"

She looked up. The photographer from earlier was standing there, holding two steaming paper cups. He slid onto the crate opposite her and handed her one. "I'm Daniel."

"Serena," she said, taking the cup. The warmth of the coffee felt incredible against her frozen fingers.

"I know," Daniel smiled. "I was watching you during the first half of the shoot."

Serena frowned slightly, her defensive walls rising. "Did I mess up the poses? I can adjust the angles if the client wants—"

"Actually, I think you're in the completely wrong industry," Daniel interrupted gently.

She let out a cynical laugh. "That's a great motivator. Thanks."

"I'm serious," Daniel said, leaning back. "Models are meant to be hangers. They sell the clothes. But you... you sell attention."

Serena stared at him over the rim of her cup. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Every time the camera stopped rolling today, you didn't drop character," Daniel explained. "You kept the crew engaged. You made the lighting tech laugh. You told a story about your bus ride that had three people stopping what they were doing just to listen. You have a magnetic pull, Serena. I wasn't watching you when you were posing. I was watching you between the takes."

She sat in silence, unsure of how to process the compliment.

Daniel reached into his back pocket, pulled out a thick, matte black business card, and slid it across the wooden crate. Embossed in sleek silver letters were the words:

NOVA NETWORK ENTERTAINMENT

"I have a close friend who is a senior casting producer there," Daniel said, his voice dropping slightly.

Serena’s fingers trembled as she picked up the card. "For what kind of show?"

"A new reality competition called The Glass House," Daniel said, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "Strangers locked in a mansion, competing for a massive cash prize based entirely on viewer votes and social media engagement. It's the kind of show where nobody cares about your modeling portfolio. They care about your grip on an audience."

He stood up, brushing some dust off his jeans. "The winner from last season signed three major international brand deals before the finale even finished airing. She has four million followers now."

Serena looked down at the black card. The silver letters seemed to catch the harsh warehouse lighting.

She glanced at her phone. 2,183 followers.

Perhaps this wasn't the traditional path she had envisioned. But as she stared at the card, she realized traditional paths were built for girls like Chloe. Girls like her had to burn down the forest to make a path of their own.

"Think about it," Daniel said, turning to walk back to his lighting setup.

Serena clutched the card tight in her hand. This was it. The beginning of everything, or the beginning of the end.