The scent of roasted chestnuts and pine needles clung to the cold New York air, taunting Allison Harper as she pushed open the heavy glass door of The Grind.
It was Christmas Eve, and the city was alive with that obnoxious, glittering kind of joy that made being alone feel like a physical ailment.
She checked her reflection in the darkened window. Blonde hair perfectly coiffed, legs that went on for days accentuated by a pair of designer heels she'd bought on a whim last week, and a body honed by years of grueling Broadway dance rehearsals. She looked like a star. She felt like a fraud waiting to be exposed.
Allison slid into the booth at the back, her heart doing a nervous flutter against her ribs. Jack was late. Jack was always late, but tonight felt different.
Tonight was the night.
She touched the velvet box in her purse. Inside was a vintage silver watch, engraved with To my leading man. It had cost her three months of waitressing tips at the bistro down the street. She was going to give it to him, right after he told her he'd landed the part in that new blockbuster.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The coffee in her cup grew a cold, oily skin.
Finally, the door chime jingled.
Allison's face lit up, her signature megawatt smile—the one that made casting directors forget their lines—snapping into place. She waved, but the air in her lungs froze instantly.
It wasn't just Jack.
Lena Martinez was with him.
Lena, her "best friend" since freshman year. Lena, who had cried on Allison's shoulder about her failing acting career for months.
Lena, who was currently clutching Jack's arm like he was a life raft and she was drowning.
They weren't walking; they were gliding. And the look on their faces wasn't apologetic. It was triumphant.
"Hey, Allie," Jack said, sliding into the booth opposite her without a hint of guilt. He didn't kiss her. He didn't even take off his coat. Lena sat next to him, squeezing in until their thighs touched.
"You're late," Allison said, her voice tight. "And I didn't know we were making this a group thing."
"Change of plans, babe," Jack said, signaling the waiter for a scotch. He didn't ask if Allison wanted a refill.
Allison's eyes narrowed. She knew that posture. The relaxed shoulders, the slight smirk. It was the posture of a man who had already won and was just waiting for the loser to realize it. She had seen it a hundred times on stage, usually right before the villain revealed his master plan.
"What's going on, Jack?"
Lena leaned forward, her dark eyes dancing with a malicious light that Allison had never seen before. "We wanted to tell you together. It's only fair, considering how supportive you've been."
"Supportive?" Allison's fingers clenched around her coffee cup. "Supportive of what?"
Jack reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick, cream-colored envelope. He tossed it onto the table. It slid across the wood and stopped right against Allison's cold cup.
Allison stared at it. The logo was embossed in gold. Apex Pictures. The most prestigious studio in Hollywood. The project was The Crimson Tide, the upcoming epic directed by the notorious Markus Stone.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. The big break. Jack had gotten the lead?
"I didn't get the lead, Allie," Jack said, reading her mind, his voice dripping with condescension. "I got the supporting role. But that's not the important part."
Lena let out a giggle, high-pitched and grating. "Open it, Allison. Go on."
With trembling fingers, Allison flipped the envelope open. She pulled out the contract.
She scanned the names.
Producer: Markus Stone.
Director: Markus Stone.
Lead Actress: Lena Martinez.
The world tilted. The noise of the café—the clinking spoons, the Christmas jazz—faded into a dull roar. "Lead... Lena?" Allison whispered, her brain refusing to process the words. "But... you haven't acted since high school. You said you were too nervous to audition."
Lena bit her lip, feigning shyness, but the gloating in her eyes was screaming. "Markus saw my reel. He said I have a... rawness. A market potential that Hollywood is hungry for right now." She paused, letting the knife twist deeper. "He said I'm the future. Unlike some people who are too... set in their ways."
Allison's head snapped up. "Set in my ways? I'm the one who's been working my ass off on Broadway for four years!"
"And look where that got you," Jack sneered, finally dropping the nice guy act. "Sweating in off-Broadway theaters for peanuts, refusing to 'play the game' because you have so much damn integrity."
He leaned forward, invading her personal space. "Face it, Allison. You're Broadway. Small time. Lena? She's a movie star. She knows how to use her... assets."
He gestured vaguely to Lena's chest, and bile rose in Allison's throat.
"I'm doing this for us, Allie," Jack continued, his tone sickeningly reasonable. "I'm connecting with the big players. Markus is going to launch my career, but I need to be seen with the right woman. Someone who actually wants to be famous."
"You're leaving me," Allison said, the words feeling like jagged stones in her throat. "For her. For a role."
"I'm upgrading," Jack corrected, standing up. He buttoned his coat, looking down at her with a mixture of pity and disdain. "You just don't have the fire, Allie. You're too safe. Too nice. Hollywood eats girls like you alive."
Lena slid out of the booth, linking her arm through Jack's. She looked at Allison, her expression one of pure, unadulterated victory. "Thanks for the tips on auditioning, though. They really helped. You were a great... teacher."
"Don't bother with the watch," Jack added, glancing at the velvet box peeking out of her purse. "Buy yourself something nice. Maybe a ticket to see us on the red carpet."
They turned and walked away.
The room erupted in silence—or maybe it was just the blood rushing in Allison's ears. She watched them go. Jack's hand slipped down to cup Lena's ass, right there in the middle of the café. No one cared. No one knew that in the span of five minutes, Allison's life had been detonated.
Her vision blurred. Not with tears—Allison Harper didn't cry—but with a red, hot rage that threatened to incinerate her from the inside out.
Upgrading.
Safe.
Small time.
The words echoed in her skull, bouncing off the walls of her self-doubt.
The waiter came by to drop the check. "Miss? Everything okay?"
Allison looked up. Her face was a mask of ice. She took a twenty-dollar bill out of her wallet—it was her last twenty—and slammed it onto the table.
"Everything is perfect," she said, her voice steady, lethal, and terrifyingly calm. "Leave the change."
She grabbed her coat and strode out of the café, the cold wind hitting her face like a slap. She walked the ten blocks back to her walk-up apartment, her heels clicking on the pavement like a metronome counting down to a bomb blast.
She burst into her apartment, slamming the door so hard the picture frames on the wall rattled. She threw her bag onto the floor, the watch box spilling out. The silver watch glinted mockingly under the harsh overhead light.
"Stupid," she hissed, kicking the bag. "So fucking stupid."
She paced the small room. She needed a plan. She needed a drink. She needed to burn something down.
She sank onto her worn-out sofa, burying her face in her hands. She had given everything to Jack. To Lena. To this dream of being discovered based on merit alone. And what did she have to show for it?
A floor that creaked and an empty bank account.
A knock at the door startled her.
Allison froze. It was 11:30 PM. Who would be knocking?
She wasn't expecting a package. She wasn't expecting anyone.
She approached the door cautiously, looking through the peephole. Empty hallway.
She opened the door just a crack.
Nothing there but the dimly lit corridor and the smell of Mrs. Gable's cooking from next door.
She looked down.
A sleek, black envelope lay on the doormat. No stamp. No return address. Just her name, written in elegant, silver calligraphy.
Allison Harper.
She picked it up. The paper was heavy, expensive. It felt like power.
She ripped it open.
There was no letterhead. No signature. Just a single card and a plane ticket.
The card read:
Some people are born stars. Others are forged in fire.
Your stage is not here. It is waiting.
The Olympus Initiative. Los Angeles. January 5th.
You have been chosen.
And beneath it, a first-class plane ticket to LAX.
Allison stared at the ticket. The rage that had been burning inside her suddenly cooled, solidifying into something sharp, hard, and diamond-bright.
Jack wanted "market potential"? Lena wanted to steal her life?
Allison looked back at the empty apartment, then down at the ticket in her hand.
A slow, dangerous smile curved her lips. It wasn't the smile of the girl who waited two hours for a coffee. It wasn't the smile of the girl who bought a watch for a cheating man.
It was the smile of a woman who realized she was holding a loaded gun.
"Game on," she whispered.
She crumpled the velvet watch box in her hand and threw it into the trash can.
She was going to Hollywood.
And she was going to burn their kingdom to the ground.