behind the velvet rope | billie eilish wlw

CH5/ Part 2

Billie moved silently to the kitchen. The sound of the coffee machine offered a special comfort. As the aroma of fresh coffee began to fill the room, Billie reached for her phone on the counter.

She swiped through her notifications distractedly. As she scrolled through the social media feed, she came across a headline that made her pause.
The post was accompanied by a photo capturing an intimate moment between two women in a balcony: "Spotted : Renee and her new conquest in a passionate embrace" .
She cringed at the title. She was going to keep scrolling but something in the picture bugged her.
The description was vague but sensational, focusing on the drama rather than names. The term "Rising Star" was used to refer to the woman who Renee was caught with, hinting at her relative obscurity compared to the singer. Billie's mind raced.

The photo was striking—Renee's hand resting on the woman's hips, pulling her close.

The girl's hair cascaded down, hiding her features and their kiss. But Billie knew exactly who that soft hair belonged to, she recognized the curves, the hands resting on Renee's shoulder.

Billie's heart skipped a beat as she stared at the screen.

It was Claire.

As the coffee brewed, Billie tried to steady herself, but her thoughts were in turmoil. The public exposure was jarring, and Billie felt a jealousy and confusion wash over her. She just didn't get how this could have happened. Flashes of last night invaded her mind. Her hands started to tremble as she stared at the post. She softly put down her phone on the counter, betrayal and humiliation clenching around her chest. What the actual fuck.

***

Claire sat at her desk, the dim glow of her computer screen casting soft shadows across the room. The evening light, fading fast, spilled in through half-open curtains, casting a golden sheen on her scattered notes and half-filled coffee cups. Her fingers hovered over the mouse, moving in rhythm as she scrolled through the final cut of the music video. The room around her felt distant—she was submerged entirely in the images before her, Renee's face filling the screen. The camera captured every angle of her: the curve of her lips, the soft gleam of sweat on her brow, the way her eyes flickered with an unspoken challenge that made Claire's heart stir every time.

Renee's voice, sultry and raw, seeped through her headphones. Claire couldn't help but notice the sensual edge in the way Renee carried herself, every movement deliberate, every smile teasing. She paused the video and let her eyes linger on the frozen frame—Renee caught mid-laugh, looking off-screen, her body language so real, so intimate. Claire admired the way the scene turned out, the pacing, the way light played off Renee's skin. She could almost feel the air Renee breathed in the video, taste the tension building in every pause between verses.

The video was perfect—or as close to perfect as anything could be. Claire adjusted the sound levels, the crispness of Renee's voice slicing through the room, but she hesitated. A pulse of doubt lingered in the back of her mind, that familiar whisper that maybe, just maybe, something could be even better.

Suddenly, her phone buzzed against the wooden desk, jolting her back to reality. A sharp annoyance surged through her— she'd forgotten to put it on Do Not Disturb again. She glanced down at the unfamiliar number, furrowing her brow as she declined the call with a quick swipe. Her fingers returned to the keyboard, but her focus was fractured. The moment was broken.

The phone buzzed again— the same number. This time, she exhaled, fingers frozen over her work. The insistence of the call was getting on her nerves. Reluctantly, she picked up the phone.

"Claire speaking," she said, her voice still caught between the world of her project and the one intruding upon her now.

"Claire, hi, it's Samuel Hayworth," came the reply, a voice she faintly recognized but hadn't expected to hear again so soon. "We met at the event last month. You remember?"

The name clicked instantly—the producer she had casually spoken to in passing, half-expecting their brief conversation about her script to be forgotten.

"Yes, of course. Hi, Samuel," she replied, trying to shake off the haze from her work and focus.

"I've just read your script, Claire. And I loved it." The words rolled out effortlessly from his end, but they hit her with a weight she wasn't prepared for. "It's fresh, it's raw... exactly what we need right now. I think this story about messy, bohemian love, coming-of-age in the city, the queer element... it's something young people will connect with."

Claire blinked, the words sinking in like a slow burn. He loved it? Her chest tightened with both disbelief and excitement, the emotions crashing over her in waves. She had almost shelved that script—it felt too personal, too vulnerable. The messy entanglements of love, the ache of growing up in a world that didn't seem to want you, the brutality of queer relationships—the film was, in many ways, her own heart laid bare.

"I mean, I'm serious," Samuel continued, his voice steady and professional but tinged with enthusiasm. "With the right team behind it, this could really make some waves. We're talking festival circuits—Cannes, Sundance, maybe even an Oscar nomination. It's got everything. And I think you're the only one who could write it the way it needs to be done."

Claire swallowed, the words caught in her throat. She could almost feel the world shift around her, her fingers tightening around the edge of her desk. She'd imagined this moment before—who hadn't? But now that it was real, it felt dizzying, like she was standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying.

"That's... incredible," she finally managed to say, her voice soft but steady. "I—I didn't expect this."

"Well, believe it. You've got something special here. I'd love to discuss this further, maybe meet tomorrow afternoon? On your terms, of course, as the screenwriter. It's your story, after all."

A rush of warmth spread through her, the affirmation like a soft caress on her skin. She glanced at the clock, the late afternoon slipping into early evening, and nodded to herself.

"Sure," Claire said, a smile touching her lips despite her best efforts to stay composed. "Let's meet at 6pm."