SECRETS UNDER The SILVER SCREEN

2 - Behind the Curtain

I STOOD OUTSIDE LANA'S trailer, starting at the polished gold star affixed to the door. Lana Chastain, it read, bold and unmistakable. The way it glimmered in the afternoon light, reflecting Hollywood's manufactured brilliance, made me feel like I was standing at the edge of something far beyond my reach.

Only six months into this. I'd been good at staying away from Lana, however, that was about to change.

Why me? I thought, clutching the script to my chest. The leather binding was warm against my palms, the weight of the director's request still pressing on my shoulders. Help Lana run her lines. It'll be good for her to practice, Mr. Herrington had said. I knew better than to argue with him, but my pulse hadn't stopped racing since the words left his mouth.

I knocked softly, barely louder than a whisper.

Nothing.

My heart pounded. I don't belong here, not in this world where stars like Lana Chastain lived behind glass, untouchable, perfect. This was Lana's private space—her sanctuary. I imagined what it might look like inside, maybe rows of designer dresses, cigarette holders, and gold-framed mirrors reflecting back a version of beauty I would never embody. Perhaps, I did not actually want that at all.

I raised my hand to knock again, more firmly this time, but before my knuckles could meet the door, it swung open.

There she stood, wearing a silk robe the color of cream, loosely tied at the waist. Her hair, freshly brushed into perfect waves, framed her face, and those piercing green eyes—so cold, so unreachable—met mine with an unreadable expression.

"Is that your idea of knocking?" Lana's voice was laced with impatience, though it wasn't unkind. She stepped back, opening the door wider without waiting for my response.

I struggled to find my voice, so instead of keep trying I forced myself to step inside. The trailer was exactly as I had imagined—an altar to the image Lana Chastain had built. A chaise lounge was set near the vanity, draped in a silk throw. Perfume bottles lined the shelves, their fragrances mixing into the air: something floral, something heavy, something that reminded me of the glamor Lana carried with her everywhere, and the smell of cigarette smoke was present—it seemed—in the entire trailer.

"Herrington sent you?" Lana's back was to me now as she crossed the trailer. She moved with languid ease, like a panther in a cage too small for its grace.

I swallowed, my throat was suddenly dry. "Yes, he—he thought it would be good if we went over the lines. For tomorrow's shoot."

She turned, glancing at me as if she were sizing me up, her eyes narrowing slightly. "He thinks I need help. Is that what he said?" Her voice dripped with a familiar arrogance but there was something else beneath it—something sharper, wounded, like a thorn she couldn't pull free.

"No, no, not at all," I stammered. "He just thought it might help... to rehearse, to, you know, warm up."

Lana's lips curbed into the faintest smirk, but her eyes didn't match the gesture. "Warm up. Right."

She moved to the chaise lounge, sinking into it as though the world itself were waiting on her every movement. I remained standing there awkwardly near the door, unsure of where to position myself, unsure of how to breathe in the same room as someone like Lana.

She flicked her hand dismissively toward the small armchair opposite her. "Sit down, Ruby. I don't bite."

I obeyed, lowering myself into the chair, clutching the script tighter than ever. The weight of Lana's presence was suffocating, the air thick with unspoken tension. I could feel her gaze lingering on me, those eyes scanning me in the same way they might study a camera angle or a costume choice. It made my skin tingle with both fear and something else—something I didn't want to acknowledge.