The Spotlight

Chapter 19

The backstage chaos of Fountain Studios moves around me in colorful streaks as I search desperately for platinum blonde hair and haunting green eyes. My pulse races beneath my skin, not from pre-show jitters, but from his glaring absence.

Gary is nowhere.

The second live show starts soon, but all I can think about is a week of unread texts and calls sent straight to voicemail. His silence hurts more than stage fright ever could. After what passed between us at the premiere—that dance, those whispered words—his disappearance feels like punishment. He vanished without explanation, making me question if I'd imagined the weight behind what he'd said.

I hover anxiously near the entrance, my stubborn hope refusing to die even as my mind whispers he'll likely arrive at the last possible moment.

"Riley! There you are!"

A woman with a headset spots me from halfway down the corridor. She hurries over, practical black outfit and sensible shoes marking her as production staff.

"We need to get you to wardrobe right away. We're already behind schedule."

I force my lips into something resembling a smile, but she's already turning, gesturing for me to follow. I trail behind her through the corridors, glancing over my shoulder. Each time, disappointment settles deeper in my chest.

"You're in here," she says, pushing open a door marked 'Female Contestants - Wardrobe.' "Sofia's waiting for you."

The dressing room filled with activity—makeup artists applying finishing touches, hair stylists wielding tools like weapons, contestants in various states of preparation. Sofia, the wardrobe stylist, spots me immediately and waves me over.

"There you are! I was beginning to worry." Her thick accent wraps around the words. "Come, we must get you into your dress."

She pulls a garment bag from the rack and unzips it. My breath catches.

The dress is floor-length with a form-fitting black base and square neckline. What transforms it are the shimmering embellishments along the sleeves and side panels—thousands of tiny crystals catching light with every movement, creating the illusion of stars against a night sky.

"It's..." Words fail me.

Sofia beams. "Perfect for tonight, no? Very Bond girl, very glamorous, but still you."

She helps me into the dress, her experienced hands making quick work of hidden zippers and hooks. When she guides me to the full-length mirror, I hardly recognize myself.

"You look beautiful," Sofia says, making minor adjustments. "You will be magnificent tonight."

She leaves me to attend another contestant. I stare at my reflection, trying to channel the woman in the mirror—elegant, confident, unaffected by the absence of a man who clearly doesn't care as much as I'd foolishly believed.

Movement catches my eye. Trisha stands at the vanity, expression pinched with frustration as she struggles with a delicate necklace clasp. No one else notices—all stylists are occupied, and Trisha isn't the type to ask for help.

I watch her for several seconds, warring with myself. The petty part of me wants to enjoy her struggle. But something propels me across the room.

"Need some help with that?" I keep my tone neutral.

Trisha's eyes meet mine in the mirror. They narrow slightly, suspicious and guarded. Her gaze travels over my dress before returning to my face. For a moment, I'm certain she'll reject my offer out of pure spite.

Instead, she gives me a long, wary look before holding the necklace over her shoulder.

"Fine," she says curtly.