Chapter 3
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For three days, she pulled it out and put it back, tracing the embossed letters with her fingertips, her heart racing each time. Julian had painted a picture of a world she'd never imagined: first-class flights, luxury hotels, private cars, meetings with Hollywood's elite directors.
A promised land built of money, fame, and power—glittering with possibility.
Ava was tempted. When she watched her father inspect a slice of bread from every angle before reluctantly returning it to his plate to save for tomorrow; when she heard her mother mumbling food orders in her fitful sleep, she knew she had no real choice.
She called Julian and said with a voice that trembled but didn't waver: "I'm ready."
Forty-eight hours later, Ava boarded a plane for the first time—in first class. She perched stiffly in the plush leather seat, freezing when a flight attendant offered champagne and warm nuts with a perfect smile.
Outside the window, Prairie View's endless cornfields shrank to tidy yellow-green squares before vanishing beneath the clouds. Ava felt like she was watching twenty years of her life disappear just as quickly.
Julian sat beside her, mostly focused on his laptop. He didn't speak much, but his calm, unhurried presence somehow steadied her nerves.
Only as they approached Los Angeles, the city's sprawling silhouette appearing on the horizon, did Julian close his laptop and turn to her.
"Ava," he began, "remember one thing. The director we're meeting is Marcus Thorne. He's the pickiest, most difficult artistic fanatic in Hollywood—and also one of the greatest directors alive."
Ava swallowed hard and nodded.
Julian fixed her with his most serious gaze: "So when you meet him, don't act. Don't recite lines from movies. Don't try to impress. Just be yourself—walk, breathe, exist in the space. Understand?"
"I..." Ava frowned in confusion. "I don't do anything?"
"Exactly. Do nothing." Julian's tone brooked no argument. "Marcus isn't looking for an actor—he's looking for a muse to ignite his creative fire. Your face is your only line."
The plane touched down at LAX. Stepping outside the terminal, Ava was assaulted by lights that rivaled daylight and an endless river of vehicles. This was what "metropolis" meant—a sleepless steel beast radiating wealth, ambition, and a strange, crushing energy.
A black Bentley waited curbside, a driver holding the door. As they glided onto the freeway, Ava stared at a cityscape brighter than all of Prairie View combined. Skyscrapers pierced the sky, neon signs blazed against the darkness. She felt like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole into some fever-dream wonderland.
The car finally entered Beverly Hills, passing through several security checkpoints before stopping at a modernist mansion perched atop a hill. The structure was aggressively minimalist—vast glass walls and stark concrete, like a spaceship that had landed silently in the night.
"We're here," Julian said.
Ava inhaled deeply, her palms already slick with sweat.
An expressionless assistant opened the door. Inside was even more austere—no decorations beyond a few obviously priceless art pieces and a wall of books. The air carried notes of expensive coffee and an indefinable sense of power.
A man stood with his back to them before the massive windows, gazing at Los Angeles sprawled below. Medium build, simple black turtleneck and jeans, disheveled salt-and-pepper hair.
At their footsteps, he slowly turned.
Marcus Thorne.
His gaze was the sharpest Ava had ever encountered—not looking at her but through her, like an X-ray scanning her structure, assessing her value, cataloging her flaws.
Under that gaze, Ava felt stripped bare, her every insecurity and fear exposed. She clutched her clothing hem, fighting the urge to flee.
Julian remained unruffled, gesturing smoothly. "Marcus, give her a chance. Give yourself one too."
Marcus grunted noncommittally. He didn't request lines or introductions as in a normal audition. He simply jerked his chin toward the window.
"You. From that window to the bookshelf. Pick up any book. Walk back here."
His tone suggested he was directing a stagehand to move furniture.
Ava's heart hammered against her ribs, but Julian's advice echoed in her mind. Trying to ignore Marcus's laser-focused stare, she took a step forward.
The room was deathly silent except for her footsteps and her own shallow breathing.
She passed the massive window as the last rays of sunset streamed through, bathing her in golden light. The "Basic Halo" activated silently; the light seemed to seek her out, caressing her silhouette, highlighting her profile. Her nervousness and uncertainty, transformed by the interplay of light and shadow, became a fragile, ephemeral beauty—raw and compelling, telling a story without words.
Marcus's pupils contracted almost imperceptibly.
Ava approached the bookshelf lined with weighty hardcovers—philosophy, art history, poetry. After a moment's hesitation, her fingers trailing across the spines, she selected a volume of Yeats.
Book in hand, she turned and walked back to the center of the room.
The entire process took less than a minute. To Ava, it felt like hours. With each step, she felt Marcus's gaze dissecting her like a surgeon's blade.
When she finally stood still, Marcus remained silent for a long moment.
Without speaking, he raised his hands to form a viewfinder frame, studying Ava through this "lens" from various angles. His brows furrowed and relaxed as he muttered to himself, seemingly arguing with an invisible critic.
The tension in the room was suffocating. A producer standing nearby was sweating visibly, and Julian, despite his composed facade, had clenched one hand into a tight fist.
Only Ava, after her initial terror, had found an unexpected calm.
She stood like a doll on display, surrendering to whatever judgment would come.
After what felt like eternity, Marcus lowered his hands.
His expression remained impassive. He didn't address the producer or Julian. Instead, he walked directly to his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed from memory.
The call connected immediately.
"Abel," Marcus said calmly, his first complete sentence of the evening.
"Next year's Oscar—you're going to lose."
He hung up without waiting for a response.
The room fell into stunned silence.
The producer and Julian exchanged glances, both faces reflecting stunned elation. Abel Costa—Marcus's only true rival, who had beaten him at the Oscars two years running.
After hanging up, Marcus turned to the producer, speaking as casually as if discussing the weather.
"Tell the writers to scrap the script."
He paused, glancing at Ava—still frozen in place—as if assessing a perfect prop.
"Rebuild the entire visual language around her."
"Cut half the dialogue."
"We don't need words," Marcus concluded. "Her face tells the story."
At these words, the producer nearly cheered aloud at this extraordinary pronouncement. Julian exhaled slowly, his face breaking into the smile of a gambler whose impossible bet had just paid off.
Only Ava remained motionless, clutching the Yeats volume like a lifeline. She couldn't process what had just happened—the cryptic phone call, the terse commands. She felt like she'd been swept up by a tornado, dizzy and disoriented, with no idea where she might land.
