"Adeline Vance."
Silence stretched through the receiver. One second. Two seconds. Three.
"You understand what this means," Margot finally said. Her voice dropped its usual sharp edge, turning flat and serious. "Putting your real name on the guild registry is a declaration of war. It cuts you off from Julian entirely. No more hiding behind his brand. No more safety net. The studio will blacklist you the second they find out."
I opened the bottom drawer of my desk. My fingers bypassed the ruined manuscript and found a small, rusted tin box hidden in the back.
"I don't want his safety net," I told her.
I pried the lid off. Inside lay a single sheet of notebook paper, folded into a tight square. The edges were yellowed and brittle, flaking onto my thumb as I carefully flattened it against the mahogany wood.
Faded black ink stared back at me.
I read the words aloud to Margot. "I write. You act. When we make it to the top, we stand on the stage together."
Margot sighed quietly on the other end of the line. "The old pact."
"Two signatures sit at the bottom," I continued, tracing the cracked crease of the paper. "Mine, and Julian's. We wrote it eighteen years ago on the floor of a damp studio apartment. We were eating cold noodles out of a styrofoam container. He promised me equal credit."
"Men like Julian forget their promises the second someone hands them a trophy."
"He broke our agreement a long time ago," I said. "I'm just finally enforcing the penalty."
"Good," Margot replied, her tone sharpening back into business mode. "I'll have the courier drop off the partnership contracts at the new office tomorrow at nine. Be there."
At nine-fifteen the next morning, I sat at the glass conference table in our newly leased downtown space. The air smelled of fresh paint and floor wax. Empty cardboard boxes lined the walls, waiting for furniture that hadn't arrived yet.
I dragged my fountain pen across the signature line of Margot's LLC agreement. The blue ink dried fast under the fluorescent lights.
Margot slid a second folder across the glass. "Casting calls go out at noon. The director wants your notes on the male lead before we blast the breakdown to the agencies."
I opened the folder. A blank character profile sheet waited inside.
"We need someone hungry," Margot said. She tapped her crimson nails against her coffee cup. "Someone who hasn't been polished to death by the studio system. Julian's agent is already leaking rumors that he's starring in a gritty new thriller. We need a lead who can blow Julian out of the water when both movies premiere."
"Julian thinks I'm writing that thriller for him right now," I said.
"Are you?"
"I told my son I would draft some ideas to keep the peace." I uncapped my pen. "Julian will get exactly what he deserves."
I looked down at the physical description header on the casting sheet. I wrote two sentences.
Unknown newcomer. Must resemble Julian Castell, circa 2004.
Margot leaned over my shoulder and read the words. She let out a sharp, barking laugh.
"You want to cast a ghost of your husband to play the lead in a script he thinks you're writing for him?"
"I want the energy Julian used to have," I corrected. I slid the folder back to her. "Before the awards and the ego hollowed him out. Find me a twenty-two-year-old kid with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove."
Margot grabbed the folder and stood up. "I'll call the indie casting directors. We start auditions on Thursday."
Three days later, the audition room felt like a refrigerator.
I sat beside Margot behind a folding table. A camera on a tripod pointed at the center mark on the gray floor. We had seen twenty-four actors since eight in the morning.
A blonde actor finished his scene, offering a bright, commercial smile. "Thank you so much for your time."
"We'll be in touch," Margot said automatically.
The actor walked out, closing the heavy acoustic door behind him.
Margot rubbed her temples. "They all look like soap opera extras. None of them have the edge. They are acting angry, not living it."
"Call the next one," I said, checking my watch.
"Next," Margot yelled toward the door.
The door groaned open.
A young man walked in. He wore a faded denim jacket and a plain white t-shirt. His dark hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck, messy and unstyled.
My hand froze over my notepad. The metal nib of my pen dug hard into the paper, tearing a small hole through the page.
He stopped precisely on the tape mark. He didn't smile at the camera. He didn't offer a charming, rehearsed greeting. He just shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at us with dark, heavy eyes.
It was like looking through a window into my own past. The sharp line of his jaw, the arrogant tilt of his chin, the raw, unrefined tension radiating from his shoulders. He was the exact image of the man I fell in love with two decades ago.
"Name?" Margot asked, her tone entirely professional.
"Theo Marsh," he said. His voice carried a rough texture, lacking the smooth training of a theater school graduate.
"Whenever you're ready, Theo," Margot instructed.
Theo pulled a crumpled script side from his jacket pocket. He didn't look at it. He dropped it onto the floor.
He looked directly at me.
"I didn't ask for your forgiveness," Theo started.
He launched straight into the opening monologue. He took a step forward, and the air in the room shifted.
"You think because you paid the rent, because you kept the lights on, that you own my guilt?" He let out a dry, humorless scoff. "I built this empire on my own spine. You just watched."
My chest tightened. The words were mine. I wrote them to channel the toxic, suffocating pride of the protagonist. But hearing them tear out of Theo's throat felt dangerously real. He didn't act the lines. He bled them.
He stepped closer to the table. His dark eyes locked onto mine, challenging me.
"So keep the house," Theo sneered, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Keep the money. But don't you ever tell me I owe you anything."
He held the silence. The tension in the room stretched until it felt ready to snap.
Margot exhaled loudly. "Okay. Cut."
Theo's posture instantly relaxed. The arrogant protagonist vanished, replaced by a twenty-two-year-old kid shifting his weight on the linoleum floor.
I stared at him. My pen still hovered over the torn page of my notepad.
"Your pacing is aggressive," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. "Most actors pause after the first sentence to play for sympathy."
"The character doesn't want sympathy," Theo replied immediately. "He wants control."
I closed my notebook. "Exactly."
Theo bent down and picked up his crumpled script side. He straightened up, but he didn't move toward the door. He studied my face, his brow furrowing slightly.
"Can I ask you a question?" Theo asked.
"Go ahead," I said.
He pointed the rolled-up paper at me. "The prototype for this character. Is it someone you know?"
Before I could open my mouth to answer, my phone erupted on the table.
The harsh ringing shattered the quiet of the audition room.
I glanced down at the screen.
The caller ID flashed in bright white letters: Greg Thorne - Julian's Agent.
