Chapter 2: The Ashes of the Past

The echo of my own words—Game on—hung in the stale air of the apartment, a vow whispered into the past. For a moment, I just stood there, my reflection a pale ghost in the dark screen of the flip phone. The girl in the glass was twenty-five, her face unmarred by the betrayals that were still years away, her eyes wide with a terrifying, newfound clarity.

My mind, a chaotic storm of memory and disbelief, began to settle. It sharpened, honed by the agony of a death I had already lived. If this was real, if I truly was back in 2005, then every second was a currency I couldn't afford to waste.

What was today?

The date on the phone screen had seared itself into my brain: October 12th. A Wednesday.

A cold dread, familiar and sickening, coiled in the pit of my stomach. My gaze darted to the worn-out corkboard above the tiny desk. Tacked to it, amidst unpaid bills and takeout menus, was a single sheet of paper with a time and an address circled in red ink.

2:00 PM. Starline Studios. Audition: 'Beach Heat 3'.

Bile rose in my throat.

I remembered this day. I remembered it with the kind of visceral clarity that trauma engraves upon the soul. The desperation. The cloying hope. The feeling of my own self-worth shriveling under the fluorescent lights of a casting office.

My hands trembled as I crossed the room and tore the sheet from the board. Beneath it were the audition sides—three pages of dialogue held together by a rusty staple. I didn't need to read them. I remembered every humiliating word.

The role was "Amber." Her entire purpose in the film was to wear a string bikini, ask the male lead a stupid question, and then get eaten by a CGI shark. In my first life, I had seen it as a stepping stone. A "paying gig." A way to get noticed.

What a fool I had been.

It was this audition, this desperate attempt to stay relevant, that had put me back on the radar of Marcus Thorne. He was a producer on the film. He’d "remembered" my talent, called me in for a "real" role, and set in motion the chain of events that led to my ruin. This piece of paper in my hands wasn't an opportunity. It was a gravestone. It was the first link in the chain of my own enslavement.

My fingers tightened around the flimsy pages. The paper felt cheap, disposable, just like they had seen me. Just like I had seen myself.

No more.

The sound of tearing paper was shockingly loud in the quiet room. I ripped the script in half, then in half again, the flimsy pages offering no resistance. I didn't stop until the words were nothing but a pile of meaningless confetti in my hands. I let the pieces flutter from my fingers into the overflowing trash can, a funeral for the pathetic, hopeful girl I used to be.

A shiver of pure, liberating power coursed through me. It was my first act of defiance. My first edit of a life I would now rewrite from scratch.

My gaze fell upon my closet. The cheap louvered doors hung slightly askew, a perfect metaphor for the life I had been living. I slid one open, and the contents felt like an accusation.

It was a museum of bad decisions.

A tight, low-cut dress I had bought because Liam—my blood ran cold at the thought of his name—had casually mentioned he liked that style on another actress. A pair of ridiculously high heels that made me feel powerful for five minutes and left me in agony for five hours. A brightly colored, "optimistic" blouse I’d worn to a dozen fruitless auditions, hoping it would make me look cheerful and easy to work with.

Every item was a costume for a role I had been desperately trying to play: The Cool Girlfriend. The Rising Star. The Girl Who Wasn't a Threat. I saw a life spent contorting myself to fit into boxes that were always too small, trying to please people who were only ever pleased with themselves.

Disgust, thick and choking, filled me. I wanted to burn it all.

But not yet. There was something more important. My weapon. My ark. The one thing I had protected through the slow-motion shipwreck of my first life.

I turned from the closet and knelt on the dusty floor, my knees cracking in protest. My fingers traced the edge of the cheap laminate flooring near the wall, searching for the imperfection I knew was there. A single floorboard that was slightly loose.

I pried it up with my fingernails. Beneath it, nestled in the dark, dusty space, was a small, rectangular object wrapped in oilcloth.

My hands, which had trembled with rage just moments before, were now steady, reverent. This was a holy rite. I unwrapped the package with the care of a priest handling a sacred text.

The notebook.

It wasn't much to look at. A simple, black leather-bound journal, its cover worn smooth from years of handling. But the moment my fingers touched the familiar texture, a dangerous calm settled over me. The panic was gone. The confusion was gone. All that remained was purpose, cold and absolute.

This was my bible. My grimoire. My vengeance.

For years, I had been an obsessive student of my own industry. A habit born from anxiety, from a desperate need to understand the mechanics of success. After every party, every lunch, every meeting, I would come home and write. Rumors, whispers, stock tips overheard from drunk producers, casting decisions debated in secret, names connected by dark, speculative arrows.

In my first life, it was a chronicle of my failure, a roadmap of all the opportunities I had missed.

In this life, it was the Dead Sea Scrolls of Hollywood. It was a detailed, explicit prophecy of the next eighteen years.

I opened it. The smell of old paper and ink filled my senses. My own handwriting, cramped and urgent, stared back at me. I didn't need to read the words. I knew them by heart.

The date of Lehman Brothers' collapse. The exact moment G****e would buy YouTube. The name of the unknown indie director who would become an Oscar-winning legend. The box office poison who would become the world's biggest movie star. The secret addictions, the hidden bankruptcies, the scandals waiting to happen.

It was all here. A litany of triumphs and destructions. A blueprint of power.

I had died holding nothing. I was reborn holding everything.

My fingers traced a line of text written years from now, a frantic scrawl from a time when my career was already in its death throes. A note to myself.

Paranormal Footage. Micro-budget horror. Rejected by everyone. Leo Keller (writer). Made for $15k, sold for millions. The one that got away.

My breath hitched. I remembered. A desperate, balding screenwriter named Leo Keller had pitched that idea to every studio in town, including the one where I’d had a small development deal. They had laughed him out of the room. A year later, the film became a phenomenon, launching a billion-dollar franchise and a new genre.

I closed my eyes, the memory crystal clear. The missed opportunity.

But it wasn't missed anymore. It was today. It was right now. Leo Keller was out there somewhere, heartbroken and on the verge of giving up.

My first life, I had chased after scraps from the tables of kings.

This time, I wouldn't ask for a seat at the table. I would build the table. And the first plank of wood would be the shattered dreams of Leo Keller.

A true, genuine smile finally touched my lips. It felt foreign, like a muscle I hadn't used in years. I had the knowledge. I had the map.

And I had absolutely nothing left to lose.