Chapter 4 Director Marshall

Judy’s POV

The medication had finally begun to clear the heavy, gray fog in my brain, and thanks to Doctor Roseline’s inexplicable kindness, my debt to the hospital was settled. 

But as I stood on the sidewalk outside Colorado General Hospital, the sun felt too bright, the air too thin. I pressed a hand over my still-flat stomach, the secret of the life growing inside me pulsing like a second heartbeat against my palm.

A light breeze brushed past me, carrying the scent of rain and sterile exhaust. Patients and nurses hurried past, a blur of white scrubs and rolling stretchers, but I felt frozen in time. 

If I hadn't clicked that link, if I hadn't reached for that scholarship while lying in that hospital bed, I would be standing here with absolutely nowhere to go. 

The thought of crawling back to Lucas, of begging for a corner of the house that used to be mine, made my chest tighten until it hurt to breathe. God forbid I ever give him that satisfaction. I would rather sleep on the cold, hard street than look into his eyes and ask for mercy.

Taking a slow, shaky breath to steady my nerves, I pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered over the contact list before I finally dialed Director Marshall.

He wasn't just the man in charge of the production company where I worked; he was a mentor, a protector, and the closest thing I had to a true friend. 

Five years ago, when I first stepped onto his set, he was directing The Nation’s Titanic. I remembered the chaotic energy of that day, the hanging lights, the smell of wood and stage paint, actors pacing as they whispered their lines, and crew members sprinting with scripts in hand.

I had been a temporary assistant then, a girl hired to carry heavy props and organize costumes. 

But I had gathered every ounce of my courage, approached him, and asked for an audition. 

I told him I had no experience, but I had a passion that burned hotter than the studio lights. 

Most directors would have laughed me off the set. Instead, Marshall had looked at me for a long, silent moment, measuring the weight of my words. He tested me on the spot, and when I finished, he had nodded once. “I will groom you personally,” he’d promised.

He had kept his word. He taught me how to bleed on camera, how to project my voice, and how to control the emotions that I usually kept locked away. I had never taken a single second for granted. I never missed a rehearsal, never disrespected his time, and never stopped trying to be the actress he saw in me.

The phone rang for several seconds before his gruff, familiar voice broke the silence.

“Hello, Judy. We didn’t see you on set today,” he said immediately.

“Yes… I…” My voice trailed off. 

How could I tell him I had fainted? 

How could I explain that I was currently a homeless, pregnant divorcee? 

If he knew the full story, I knew exactly what would happen. 

He loathed Lucas. He had never hidden his disdain for the way my husband treated me like an inconvenience rather than a partner. 

If I told him Claire had risen from her "paralyzed" state just to steal my home, he might drive straight to the house and cause a scene that would end in a police report. He was a man who couldn't stand unfairness, and my life was currently a masterpiece of it.

“I’m sorry. Something came up,” I finally managed, my voice sounding thin. “But I need to tell you about something. Do you remember the film scholarship? The Redwood Academy?”

There was a brief, heavy pause on the other end. “Yes?”

“I accepted… and they just sent the confirmation. I’m in.”

“Yes!!! Yes!!!” Marshall’s roar of excitement was so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear. 

Despite the wreckage of my life, a small, genuine smile touched my lips. 

Three years ago, when I first applied, he had been more thrilled than I was. He believed a formal certification was the only thing standing between me and the "big leagues"—the roles that paid thousands, the ones that would give me a life of my own.

But when I’d told him Lucas wouldn't allow me to go, I had watched the fire in his eyes turn to disappointment. He hadn't argued then, choosing to respect my "marriage," but I knew he hated every second of my submission.

“Where are you right now? Can you fill the form yourself or do you need help?” he asked, his tone shifting into focused, producer-mode.

“That’s why I’m calling. I… I…” I hesitated, the shame burning my throat. I needed to submit my passport details for the flight. My international passport and my photographs were all back at the house. I didn't even have the money for a taxi to get new photos taken.

“You and Lucas are no longer together, huh?” Marshall said suddenly.

My eyes widened. “How did you—”

“Forget about him. It’s obvious. He was never good enough for you anyway,” he interrupted, his voice softening with an uncharacteristic gentleness.

“Congratulations once again, Judy. Send me your location. I’m coming to pick you up.” 

“I’ll get you new photos, and I’ll get that passport from him myself. Trust me, you will not regret this.”

Relief washed over me in a cold, sweeping wave, loosening the knot that had been tied in my chest since the previous night. “Thank you, Director,” I whispered.

Fifteen minutes later, his black SUV pulled up in front of the hospital. I climbed in, feeling like a refugee in my own city. The moment I sat down, he reached over and dropped a familiar blue booklet into my lap.

My international passport.

“You already got it?” I stared at it in disbelief.

“Yes,” Marshall grunted, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. 

“Trust me, that guy? He’s a bastard. I found your luggage thrown out on the curb like it was trash. He was standing there with that woman, giggling while I had to dig through your bags to find this.”

Hearing that—the "giggling"—felt like a fresh serrated blade across my heart. Lucas hadn't just moved on; he was celebrating my erasure.

“I helped you get some things you’ll need,” he added, gesturing to the back seat where some of my suitcases were neatly stacked. My eyes filled with hot, stinging tears. 

“Thank you, Director Marshall. I don’t know how to thank you enough.”

“Win an Oscar. That’ll be enough.” He glanced at me briefly as we pulled away from the curb. “Who is that woman he was kissing, anyway? She looked exactly like you. A twin?”

The wound in my chest throbbed. “That’s my half-sister, Claire. It’s a long story, Director.”

He nodded, sensing the depth of the pain. “It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it now. Let’s just focus on the future.”

When we arrived at his house, his wife, Mirabel, met me at the door with a hug that smelled of lavender and genuine warmth. 

She didn't ask for explanations; she just held me until the shaking in my hands stopped. While Marshall worked on the technical parts of the application at the dining table, I spent a few minutes in the living room playing with their children. Their innocent laughter was a bittersweet sound, a reminder of the secret life I was now carrying into the unknown.

Every few minutes, Marshall would call me over to confirm a detail—a date, an address, a spelling. He took fresh photographs of me against a white wall, and his hands were steady as he attached them to the digital form.

When he finally clicked the last "Submit" button, he leaned back with a satisfied grin. “Now, future best actress of all time,” he teased, walking over to his printer. “You are ready for your flight.”

He handed me a freshly printed sheet of paper. My travel ticket. It had been pre-approved the moment the form was processed. I stared at the ink on the page. This single piece of paper was my door out of the cage I’d lived in for five years.

My heart was racing, a frantic thudding in my chest that felt like a bird trying to escape. This was it. I was leaving the divorce, the betrayal, and the lies behind.

“Are you ready?” Marshall asked, his eyes searching mine.

I looked at the ticket, then at Mirabel, who was smiling through tears. I thought of the baby. I thought of the woman I was supposed to be.

“Yes,” I said, and for the first time, my voice didn't shake. “I am.”

Mirabel walked over and pulled me into one last, passionate hug. “I am so glad you are finally doing this, Judy. You deserve the world.”