Her dressing room was cluttered with bouquets. Lilies from her ex-husband, the director who’d left her for a twenty-five-year-old script supervisor. Roses from her current agent, a man young enough to be her grandson who kept suggesting "exciting new opportunities to play grandmothers and quirky aunts." And a single, elegant orchid with no card—the kind of gift that whispered of old debts and older secrets.
Margot studied her. She saw herself at twenty-nine—eager, terrified, convinced that the next audition would change everything. It wouldn’t. But she also saw something else: a future. Not a rival, but a reflection.
"Viv," Margot said, not turning. "Come to watch me accept my consolation prize?"
Back in the dressing room, after the cameras had gone, after the flowers had been claimed, Margot found the orchid again. She turned over the small card.
Celia perched nervously.