She had always been an artist first—before she was a daughter, before she was a woman, before she was anything else. It was the art that defined her, the endless cascade of roles that consumed her piece by piece, until there was nothing left that felt like herself.

To the world, she was a miracle—a once-in-a-lifetime talent who could transform herself into anyone, anything. Directors begged for her time. Audiences adored her. Her face lingered on every billboard in every city worth speaking of. But to her, it was different. The faces she wore clung to her long after the cameras stopped rolling. They lived beneath her skin, whispering in her mind. Some days, she couldn’t remember where the performance ended and where she began.

It was during the filming of her twelfth role—something demanding, something that devoured her mind while the industry cheered—that she met him. Vincent St. Sinclair. A director whose name carried weight, a man so careful with his words that each one felt deliberate, a man whose films were not just stories but statements. He had the kind of reputation that made actors nervous. He could elevate you to godhood—or tear you apart, if you let him.

But with her, he had been kind.

They met on a cold November morning, the air crisp and thin as a blade. She had just finished a scene—a particularly brutal one—and her hands were still trembling when she stepped outside the soundstage. Cigarette smoke curled in the air, a poor attempt to soothe the ache in her chest. Vincent stood nearby, watching her. He had been watching her a lot, though he was never obvious about it.

“You shouldn’t let it follow you home,” he said quietly, his voice smooth but edged with something sharper beneath the surface. “The work. It’ll ruin you if you let it.”