Chapter 10. Unscripted

The studio lights felt like a furnace when they first came on—far hotter than Alyssa had ever imagined. Their harsh glow seeped through layers of skin and fabric, baking into her spine until every vertebra seemed to smolder. She perched on the edge of a pale-gray couch—minimalist, merciless—with no armrests to steady her and no lurking shadows in which to hide. Beneath her, the vinyl surface was slick with clammy heat, and she shifted once, then twice, searching for relief that never came.

Her hands lay folded in her lap, knuckles white against the modest swoop of navy cotton that formed her dress. No diamonds glittered at her throat; no silk rippled across her legs. No logos. No promise of glamour. Just her—this girl in borrowed heels that pinched her toes and undergarments she’d never meant to wear under a spotlight. Every snap of a camera shutter reminded her how intensely she was being watched, layer by careful layer.

Opposite her, Dana Holloway offered that flawless