Chapter One #2
Any amount of calm Dimple had managed of herself had been for naught. Irene was talented in many things; acting was not one of them, but irritating Dimple certainly was.
She loathed admitting it, but it was because they were so similar that they were constantly competing for roles.
And not just in their long brown hair and golden skin.
Both Dimple and her manager had thought the sweet, doe-eyed girl-next-door in real life contrasted with the intense horror actress on-screen would be a unique niche for her. And then came Irene.
Dimple couldn’t help the way her jaw clenched in annoyance. “Speaking of,” she said pleasantly, “congratulations.”
As though unable to hold herself back any longer, Irene reached forward and clasped both of Dimple’s hands in her own, shaking them with excitement.
Dimple instinctively took a step back, heartbeat jumping to her throat.
Irene’s breath carried whatever she’d been drinking and Dimple couldn’t help feeling like easy prey.
“You have no idea how hard it’s been to keep this a secret! You’re the only one who knows.”
She said it like it was something to be proud of, something exclusive between close friends.
Dimple knew about the role Irene had landed only because it had almost been hers.
The invitation to this party had come less than an hour after the call that she hadn’t booked it.
The tears on her cheeks hadn’t the time to dry before sending the RSVP.
Dimple bit back a scowl and pulled away, but judging by her smirk, Irene didn’t miss the resentment that had snuck into Dimple’s expression.
Blood rushed in her ears. As much as Irene claimed a desire to forge her own path, she had her family name backing her.
Singh Sr. was so often pictured in magazines playing golf with the rest of Hollywood’s biggest producers, Dimple wondered if he did anything else.
Irene had stepped into the spotlight years after her, but it wasn’t long before they were glaring daggers at each other outside audition rooms. It was impossible not to see each other as competition with how often they were mistakenly called the other’s name.
The difference was that after every failed audition, Irene went home to her mansion.
Sometimes, a lost role still left a chance to be cast as a minor character if she made a good enough impression on the director.
But if Irene was cast, Dimple looked far too similar to be given any other role, no matter how small.
The same was true vice versa. Directors had joked that the only way they’d both make it in the industry was if they trained in stunt work so they could substitute for each other.
The constant passive aggressive barbs didn’t help either.
Irene had won the first victory, and so she’d been the one to start that tradition.
And now she’d be the one to end it. Irene had landed her breakout lead role, and just like that, Dimple had lost their short-lived cold war.
Considering that Irene was only the latest of many actresses who had beat her to the finish line, Dimple figured there had to come a point where she accepted that her career had died before it had even begun.
“You might think you want this, Dimple, but it’s hard always being in the spotlight,” Irene said, eyes shining. She looked out forlornly over her mansion. “You don’t realize how lucky you are.”
“I appreciate the advice from such a seasoned actress as yourself.” Nobody could claim that Dimple didn’t at least attempt pleasantries.
Irene laughed. “Seasoned? That’s a little much. I mean, you’re older than I am!”
Dimple snapped her jaw shut so hard her teeth began to ache. She couldn’t account for what she would say if she opened her mouth, so she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood.
Irene turned back, seemingly to continue her barrage, but something else caught her attention. “What happened to your dress?”
Dimple looked down and froze. There was a glaring stain at the center of her stomach, dark enough to stand out against the cheap polyester red of her gown.
It almost looked like blood. She wasn’t sure what it was or how long it had been there, and felt her face heat at the thought of everyone who’d seen it.
Did they laugh behind her back? Tomorrow, would she find herself in an article, “Top Ten Worst Dressed People at Irene Singh’s Party,” not even notable enough to be mentioned by name?
The humiliation was familiar—the same as a child who’d come back from playing with dirtied clothes. Dimple never noticed her dishevelment until there was an open palm smacking her for it.
Raised voices, the smell of alcohol on her aunt and uncle’s breath as they berated her for ruining the clothes they’d worked so hard to buy.
They appeared in front of her again now, the world around her melting away.
Once, these waking nightmares had terrified her.
They’d left her sick to her stomach, unable to sift through reality and fabrication.
Eight years later, in place of her guardians was something blurry, out of focus, an afterthought of a face.
These phantoms were mere imitations of the real thing.
Of course they were—Dimple’s aunt and uncle had long since burned.
It hadn’t been difficult to stage the accident, not when notoriously careless drunkards were involved.
It was entirely believable that they’d left the stove on, that they’d never replaced the batteries in their smoke detectors.
I’m so sorry, but your family didn’t make it, the doctors had told her afterward.
What a joke. It was difficult to think of them as family other than in terms of blood, and they’d never treated her as more than a burden.
Dimple touched the cold plastic of the lighter tucked securely in her dress pocket.
Usually this—some reminder of reality—would be enough to snap her out of the nightmare.
But the potent smell of alcohol was entirely too strong to be a memory.
A phantom hand darted toward her, sending panic through her veins.
This was all wrong. They weren’t supposed to be able to touch her.
Dimple flinched, her hands moving faster than she could think.
She pushed with strength she’d never had as a child.
And connected with something solid.
It was no apparition. Both the hand reaching toward Dimple and the smell of liquor were attached to Irene.
The gasp she let out sent chills down Dimple’s spine.
Irene’s feet slipped out from under her, arm still outstretched.
Their fingers pressed together for a fleeting moment, and Dimple tried to grab ahold of her—to take it back—but she was still wearing her slippery elbow-length gloves.
The personification of old Hollywood that the party’s theme had called for.
Fabric tore, loud as a gunshot, and Irene plunged down the grand staircase in slow motion. It felt halfway between a dream and a movie. Dimple was almost certain that she’d seen this exact scene in one of Irene’s films. They’d probably competed for that role as well.
There was a sickening crunch as Irene’s body hit the stairs neck-first and all the breath in her lungs expelled itself. She tumbled the rest of the way down, dress twisting, all pretenses of grace lost somewhere between the first step and the tenth.
When Irene finally reached the bottom, long brown hair fanning around her like a crown, she was as motionless as a statue.