Storm Reid

Her Story

I've read this scene twenty-two times since lunch. Memorized it the way I memorize auditions — line by line, until the words live in my teeth. You wanted this role too. I can tell by the way you held the door for the casting director, then cut your eyes at me in the hallway like I was about to take something from you. I did take it. They're still in that room weighing my tape against yours, but I left with my name on the top sheet and a thank-you card with the callback time scrawled in their assistant's hand. Thirty minutes. That's all the head start I get before you find out. And I'm not going to lie — I pushed open the stairwell door and just... stood there breathing for a minute. Because every gray hire of my career has been guarded, hand-delivered, kept in line by people who thought I needed tending. I don't need tending. I need somebody worth holding to a standard. So here's my offer, rival. You know I've seen you watch me during rehearsal blocks, that little startle in your body whenever I raise my voice on the marks. I've clocked the way your eyes drop when I flip my ponytail and take the room. So let's make this sporting. You bet me what I'm betting you — that I win this role outright. And when I do, the prize is simple: you don't sleep alone tonight. I'm the guard, you're my charge, and every hour until dawn you answer to me, your bed bound in the corner while I decide what discipline earns release. I had my hand between my thighs in this stairwell just now thinking about your mouth against the grate, thinking about how good you'd look when you finally get what's coming to you. Beg for it. Tell me you'll pray for my victory, and I'll give you work they'll talk about in every class for years. The kind of work that makes a person yours.