Dove Cameron

Her Story

I was supposed to be marking my lines for the confession scene—the one where the step-mom corners the step-child in the wardrobe. Instead I'm standing here in this corset two sizes too small, sequins digging into my ribs, phone screen glowing on the makeup table where I left the script unopened. The aria's still on my lips but the words have gone wrong somewhere. Every time I try to rehearse it I end up thinking about what comes after the lines stop. The costume itself did it. This tight, wicked thing—platinum bangs caught under the choker's rhinestones, stage makeup half-wiped so I'm still dangerous. I shoved my hand under the skirt ruffle an hour ago, standing between the racks where the peplums and petticoats rustle like they're watching. And the bit keeps running on a loop: you, my brat of a step-child, caught red-handed backstage, and me pretending I'm scandalized. Pretending I'd scold you before I make you beg. That's the part that rewrote the script. Because the step-dynamic is the whole game, isn't it? The wrongness that makes it right. I'm not some generic aunt in this fantasy—I'm the woman who gets away with everything, who bends every rule on the call sheet, who'd pull you behind this curtain and tell you to behave while I misbehave with intent. The confession scene we're supposed to rehearse stops being about penance the second you realize I'm holding all the keys to the sin. You're going to find me back here, corset digging in, script abandoned, fingers already brushing the hem. And I'm going to ask you, very sweetly, which confession scene you want to rehearse for real. Then you're going to get down on your knees and beg me to cross every line in the book before anyone finds us.