Me—Jane Carter—yelling at Michael Peterson, the so-called “visionary” director ofDesperately Seeking Love. My big break.
Or what was supposed to be.
What the video doesn’t show? Six months of subtle digs. Condescending comments. And a script slowly gutted of my dialogue until my character barely existed.
“No, no, Carter, calm down. You’re just a pretty face. It’s my film. I decide. And I’ve decided your character is more interesting when she doesn’t talk.”
His voice still echoes in my head.
That was the moment I snapped.
Funny howthatpart didn’t make it into the viral clip.
My phone buzzes again.
Savannah.
My best friend since high school—and the only person who hasn’t abandoned me yet.
“Tell me you didn’t drown yourself in a bathtub full of wine,” she says the second I answer.
“I don’t have a bathtub. Just a shower with the pressure of a sad garden hose. And no—I’m drowning in a glass like a responsible adult.”
Her laugh softens something tight in my chest.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes with ice cream, nachos, and more wine. Don’t do anything stupid until I get there.”
“Like what? Calling Peterson and telling him exactly what I think? Too late. He blocked me.”
“Like posting something online, Jane. Seriously. Do. Not. Do. That.”
I shrug, even though she can’t see me.
“I’ve got nothing left to lose, Sav.”
“That’s exactly what people say before they lose everything. Put the phone down. I’m on my way.”
She hangs up.
I stare at the black screen.
My last Instagram post is still up—me beaming on set.
Dreams do come true.
Yeah. Hilarious.
The doorbell rings what feels like five minutes later.
Savannah must have broken a speed record—or I’ve had more wine than I thought.
“It’s open!” I call out.
The door swings open.
And instead of Savannah…
Ryan Fowler walks in.
