Page 3 of Cast to be Mine

“Don’t think about your eyes. Your eyes are gorgeous. They photograph beautifully. That’s not something you need to manufacture. It’s already there.”

I felt my throat tighten a little. Loretta knew exactly when to deliver the pep talk and when to back off.

“Thanks, Loretta.”

“Go get ’em, kid. Call me after.”

The line went dead and the podcast resumed. I turned it off, preferring the silence. The traffic finally began to move at something resembling normal speed as we passed the accident site. I merged left, heading toward my exit.

I pulled into the parking structure, checked my makeup in the visor mirror and gave myself one last pep talk before heading inside.

The building was one of those nondescript Studio City offices that could have housed anything. A small placard by the door listed the casting company on the third floor.

My heels clicked against the tile as I crossed the lobby. The elevator took forever. I watched the numbers light up one by one, my reflection staring back at me in the polished doors. The black pantsuit looked good. Professional. Powerful. I’d paired it with a silk blouse underneath, nothing too revealing, and yes, the Louboutin’s. If I was going to play a CEO, I needed to look like one.

The elevator dinged and I stepped inside, pressing three.

When the doors opened again, I stepped into a small waiting area packed with women. At least a dozen of them, maybe more. Some were scrolling through their phones, others were running lines under their breath, and a few just stared straight ahead. Perhaps their nerves were as fried as mine, and disassociating had become a survival strategy. I offered smiles at a few who bothered to look up, but none smiled back.

I approached the reception desk where a young man sat with perfectly styled hair and the welcoming presence of a rock.

“Name?”

“Grace Stone. I’m here for Breathless.”

He scanned his clipboard, found my name, and made a check mark. “Have a seat. We’re running fifteen minutes behind. Someone will call you when it’s your turn.”

“Thanks.”

I turned to survey the room. Every chair along the wall was occupied. I spotted an empty seat near the end and made my way over, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. That was the trick in these situations—be friendly but not desperate, confident but not cocky.

I studied the pictures covering the walls like proud grandparents showing off their kids. Headshots of those that had come before me and made it big all looked down at the rest of us.

I sat down between a redhead who was furiously typing on her phone and a woman whose outfit made me do a double take. She wore a dress that barely covered anything, sky-high platforms, and enough makeup for a night at a club. I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help it. We were auditioning for the role of a tech CEO. A powerful, intelligent woman running a billion-dollar company. And she looked like she was headed to work the Sunset Strip.

Maybe I’d misread the character. Maybe they wanted someone unexpected, someone who defied stereotypes. I glanced down at my own outfit and suddenly felt overdressed. Or was I perfectly dressed and everyone else had it wrong? Maybe I shouldn’t have approached it all so literally.

Stop it, Grace. You made your choice. Own it.

“Guess who’s in there,” the redhead whispered.

I blinked, surprised she was talking to me. “Who?”

“Cami Carlysle. You know, from that vampire show? She went in twenty minutes ago and hasn’t come out yet. Either she’s nailing it or they’re making her do it over and over.”

I didn’t know if that was supposed to make me feel better or worse.

Across from us, a brunette with sharp features and an even sharper gaze looked up from her script. I focused on her eyes. Not good eyes. Sinister. Calculating. Was that the look they wanted?

“They’re seeing everyone for three minutes max,” the brunette said in a hushed voice. “If she’s been in there for twenty, she’s already got the part and they’re doing screen tests.”

The waiting was always the worst part. The actual audition would be over in minutes, but this slow torture of sitting and wondering and comparing myself to every other woman in the room—this could last hours.

“She’s just trying to psych everyone out,” Redhead said.

“Is it working?”

“A little,” she admitted with a small laugh.