CHAPTER NINETEEN:
Hailey’s POV
I dragged my exhausted body out of the dingy warehouse, Miles’ parting words still ringing in my ears. “Be back here at 8: 00 AM tomorrow… There won’t be any applause or charity then.”
The veiled threat sent a shudder down my spine, but I couldn’t let him rattle me. Not when I’d already come this far.
I enter my beat-up Honda, letting out a sigh.
Feeling the day’s torments weighing on me like a heavy cloak.
Yet alongside the weariness, an ember of fierce determination flickered to life. I would not be cowed by Miles’ sadistic mind games.
I arrived at my cramped studio apartment nearly 9pm.
I fired off a terse text to my best friend Anna: “Sorry, crazy day at the audition. Will catch you up later, need to recharge.”
Her reply was instantaneous: “Girl you better spill the deets! Was it crazy good or crazy bad?”
I grimaced, toying with how to condense the harrowing events into a brief response. Eventually I settled on: “Both. Long story, will explain everything after I grab food and sleep.”
“K, love you! You’ve got this!”
I couldn’t help but smile wanly at Sienna’s steadfast support. She knew how much landing this role meant to me – not just for my career, but some deranged personal validation after I failed several times.
Shoving those unpleasant memories aside, I quickly downed a protein shake and some almonds before flopping into bed.
I needed to be well-rested and fortified for whatever fresh torments Miles had in store.
I drifted off, my mind churned with the day’s bizarre events.
That unnerving oscillation between Miles’ blistering disdain and… something almost like fleeting approval whenever I tapped into those transcendent performances.
It made no sense. By all accounts, the man seemed to derive unholy glee from attempting to alienate and overwhelm me at every turn.
Yet I’d caught the subtlest flickers of respect, of being impress something in his eyes whenever I sailed through those stylistic extremes.
Of course, the moment he detected any willful pride or confidence blossoming in me, the walls went back up.
Miles!! That egocentric bastard!
The mocking sneers and exquisitely honed barbs rained down with renewed vehemence, as if frantically batting away any hint that I might be his peer in craft.
I knew better than to expect Miles to ease up tomorrow.
If anything, he’d likely double down on whatever psychological crucibles he had planned, desperate to regain control of the dynamic.
Well, no matter whatever hell he threw my way, I promise to meet it with the full brunt of my passion and talent.
I am giving it my best!
If Miles craved unflinching conviction and fearless authenticity in my performances, then by God that’s what he would witness – even if it permanently shattered any fragile self-regard he still harbored.
I would not be deterred or permit him to extinguish my light, no matter how cruelly he tried to smother it.
Not when the promise of my dreams burned so brilliantly, so agonizingly close.
With that steely resolution guiding me, I surrendered to slumber’s embrace.
The next morning, I was up before the sun. After sweating through an invigorating jog and downing a protein-rich breakfast, I climbed into my car just after 7am feeling galvanized and ready for battle.
My phone chimed with a new text from Anna: “You’ve got this, babe! Show that diva director the fire you’re made of!”
Grinning, I quickly typed back: “Oh, you know it. No one grinds me into paste without one hell of a fight.”
When I arrived at the warehouse ten minutes early, the door was propped open in a clear invitation – or perhaps Miles simply wished to dispense with the niceties of proper greeting.
I steeled myself and stepped through the threshold into the cavernous gloom… only to find the massive space bathed in brilliant stage lighting.
Several sets had been painstakingly arranged, including what looked like a meticulously constructed apartment living room and kitchen.
Miles himself stood conversing with a heavyset man brandishing a headset, clearly involved in orchestrating whatever twisted exhibition he had planned.
As I drew closer, the director turned and regarded me with an inscrutable expression devoid of his former mockery.
“Hailey,” he said by way of terse greeting. “I trust you’re well-rested and prepared to demonstrate the full breadth of your… talents this morning.”
His emphasis on that last word seemed to carry faint shades of something beyond obligatory derision. Testing the waters, I lifted my chin in a subtly defiant tilt.
“You know it. I’m ready for anything you have to dish out, Miles.”
He regarded me flatly for a protracted beat before nodding. “We’ll see about that.”
With a flick of his wrist, Miles produced a sheaf of rumpled script pages that looked thoroughly manhandled and creased.
The very texture of them seemed to ooze a kind of tawdry, lowbrow energy that set my hackles rising.
“For our opening gambit, I’d like you to embody a figure rather… parallel to your own incipient stardom, shall we say? Someone achingly desperate to achieve primacy in her chosen art, yet continually frustrated by commercial and critical apathy.”
The disdain in his voice made it clear this was Miles’ way of hurling fresh insults and degradations.
Of rubbing my own anxieties about making it as an actress directly in my face.
“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth, snatching the proffered script. “Let’s get on with it.”
Rather than take a separate stance, Miles elected to hover mere feet away with arms akimbo, treating the improvisation as yet another gauntlet to run me through.
Only after exhaling a steadying breath did, I begin to embody the persona of this “rising star constantly upstaged by others’ success.”
“Another night, another dead-end from this poser ‘impresario’s latest jamboree!” I fumed, stomping in a tight circle as the character’s impotent fury came spilling out.
“Like, how many times does Tommy Lame blood get to prance that third-rate Eurodance revue across every stage in a sixty-mile radius while I rot in reception hell?”
I whirled and glared daggers at Miles. “He stalks through the city like a victorious rebbe, dragging an army of sycophants behind him. All while I get the honor of asking if they ‘enjoyed the fried fish’ or some other server slop!”
Laying a hand over my brow, I groaned and resumed pacing as the character’s simmering laments reached an anguished crescendo.
“This was supposed to be MY time! The dawn of something blazing and new in the arts, celebrated and adored for its ferocity and uncompromising genius!”
I threw out my arms in a gesture of wounded disbelief. “Instead, I get… evenings slinging hash and dodging drunken offers from drifters looking to get a ‘lap dance’ for the price of their Denny’s grand slam!”
Working myself up to a fever pitch, I clutched at my scalp as if my skull might split open from the mounting artistic frustrations.
“My WHITE-HOT PASSION… snuffed out before its first searing ember could be struck!” I howled to the rafters, eyes wild and glistening with unshed tears. “Is THIS what becomes of all my years of sacrifice, of grinding through each dead-end graveyard revue and failed open mic?!”
When at last I ran out of steam, chest heaving from wallowing in the character’s agonizing disillusionment, I wheeled around to find Miles regarding me with an infuriatingly opaque expression.
For several tension-fraught heartbeats, an expectant hush cloaked the warehouse as the man seemed to appraise and weigh every nuance of my heated performance… before uttering a curt, “Not bad.”
My jaw clenched at the flimsy, backhanded praise. “Not bad?” I echoed with mounting indignation. “That’s all you have to say after I practically scooped out my soul and rubbed it raw for your scrutiny?”
Miles’ cool gaze never wavered. “You mistake my intentions, Miss Hailey. That was not a dismissal, but an honest critique of a solid – if perhaps slightly overwrought – embodiment of the role’s essence.”
He held up a hand as I bristled, clearly sensing the tirade of protest forming behind my lips. “However, we’re only just getting started. THAT was merely your warmup round, a chance to inhabit a shallowly defined archetype.”
With a snap of his fingers, a stagehand scurried overbearing a fresh dogeared sheaf of papers. “This next performance will require true emotions.”
My eyes narrowed at the implication. So, Miles was done toying with surface-level caricatures for me to simply emote through.
Now the real test began!