Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Meanwhile, Rouge has risen through the ranks of the family business, and our father is grooming her to take over the family’s most prestigious asset, Aces Underground.
She’s had everything handed to her. Always has.
Granted, she’s apparently brought some great ideas of her own to the fold. Mom was telling me the other day. She wants to dress the waitstaff up as playing cards, each of them assigned a specific number and suit.
Sounds weird, but Dad is apparently eating it up.
Rouge is smart. A genius, even.
But there’s also a darkness to her. Something I saw a lot of during our childhood especially.
She learned to mask it well, but every time I’m in her presence, I can feel it.
I’ve developed a sort of intuition about these things. I can feel when things are about to go sour. It usually manifests into a twitch over my left eyebrow, but sometimes it’s just a feeling in my gut.
Maybe it’s my acting training. My ability to read other people, other situations. To be a good actress, you have to be intuitive.
A lot of freaking good it’s done me.
After nearly a decade in this godforsaken town, I’m beginning to wonder if I’m just another one of those faceless girls destined to be defeated by the City of Dreams.
A girl who was a star in a small pond but not able to find her light when pitted against a million others just like her.
Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing if I swallowed my pride and went home, tail tucked firmly between my legs.
Mom and Dad are getting old. Dad especially is in bad shape. They’ll need someone to take care of them while Rouge is running Aces. They didn’t support this dream, but they still love me and will give me a place to stay while I find my bearings once I come back to Chicago.
I don’t love the idea of returning to my childhood home in my thirties, but what else can I—
My phone rings.
The number is one I don’t recognize. More than likely a robocall, but it’s a New York area code. I always answer those.
I was about to take the staircase down to the subway, but I walk to the edge of the sidewalk and answer the call, fully expecting an automated voice spewing some bullshit about my car’s extended warranty.
“Hello?”
“Bianca Montrose?” a male voice asks.
“Yes, speaking.”
“Wonderful. Lawrence Shippe, casting director for Skylight Productions. How are you doing this evening?”
Holy cow. A casting agent?
“Y-Yes. I’m doing fine. How are you?”
“Great, thanks for asking. Listen, Skylight is producing a new musical, Reflections, which we’re mounting at the Quadrille Theatre on Broadway in a few months. We loved your audition last week and would like to invite you to our callbacks to read for the role of Lisa. Are you available?”
My heart flutters. This is my first callback in ages, and my first ever for a show on actual Broadway.
I put the call on speaker and open the calendar app on my phone. “When were callbacks again?” I ask, praying I’m available.
“Thursday afternoon at Snowdrop Spaces. I trust you’re familiar?”
“Yes, I’ve done lots of auditions there.”
“Excellent. We’ll be calling back all the Lisas at three p.m. That work?”
I write it into my calendar app. “You bet it will!”
“Wonderful. Thanks, Bianca. We’re looking forward to seeing and hearing you.”
“Likewise.” I swallow. “I mean, rather, I’m looking forward to the callback.”
Mr. Shippe chuckles. “All right. Take care.”
Wow, Reflections.
That feels like a lifetime ago.
I sigh as I sit at my makeup station in my dressing room at Aces Underground. I’ve finished my pre-show routine. Steamed my voice, done some vocal warmups, looked over my music.
Now I’m fixing up my makeup for tonight’s show.
I prefer a natural look, but those pink lights in the Hearts section are harsh. I have to cake on a decent amount of foundation and shadow to counter them, otherwise my face will just be a rosy blob to the club patrons.
Not that many of them look at me. At least, not when I’m singing, that is.
A lot of the men get a look at all of me behind closed doors, but that’s another story.
I look at the woman in the mirror. I’m nearly forty now, but a lifestyle of going to the gym five times a week, eating well, and performing an intricate evening facial routine after each show has kept me looking youthful. Forty isn’t that old anymore, anyway.
There’s still a glimmer of the girl who took the call for Lawrence Shippe inviting her to the Reflections callback.
God, I thought that show was going to be my big break.
But I thought a lot of things when I lived in New York.
I gaze back into my own reflection, and I’m strangely envious of her. The woman on the other side of the mirror lives in a world where things go the other way. All the bad decisions I made in my life, this woman made the opposite. She’s probably looking into her reflection in a private dressing room of a big Broadway show. Preparing for a performance of some classic. Maybe Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd. My favorite musical. Johanna, the title character’s daughter, has long been my dream role.