Dedree Goodwin—the black female prisoner in the film version of Chicago, and Velma in the Broadway musical—wasn't meeting Jennifer Jefferson for the first time. They'd exchanged a few words over lunch a couple of times at Universal Studios Hollywood, but their interactions hadn't gone much deeper. Even if Dedree had wanted to build a deeper connection, circumstances simply wouldn't allow it. The atmosphere on the Chicago set was tense. The director was like a ticking time bomb, ready to explode at any moment. It was also Delilah's first time working on a film. Whenever they met, one of them was always rushing to get ready for a scene, leaving no time for lingering.
As for Jefferson, the lucky one—it would be a lie to say Delilah didn't envy her. She was beautiful, young—most crucially, young. Dorothy was already 32 this year, having only just secured the role of Velma and gained her big-screen debut through a Broadway troupe's recommendation. She started as an understudy dancer, spending six full years on Broadway before reaching this point, while Jennifer Jefferson was merely 20.
Of course, back in Hollywood, Dorothy hadn't felt much jealousy toward her. Hollywood was never short of lucky breakout stars. In other words, even though Jennifer had made it to the big screen, at 20 she was still playing supporting roles. Compared to child prodigies like Natalie Portman or Scarlett Johansson, she was still lagging far behind. At the time, she simply wanted to make a friend, cultivate a connection—perhaps one day, after Jennifer's rise, she might secure an audition or two.
—But back then, Delilah had no idea Jennifer would suddenly dash to Broadway to sing in a musical, and that she'd set her sights on Roxie, the lead in Chicago. Judging by James' attitude toward her, Jennifer wasn't challenging the B-team Roxie, but the A-team. Meaning that if she passed the audition, it would be Jennifer—not poor old Tina, nor Amanda who'd been longing to move up from the B cast—who would partner with Delilah for the next several seasons.
Daisy wasn't entirely clear on the commercial considerations behind this audition. She'd heard some rumors, of course, but how the publicity was handled was ultimately the theater's business. Her sole concern was one thing: the spotlight.
Wherever two actresses share the stage, there's bound to be a battle for attention—especially in a dual-lead production like Chicago. Whenever they perform together, comparisons inevitably arise over who commands more of the spotlight. Of course, this is a struggle difficult to quantify, and the outcome varies from person to person; every audience member might have a different answer. But Delilah knew her disadvantage against Jennifer was stark—she simply wasn't as beautiful. Compared to her original partner Tina, Jennifer's advantages were glaringly obvious: she was undeniably young, stunningly beautiful, and slender, with a perfectly toned figure (Tina was somewhat on the heavier side, a problem Amanda also shared). Even setting aside their singing and dancing skills, simply standing side by side, Jennifer naturally commanded 70% of the attention.
Another disadvantage was Jennifer's acting ability. The reason Delilah hadn't joined the touring company was that she served as a human backdrop for many scenes on the Chicago set. She appeared in several of Giddy's scenes, and Jennifer's effortless acting left a deep impression on her. On this point, Delilah, who had previously specialized in musical theater, could honestly admit she was no match.
Yet she held her own advantages. Having skipped the studio's dance and vocal workshops, her professional training spared her last-minute cramming. Rehearsing alongside leads like Renee and Catherine revealed the inherent stage weaknesses of non-theatre-trained film stars. Beauty was one thing; stage command was another. Though she couldn't match Katharine's looks, Delilah was confident she could command more attention on the same stage. Since Jennifer's casting now seemed inevitable, the song and dance sequence James had chosen presented a golden opportunity. She believed she could establish the power dynamic between them during their first shared performance. —Doris didn't intend to bully Jennifer; she merely wanted her to behave properly on stage and not steal her thunder.
Jennifer hadn't undergone systematic rehearsals, receiving only a few months of brief training. From feedback by several colleagues, aside from her looks, her singing was merely passable. Though her dancing was decent, Doris's strength lay in choreography—an area where she held absolute confidence. Daisy didn't intend to crush her so thoroughly that she'd lose the role, but she needed to completely dominate Jennifer in this song. She needed to make it clear who was in charge, who had the choreography and lines memorized to perfection. To put it bluntly: who would set the pace.
But the moment Jennifer opened her mouth, Daisy knew she was finished.
For audiences, the spoken lines and singing in musicals aren't heavily tied to the background music. Especially in this jazz-infused Chicago number, the rhythm was relatively monotonous, making it seem like the singing could start anywhere and still fit seamlessly. For actors, however, the timing of their entrance and the rhythm of their delivery matter. When two actors deliver the same line, their pacing can influence each other. Delilah was fighting to be the lead. She wanted James to know that even if Jennifer became the promotional focus for the next season, Velma would still be the one singing lead on stage.
But she couldn't do it. The moment Jennifer opened her mouth, she knew she couldn't compete. She couldn't see her expressions or dance moves, only hear her humming "Nowadays" in that affected, self-satisfied, coquettish voice—every line perfectly on pitch, every line hitting the beat, every line dripping with emotion. Her synchronization with the backing track was flawless, not missing a single beat— —it felt like singing in a karaoke booth. Every note Jennifer hit was a righteous, live-tracked replay, leaving Delilah no room for improvisational flourishes or even adjusting the pitch to match her own voice. Like anyone singing along to a live track, the only thing Delilah could do was follow her rhythm, blend into her performance, and adjust their distance based on Jennifer's movements.
In other words, despite her best efforts to adjust and conceal it, the flustered, error-prone performer was the veteran Delilah, not the rookie Jennifer. Deddy had been playing Velma for half a year now, and this final song-and-dance number felt like her worst performance yet. Perhaps her mind was too cluttered with distractions—by the final segment, she didn't even know how to handle the lack of props. Who knew how many times they'd used cardboard machine guns in rehearsal, or how often they'd simply mimed the action with their hands when cardboard wasn't available? This time, it was only when she caught Jennifer blowing on her fingers out of the corner of her eye that she suddenly snapped to attention, quickly mimicking the gesture to sync with Jennifer.
Was her singing good? Was she off-key? Was it resonant? Was her breath steady? Dorothy hadn't even noticed. Jennifer's performance felt like an indivisible whole to her—she was Roxie, pure and simple. This was Roxie Hart singing and dancing right now. How could you critique her vocals or acting? It was like you couldn't say a baby's smile wasn't natural. Maybe it wasn't the most beautiful smile, but it was utterly genuine, without a trace of affectation.
In the end, it boiled down to this: Jennifer wasn't just fully immersed in her role—she pulled the audience into it too. They shed their lofty judge's stance, utterly captivated by her charm.
After the performance, James didn't show excessive excitement, but Delilah knew him well. She easily spotted his agitation through his subtle gestures—tightened lips, sparkling eyes, and fingers tapping the table incessantly. James was merely putting on a show, Delilah was certain. He was practically flying high with excitement. He'd been waiting for an opportunity to restore the Schubert Theatre to its former glory, and who could say Jennifer Jefferson wasn't the savior he'd envisioned?
As for the crowd behind the audition table—Agata Lempin, Rob Marshall, those bigwigs—they weren't stingy with their smiles and nods. They kept whispering to each other, undoubtedly discussing Delilah—Jennifer Jefferson, right beside them. Their eyes slid over Delilah, yet they ignored her as if she were merely a prop, an inanimate object. But once they landed on Jefferson, it was as if they'd fallen into a black hole, unable to tear themselves away.
Daisy felt terrible, not only because she'd just botched her performance, but also because she'd already sensed her fate. Hell, she knew it all too well. If she were in their shoes, she'd make the exact same choice. If she weren't a fellow performer but merely an audience member, she too would have ignored the pitiful, overshadowed, lackluster supporting actress. Her attention would have been riveted solely on this stunningly beautiful, exceptionally talented rising star.
If she weren't a fellow performer...
She bit down on her cheek, using the slight pain to remind herself: now was not the time for such thoughts.
Then she turned, flashed a smile, and congratulated Jennifer Jefferson.
Just as she'd noticed, the moment the curtain fell, Jefferson's commanding presence, her domineering aura—or rather, that magnetic charisma—vanished entirely. She was still beautiful, of course, but no longer so conspicuous, so overbearing. Wiping sweat from her brow, she offered a warm smile to Dorothy as well. It was as if Jefferson had been coordinating their movements throughout the entire performance, rather than simply putting on a five-minute solo show.
Of course, Delilah admitted she hadn't intended to communicate positioning mid-dance either. But precisely because she had planned to do so, only to be beaten to it by Jefferson, her current irritation ran even deeper.
She stepped forward to shake Jefferson's hand, then turned back toward the crowd, choosing to ignore the insincere smiles from her colleagues. She knew exactly what they were thinking. Competition on Broadway was no less cutthroat than Hollywood. She was Velma—a role synonymous with intrigue and controversy within the Chicago cast.
And Delilah couldn't accept the way things were unfolding either. At 32, she had little room left for failure. This audition had stirred the fear of unemployment deep within her. Chicago was a dual-lead musical; Velma couldn't be overshadowed by Roxie. If she couldn't hold her own against Jefferson, Delilah knew exactly what awaited her.
This wasn't her first encounter with the industry's dark side. Those familiar with the business knew: no one clears your obstacles. Either you grow strong enough to leap over them, or you stoop down and remove them yourself.
She wore a polite smile as she studied Jefferson intently through the crowd.
Studied him very intently.
...
Jenny didn't particularly sense Delilah's hostility, not because she lacked sharpness, but simply because too many eyes were fixed on her now—eyes filled with apprehension, jealousy, astonishment. Roughly half the room stared at her with wary, fearful, even disgusted expressions. Pinpointing each source of those glances had become impossible. Besides, she had a more pressing task: formally greeting Agatha and Robert.
Though normally, after her performance, James Schubbe would offer a few comments before she could leave, the entire audition rhythm had now stalled. with a huddle forming around the audition table and the room buzzing like a bustling market. So Jenny pushed through, first embracing Agatha—who gave her a firm pat on the shoulder without further words before nudging her toward Rob.
"Did you really come back to New York just to see me?" Jenny shouted above the chatter, throwing herself into a hug and cheek-kiss with Robert. Though they hadn't met often, Robert's past support and the room's slightly frenzied atmosphere made the gesture feel perfectly natural.
Rob returned her embrace, grinning madly with teeth flashing. "I wish I could say yes, but the truth is the studio wrapped early for Christmas—"
He might have intended to critique her performance, but Schubert had already turned toward them. So Rob only managed a hurried, " Listen, I'm throwing a Christmas party. You gotta come. If you can, let's grab dinner tonight."
Then he pushed her back toward Schubert.
Schubert pushed back his chair, stood up, and shook her hand. His demeanor was more formal than before; he even cleared his throat before speaking. "Very good, Miss Jefferson. We're very pleased with your performance."
Beside him, another casting director shook his head and chuckled, "More than satisfied? Jennifer, you rocked the shit out of the whole place. We can't wait to see your official performance."
Schubert gave him a helpless smile but maintained a professional demeanor toward Jenny. "In any case, we'll let you know the results within two days."
"Okay, no problem." Jenny tried to stifle her laughter, but she was genuinely thrilled and exhilarated. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but that song-and-dance routine felt like a perfect counterpunch to Schubert's earlier hour of leering glances. Finally, she couldn't hold back and flashed a bright smile. "I'll... I'll be anxiously awaiting your call."
The executives at the audition table all laughed. They reached out their hands to Jenny one by one, and she shook each of them. For a moment, she felt a fleeting illusion of being a political leader. It was incredibly hard to suppress this euphoric feeling, and she couldn't stop smiling even as she walked to the door.
But the moment she pushed open the door and all the other candidates turned to look at her, that inexplicable sense of triumph melted away instantly. Jenny suddenly realized she had merely pulled off a rehearsed performance—she hadn't become queen of the world. And all around her, a crowd of people were likely plotting to trip her up at any moment, hoping to boost their own chances of success.
She immediately suppressed her smile and strode through the crowd as solemnly as possible. Even so, Jenny could feel countless malicious stares converging on her. If looks could kill, she was certain her face would already be slashed and bleeding.
Though she wasn't the type to flaunt her looks or act aggressively, and always tried to keep a low profile, Jenny knew these contestants wouldn't hate her any less for it. They disliked her, even despised her, and the reason was simple: Jenny stood in their way. She had snatched the opportunity they all coveted.
So she was the Bitch.
This wasn't some political or economic game with win-win solutions—this was showbiz.
In showbiz, there could only be one winner.