"I hope everything works fine..."
Being invited to Director Shiena's party was considered an honor.
It was not a loud or flashy kind of event, but everyone who mattered was there. Producers, investors, senior actors, and critics filled the wide hall of the private hotel.
Director Shiena was known for her sharp eye and strict standards. Almost all her films had won awards abroad or broken records at home. She had pushed unknown faces into stardom and never backed the wrong person.
If she invited someone, it meant she saw potential.
Rosaniah Zelberg stood near the edge of the room, holding a glass of wine she had not touched. Her posture was straight, her smile practiced but soft. She wore a simple dark-blue dress, nothing too bold. She had learned long ago that drawing too much attention could be dangerous.
She was a B-list actress.
Not unknown, but not powerful either.
Everything she had was earned through years of work, small roles, long shoots, ignored auditions, and polite rejections. There was no famous surname behind her, no powerful sponsor, and no shortcut. Tonight felt like a narrow bridge between where she stood and where she hoped to be.
Being invited to this party felt like a hand reaching out.
Will I make it to Director Shiena's list?
Rosaniah took a slow breath. She reminded herself to stay calm, to observe, to listen more than speak. Director Shiena liked people who knew their place.
She turned slightly, intending to move closer to a group of assistant directors, when a sharp movement entered her view.
Mauricia?
Her stepsister walked toward her in an unsteady line, a wineglass clutched in her hand. Her face was flushed, her eyes shining in a way that was not friendly. The smell of alcohol reached Rosaniah even before Mauricia stopped in front of her.
Rosaniah's fingers tightened around her own glass.
She had hoped Mauricia would not come tonight.
They had not spoken in months. Not since their last argument ended with slammed doors and bitter words. Rosaniah had moved out long ago, but family ties had a way of following people into places they did not belong.
Mauricia looked her up and down, lips curling.
"So this is where you are now," she said loudly. "Standing with people who actually matter."
A few heads turned.
Rosaniah kept her voice low. "You've had too much to drink. Please go sit down."
Mauricia laughed, sharp and ugly. "Don't tell me what to do. Who do you think you are?"
Her hand moved suddenly.
The slap came fast.
It echoed in the room.
Rosaniah's head turned to the side. Her cheek burned, the sting spreading quickly. Before she could react, Mauricia's hand knocked into her wineglass.
The glass slipped from Rosaniah's fingers.
It shattered on the floor.
Red wine splashed up, soaking the front of her dress, dripping down like a wound that would not close.
A gasp rippled through the crowd.
Mauricia leaned closer, her voice rising. "Look at you! You are nothing but a whore who slept her way to the top! I don't have a sister like you! Dirty!"
The music seemed to fade.
People stared.
Some looked shocked. Some looked curious. Others looked away, as if afraid trouble might touch them too.
Rosaniah stood still.
Wine clung to her skin. Her cheek throbbed. Her ears rang.
But her face remained empty.
She did not lift her hand. She did not shout. She did not defend herself.
Mauricia kept talking, words tumbling out in anger and drink. She spoke of unfairness, of stolen chances, of years spent waiting behind Rosaniah's shadow. She spoke of how Rosaniah did not deserve anything she had.
Rosaniah heard it all.
She had heard it before.
Mauricia had always believed the world owed her something. She had chased fame with desperation, but talent alone could not save her. While Rosaniah worked quietly, Mauricia demanded attention. While Rosaniah endured, Mauricia blamed.
Tonight, the resentment finally spilled over.
No one stepped forward.
Not a single person spoke to stop it.
Director Shiena was nowhere in sight.
A staff member hesitated at the edge of the scene, unsure whether to interfere. Guests whispered behind raised hands. Phones remained lowered, but eyes were sharp, recording everything.
Rosaniah felt the familiar weight settle in her chest.
This was how it always went.
She was used to silence.
She bowed her head slightly, not in apology, but in acknowledgment. Then she turned and walked away, careful not to rush. Her heels clicked softly against the floor, steady and controlled.
She did not look back.
In the restroom, she locked herself inside a stall and leaned against the door. The cool surface pressed into her back. Her hands shook at last.
She closed her eyes.
The contract came to her mind without warning.
Five years ago.
A dying man. A signature. A marriage built on paper and silence.
She had given up everything that night so her family could survive. She had learned how to swallow pain and keep walking. Tonight was not worse than that.
Still, it hurt.
After a moment, she washed her hands, dabbed at her dress as best she could, and fixed her hair. The red stain remained, impossible to hide.
She left the restroom and did not return to the hall.
Instead, she slipped out onto the quiet balcony connected to the upper floor. Cool night air wrapped around her, carrying the distant sound of traffic below.
The city lights glimmered like scattered stars.
Rosaniah rested her hands on the railing and breathed.
Inside the building, the party continued.
Inside the city, life went on.
Somewhere far below, a car slowed near the entrance. Dark windows reflected the hotel lights. From the back seat, a man watched the upper floors with calm interest.
He had arrived late.
He had seen enough.
His gaze stopped on a single balcony.
On a woman in a stained dress, standing alone.
For a brief moment, his fingers tightened.
Then the car door opened.
And he stepped out.