After My Husband Called His Mistress His Real Star

The fourth segment started with Callen's voice, warm and conspiratorial, like we were all in on the same joke.

"Now, we have something really special. A collaboration challenge! Meadow, Destiny—you two are going to work together to create a sixty-second scene. Destiny, you'll direct. Meadow, you'll perform. Let's see what happens when experience meets fresh vision!"

The audience applauded. Destiny's smile was radiant under the lights.

They gave us a prompt: a woman saying goodbye to someone she loves. Simple. Open. The kind of thing I could have done in my sleep ten years ago.

Destiny circled me like a director who'd watched too many behind-the-scenes documentaries. "Okay, so I'm thinking you're, like, sad but trying to be strong? And maybe you touch your face here—" She demonstrated, her hand floating to her cheek in a gesture so studied it looked like a stock photo. "—and then you turn away, but slowly. Really slowly. Can you do that?"

"I can do that," I said.

We ran it once. I hit the marks she'd given me, added a slight tremor to my voice on the final line, let my hand drop just before the turn—a choice that made the goodbye feel unfinished, more real.

The cameraman shifted his angle. I saw it in my peripheral vision. Saw him frame the shot tighter on Destiny, who stood just off-camera, nodding like a proud teacher.

"Great!" Callen called out. "Let's do it again for the cameras. Same energy!"

I did it again. This time I found something deeper—a memory of the last time I'd said goodbye to someone and meant it. The line came out raw. Honest. The kind of moment that made people lean forward in their seats.

Destiny's face flickered. Just for a second. Something that looked like surprise, or maybe irritation.

"Actually—" A production assistant appeared at Callen's elbow, whispered something. Callen nodded, his smile never shifting. "You know what, let's reset. Technical issue. Meadow, can you start from the top? And this time, maybe a little less... intense. We want it to feel light. Fun. Remember, this is entertainment!"

I started again. Pulled it back. Made it smaller. Safer.

"Perfect!" Callen said. "That's the take we'll use."

When the segment aired on the monitors, they showed Destiny explaining her "vision" in a cutaway interview. Showed her nodding encouragement. Showed a medium shot of me delivering the line—competent, fine, entirely forgettable.

The moment I'd found, the one that had made the cameraman shift his angle, never appeared.

During the break, I stood near the green room, not quite in it, not quite out. The coffee stain on my blouse had started to smell faintly sour.

Footsteps behind me. I turned.

Sienna Alvarez smiled, her hand reaching out to touch my arm. She'd been in three films last year. All of them opened wide. All of them made money.

"Meadow." Her voice dropped into a register of intimacy, but her eyes scanned the hallway, checking who might be watching. "I just—I need you to know I think you're being so brave. This industry is brutal to women of a certain age. The way they're treating you tonight—" She shook her head, her expression arranged into sympathy. "I just want you to know I see it. I see you."

Her hand squeezed my arm. Her publicist stood ten feet away, phone out, subtly angled toward us.

"Thank you," I said.

Sienna's smile brightened. "Of course. We have to support each other, right? Especially those of us who remember what it was like before everything got so... complicated."

She walked away. Her heels clicked against the concrete. I heard her laugh at something her publicist said, bright and unburdened.

I touched the bracelet. Pressed the metal against my wrist until it hurt.

The lights came up for segment four.

Callen stood center stage, his energy different now. Bigger. This was the moment he'd been building toward.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have something very special. A tribute. A what-if. Meadow—" He turned to face me, his smile enormous. "—we'd like you to perform the opening monologue from *The Lighthouse*. The role that got away. The Oscar-winning performance that could have been yours."

The audience inhaled. I heard it. A collective breath of anticipation.

"Our audience will score your performance," Callen continued. "Let's see what might have been!"

They handed me the pages. I didn't need them. I'd watched Jennifer Castellanos deliver this monologue on the Oscars broadcast. Watched her thank the director, her co-stars, her family. Watched Rome beside me on the couch, his hand on his phone, already moving on to the next thing.

I walked to my mark. The stage went quiet.

I closed my eyes. Found the character. Found the woman saying goodbye to a life she'd never get back.

When I opened them, I wasn't Meadow anymore.

The monologue poured out. Every word a choice. Every pause a wound. I gave them the performance I would have given if I'd stayed. If I'd chosen differently. If I'd known then what I knew now.

The final line landed in silence.

Absolute. Uncomfortable. Real.

No one laughed. No one moved. For ten seconds, the studio held its breath.

Then Callen's hand shot up. The applause sign lit. The audience clapped—loud, obedient, breaking the spell like glass shattering.

"Incredible!" Callen's voice was too bright. "Let's see those scores!"

The scorecards went up. Sixes. Sevens. A few eights. Respectable. Not enough.

In the VIP section, Destiny leaned close to Rome. Her mouth moved near his ear. He smiled.

I walked off stage. My legs remembered how.

Backstage, the trap was waiting.