Graduation day at the Olympus Initiative wasn't a ceremony.
It was an execution.
The students stood in the courtyard. They were gaunt. Harder. Their eyes had the thousand-yard stare of war veterans.
Only ten remained.
Director Thorne stood on the platform. He didn't smile. He didn't hand out diplomas.
"You are no longer actors," he barked. "You are weapons. And now, we must see if you fire."
Allison stood in the front row. She felt the change. It wasn't just the muscle she'd packed on, or the way she could make someone cry with a single glance.
It was the cold fire in her gut.
"Harper!" Thorne shouted.
Allison stepped forward.
"Pack your bag. You have a plane to catch. And a job to do."
She looked at him. "A job?"
"An independent film," Thorne said. "Low budget. High risk. The director is a man named Marcus Vane. He hates women. He hates talent. And he owes me a favor."
He tossed her a script. It hit her chest with a slap.
"You're the lead," Thorne said. "But there's a catch. The producer is the man who blacklisted you from Broadway two years ago."
Allison's breath hitched.
Richard Sterling.
The man who had told her she'd never work unless she "auditioned" on his casting couch. The man who had started her downward spiral.
Fate had a sense of humor. A twisted, violent sense of humor.
"Don't fail," Thorne warned. "Or come back here and scrub toilets."
Allison saluted. It wasn't respectful. It was a challenge.
"With pleasure."
New York City.
Two weeks later.
The air was different this time. It wasn't the air of a victim. It was the air of a conqueror returning to claim her throne.
Allison walked into the production office. She wore a leather jacket and combat boots. She looked like she was ready to riot, not read lines.
The receptionist looked up, sneering.
"Name?"
"Allison Harper. I'm reading for the role of 'The Widow'."
The receptionist scoffed. "Honey, there are fifty girls outside who look like supermodels. You look like you just got out of prison."
Allison leaned over the desk. She rested her hand on the woman's keyboard.
"Tell Richard Sterling that if I'm not seen in the next five minutes, the Olympus Initiative will pull its funding. And I will tell the press exactly why."
The receptionist paled. She knew the name. Everyone in the industry knew the reputation of the "Demon School."
She picked up the phone. "Mr. Sterling? There's an... Allison Harper here."
She listened. Her eyes went wide.
"Send her in. Now."
Allison smiled. It was a flash of teeth.
"Thank you."
She walked down the hallway. She remembered this hallway. The smell of stale coffee. The cheap carpet.
She remembered walking out of here two years ago, tears streaming down her face, her dignity in tatters.
Not this time.
She kicked the door open. Not a knock. A kick.
Richard Sterling sat behind his desk. He was older now. Balder. But the same greasy look remained in his eyes.
He jumped when the door slammed against the wall.
"Allison!" he gasped. "I... I heard you went to that camp. I didn't think you'd make it."
"Surprise," Allison said. She dropped the script on his desk. "I'm here for the part."
"Look, Allison," Richard said, leaning back. He tried to regain his composure. He tried to look powerful. "The lead role requires... a certain vulnerability. A softness. You look... hard."
"Vulnerability is for victims," Allison said, her voice low. "The Widow is a survivor. She kills her husbands with poison. She doesn't cry over them."
Richard laughed. A nervous, oily sound. "This isn't Broadway, darling. This is film. You need to be... likable."
"I don't need to be likable," Allison countered. "I need to be unforgettable."
She didn't wait for permission. She stepped into the center of the room.
"Scene 4. The Funeral."
She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she wasn't Allison Harper anymore.
She was a grieving widow. But not the weeping kind.
She walked around the room, picking up an imaginary object. A glass of wine.
"Danny was a good man," she said to the empty air. Her voice was sweet. Syrupy.
Then, she turned. She looked directly at Richard.
"He just had... bad taste in wine."
Her expression shifted instantly. The sweetness evaporated, replaced by cold, calculating malice.
"One sip," she whispered. "And he went to sleep forever."
She took a sip of the imaginary wine. She swirled it. She looked at Richard over the rim of the glass.
"Sometimes," she said, stepping closer to the desk. "You have to remove the weeds to let the garden grow."
She slammed her hand down on the desk.
Richard flinched. He actually flinched.
Allison stopped.
Silence filled the room.
Richard stared at her. His mouth was open slightly. He looked terrified. And aroused. It was disgusting.
"Get out," he whispered.
"What?" Allison froze.
"Get out!" he yelled, standing up. "You're psychotic! You're insane! You'll ruin my film!"
Allison didn't move. She smiled.
"I'm crazy?" she asked. "Or am I the best actor you've seen in ten years?"
"You're a liability," Richard spat.
"Then fire me," Allison challenged. "But let me check my phone first."
She pulled out her cell. She tapped a button.
She held it up.
On the screen was a live feed. Currently being broadcast to three hundred thousand followers.
The caption read: Live from the office of Richard Sterling. Is this how you treat talent?
Richard's face went from red to purple.
"You're streaming this?" he shrieked. "Turn it off!"
"Oops," Allison said, feigning innocence. "I think the chat is asking about the harassment lawsuit from 2019. The one you settled out of court."
"That was confidential!" he screamed. He lunged for the phone.
Allison stepped back. She was faster.
"Ah, ah, ah," she tsked. "Touch me, and I'll add assault to the livestream."
She looked at the camera. "Richard Sterling here just turned down the role of a lifetime because he prefers his actresses... compliant. Not talented."
The comments section was exploding.
#BoycottSterling
#AllisonHarperIsQueen
#FireHim
"This is blackmail!" Richard hissed.
"It's leverage," Allison corrected. "Here is the deal."
She lowered the phone but kept it recording.
"I walk out that door," she said. "I release the footage of you yelling at me. And I tell the world that the Olympus Initiative blacklisted you for being a predator."
"You can't do that!"
"I can," Allison said. "I'm the new face of Hollywood, Richard. And you? You're a relic."
She tossed the script back onto his desk.
"I'm taking the role. You're keeping the producer credit—on paper. But if you interfere with my direction, with my pay, or with my crew..."
She leaned in close.
"I will bury you. And I won't poison your wine. I will just let the internet do it."
Richard collapsed into his chair. He looked defeated. Old.
"Fine," he croaked. "You have the part. Just... turn off the camera."
Allison smiled. She tapped the screen.
End Stream.
"Pleasure doing business with you."
She turned and walked out.
As she closed the door, she heard a vase smash against the wood.
She didn't look back.
Three months later.
The Black Veil premiered at the Tribeca Film Festival.
The buzz was electric.
Allison stood on the red carpet. She wore a dress that was ripped on one side, revealing a long, muscular leg. It was aggressive fashion.
Flashbulbs exploded in her face.
"Allison! Allison!" photographers screamed.
She posed. She didn't just smile. She gave them looks. Anger. Desire. Power. She used her face like a weapon.
Lucas Black was there.
He stood in the shadows, watching her. He wore a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin.
He walked over to her.
The crowd went wild. The two biggest stars in the world. Together.
"You cut your hair," Lucas noted, reaching out to touch a strand of her blonde bob.
"It was getting caught in the crossfire," she said, turning to him. "What are you doing here? I thought you hated indie films."
"I heard the performance was... brutal," Lucas said. "I wanted to see if you could actually kill someone with a look."
"Wait for the movie," Allison said.
The reviews hit the internet while the movie was playing.
Twitter exploded.
#AllisonHarper is a GODDESS
#TheBlackVeil is MASTERPIECE
#GiveHerTheOscarNow
When the movie ended, the audience gave it a standing ovation. Ten minutes. Unheard of.
Allison stood on stage. Richard Sterling stood at the edge of the clump, clapping weakly. He looked like a ghost.
She looked at him. She looked at the crowd.
Then, she looked for two people in the audience.
Jack and Lena.
She had invited them personally. Sent two VIP tickets to Jack's apartment. A note attached: Come see what you missed.
They were there. Sitting in the third row.
Jack looked pale. Lena looked like she had swallowed a lemon.
Allison took the microphone.
"I want to thank the cast," she said. "I want to thank the crew."
She paused. The theater went silent.
"And I want to thank my ex-boyfriend," Allison said into the mic. "He told me I didn't have the fire. He told I was too small for this town."
She looked directly at Jack.
The cameras zoomed in on Jack's sweating face.
"You were right, Jack," Allison said, a cold smile playing on her lips. "I wasn't big enough. I had to become a giant to crush you."
The audience gasped. Then, they cheered.
Jack stood up. He couldn't take it. He shoved past people, running for the exit.
Lena sat there, frozen. humiliated.
"Enjoy the show," Allison whispered into the mic.
She dropped the mic.
It thumped against the stage floor. Feedback screeched.
Lucas Black was the first to clap. Slow. Deliberate.
Then the roar of the crowd became deafening.
Allison Harper had arrived.
And she had just burned her past to the ground.
"Coming?" Lucas asked, offering her his arm as they walked off stage.
"We," Allison corrected, taking his arm. "We have work to do."
The game was just beginning.