Her appearance was only a small part of it. How she conducted herself during the meeting would be make-or-break. Kitty wasn’t going in cold; she’d done her homework on Milly Morello (all hail Google), looking to see who she represented (nobody big . . . yet) or if there were any red flags to be aware of. She found none. Milly had been in the industry less than a year, barely time to form a reputation, good or otherwise.

There was common ground, though. Milly was thirty-two years old, of Puerto Rican and African American descent. She had moved to Los Angeles from Louisiana when she was twenty-four. Before becoming a talent agent, she’d studied contract law at UCLA and modeled for several well-known fashion companies.

Kitty’s strategy was to be cool, be herself, and use their common ground to build rapport. She planned to highlight her ambition—keeping it grounded—and her willingness to work hard. She had envisioned a professional but friendly twenty-minute meeting with a positive result (“Manifest,” her mama had screeched during their video call. “Manifest the shit out of that, baby girl.”). By 2:45, she would have a Hollywood talent agent.

It didn’t quite go to plan.

“Don’t sit down,” Milly said the very second that Kitty—smiling confidently, quaking inside—walked into her office. “I have a meeting in fifteen minutes, which gives you . . .” She clicked her Fitbit. “Forty-five seconds.”

“Oh. Okay.” Kitty’s confident smile cracked and started to slide off her face in small pieces. Her game plan dropped out of her skull, suddenly, and with a whooshing noise, like an elevator with a broken cable. “I’m . . . Kitty . . . Kitty Rae. Twenty-four years old. I’ll be twenty-five in two months.”

What Google didn’t reveal (fuck Google) was that Milly Morello had an aura like jagged ice and a habitual squint, which tinged every expression with impatience. She wore heavy bracelets on her left wrist that jangled distractingly whenever she moved. Her fingernails were filed to points.

“I’m originally from Louisville, Kentucky,” Kitty blathered, aware that every word out of her mouth was like rain on an umbrella. “I live in Los Angeles now, in Silver Lake. I’ve been here for—”

“Skip all that, Kitty,” Milly snapped. “What makes you special?”

“Special?” Kitty shook her head. “What—”

“You have no industry accolades, no notable acting credits, and a limited social media presence.” Milly shrugged. Jingle-jangle. “So what can you bring that no other actor can?”

“I, um . . . well, I—”

“And bear in mind that you’re stuttering already.”

“Little nervous,” Kitty gasped. She held the envelope with her new headshots inside close to her chest, feeling them flex and bend. An interior voice—calling to her from the other end of a long tunnel—urged her to calm down and take control.