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.

The applause faded. I stood in the wings, still holding the pages I hadn't needed. My heart was doing something strange—beating too fast and too slow at the same time.

In the VIP section, Rome leaned close to Destiny. His mouth moved near her ear. I couldn't hear the words, but I saw his expression. Not guilt. Not even discomfort. Something colder. Irritation, maybe. Like I'd done something inconvenient by refusing to simply collapse.

Destiny's smile adjusted. She pulled out her phone, typed something quick, then tucked it away and laughed at something Rome said. Her hand found his knee.

I turned away. Looked at the crew bustling around me, setting up for the final segment. No one met my eyes. They moved around me like I was a piece of furniture. Something to navigate around, not acknowledge.

"Meadow?" A PA appeared at my elbow. Young. Maybe twenty-three. I recognized him—he'd worked on a film I did four years ago. Back then he'd asked for an autograph for his sister. Told me I was her favorite actress.

Now he held a clipboard and wouldn't look at me.

"They need you back on stage in five," he said to the clipboard.

"Is this rigged?" The words came out quieter than I'd intended. Not an accusation. A question.

His hand went to his headset. Adjusted it even though it didn't need adjusting. "I just—I'm just doing my job."

"I know," I said. "But is it rigged?"

He looked at me then. Just for a second. Something moved behind his eyes. Something that might have been shame or might have been fear or might have been both.

"Five minutes," he said, and walked away fast.

I watched him go. Watched him disappear into the controlled chaos of cameras and cables and people who had decided, collectively, that I was the acceptable sacrifice tonight.

My hand found the bracelet. The metal was warm from my skin. I pressed it against my wrist, feeling my pulse against it. Steady. Still steady.

I squared my shoulders and walked toward the stage.

The lights came up for the final segment. Callen's energy had shifted again—higher now, almost manic. This was the finale. The moment the whole night had been building toward.

"Alright, alright!" He clapped his hands together. "Time for our last challenge. And this one is all about connection. About meeting your audience where they are. In the digital age, that means social media!"

A screen descended behind him. My Twitter profile appeared. The follower count glowed in the corner: 847K. Respectable once. Now it looked small next to the numbers the younger contestants pulled.

"Here's the challenge," Callen continued. "You'll create and post a sixty-second brand partnership video—right here, right now, live. Our sponsor has generously provided the product." He held up a energy drink I'd never heard of. "You'll post it to your account, and we'll track engagement in real time. First person to hit ten thousand interactions wins!"

The other contestants looked nervous. Brittany pulled out her phone immediately, already planning.

I looked at the energy drink. At the camera they were setting up. At the timer on the screen that would count down my sixty seconds.

"The benchmark is ten thousand," Callen repeated, his smile wide. "Likes, comments, shares—anything counts. You have sixty seconds to film and two minutes for engagement to roll in. Let's see who really knows how to connect with an audience!"

Brittany went first. Her video was polished, practiced. She'd done this before. The engagement counter started climbing immediately: 1K, 3K, 5K. She hit the benchmark with thirty seconds to spare. The audience cheered.

The others followed. Each one hit the mark. Each one knew exactly how to angle the phone, exactly what tone to use, exactly how to make sixty seconds feel authentic and aspirational at the same time.

Then it was my turn.

I held the phone. Looked at the energy drink. The camera crew waited. The audience waited. In the VIP section, Destiny leaned forward, her smile sharp.

"Whenever you're ready," Callen said.

I hit record. Talked about the drink. Made it through sixty seconds without stumbling. Posted it.

The engagement counter appeared on the big screen. Started climbing.

500. 1K. 1.5K.

Then it slowed. Crawled. The two-minute timer ticked down.

2K. 2.3K. 2.5K.

The audience started shifting. Someone coughed. Someone else giggled.

3K. 3.1K.

The timer hit zero.

Final count: 3,847.

The audience groaned. Not cruelly, exactly. But not kindly either. Heads shaking. Sympathetic grimaces. The sound of people watching someone fail at something that should have been easy.

Callen's hand landed on my shoulder. "Hey, you gave it a shot! That's what matters. Not everyone can keep up with the digital age, and that's okay!"

The condescension in his voice was perfect. Practiced. Designed to sound kind.

I stepped away from his hand. Walked off stage. The applause that followed felt like relief.

Backstage, I stood in the shadows and pulled out my phone. Opened the PDF one more time. Section 7. Ten million dollars.

The trap had closed. Now I just needed to decide what to do about it.