Chapter OneJanuary 23, 2026A party commemorated the death of Dimple Kapoor’s career.
Attendees paid no mind to the expansive grounds of the Singhs’ Beverly Hills mansion, cramming together as close as they could physically manage. Amateurs and seasoned actors alike had one common goal: to brush shoulders with a director sober enough to remember an introduction or drunk enough to hire on the spot. It was never that easy, though, as Dimple Kapoor knew better than anyone.
Tonight, she had the unfortunate, irrevocable gift of perspective. The party in question was a celebration of her latest addition to a long string of losses. That wasn’t to say that these events weren’t fun. They were, but only in retrospect. The ability to boldly proclaim, I was there, when the gossip mill ran rampant in subsequent weeks. In the moment, though, Dimple was having about as much fun as the sole sober individual could have in a loud, sweaty gathering of drunk people.
Her gold bangles clinked together as she tipped back the last of her soda water. Across the room, the band played music reminiscent of vintage Hollywood. They’d managed to get the microphone just crackly enough, the singer’s voice shaking with vibrato. This was meticulously planned. Dimple had personally witnessed the staff at the door refusing entry to those who dared dress out of theme.
Now she watched as colorful pills swapped between hands. Those were not historically accurate, but Irene Singh had never cared much on that front. Cliques born of status were beginning to mingle into one big congregation as the band’s trumpet player, sensing this, began belting out shrill tones that made Dimple’s heartbeat pick up in speed.
A girl to her right shrieked at the sight of someone vaguely famous. Nobody spared so much as a fleeting glance in Dimple’s direction. She couldn’t take another second of it. The crowd was dense, but when she wielded her elbows as weapons, they parted automatically for her. Sometimes Dimple liked to pretend they were making way out of reverence alone, but then an ungainly drunkard would brush up against her and dash her fantasy back into the delusion it was.
“Drink?” someone shouted over the music.
She startled at the voice so close to her ear. They were the first words anyone had spoken to her all night. Judging by the dimly lit name tag, the waiter’s name was Isaac. He was lanky, although shorter than her, and dressed in an ill-fitting black suit. The drinks on his silver tray were strong enough to make Dimple flinch and shake her head.
“Are you sure?” the waiter asked, looking pointedly at the empty glass in her hands.
He leaned closer, the fumes sending Dimple’s stomach twisting, and she pushed him away instinctually. The offended look he shot her was enough to induce a flash of horror. She usually had better control than this.
“No thank you.” She fished out a twenty-dollar bill from her pocket and held it out between two fingers. The motion was clumsy, given the pair of elbow-length gloves she was wearing. Isaac accepted the note but continued to stare.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” he asked, sending Dimple’s heart thudding for another reason altogether.
On the rare occasion it happened, being recognized was always an out-of-body experience. She felt bigger than herself, straightening her shoulders and holding her chin higher to account for the disparity. The last movie she’d been in—Horrorville 3—had been a horrendous flop, but people were talking about it and that had to count for something. The first two Horrorvilles had made enough money to warrant a third, even if the majority of reviewers were convinced money-laundering had to be involved.
“You work for Irene Singh, don’t you?” Isaac asked. “I bet you’ve got some wild stories.”
Her heart sank. She’d never worked for Irene, only with her—and even then, very rarely—but clearly Dimple looked as out of place as she felt. She caught her reflection in the silver of his tray, cheeks flushed in humiliation, and set her empty glass down to block her view of it. There was nothing she could say in response that would save her any shred of dignity.
She turned away. If she weren’t so eager to escape, she might’ve noticed him trailing behind her.
Blurred faces, the shrill tone of a trumpet. The early stages of a migraine beat an irregular rhythm against her temple. Suddenly, Dimple was grateful to be so invisible. Nobody seemed to notice her spiraling, several unbothered attendees bumping into her as she fought her way through the crowd.
The main foyer was just as crowded when she pushed her way through the double doors, the music only the slightest bit muffled through the walls. A passing duo gossiped about the party’s host, who had yet to show her face.
“I heard she’s going to Paris Fashion Week.”
“So what? She gets invited every year.”
“Yeah, but this time as a model.”
It didn’t take long for Dimple to realize that she felt no better out here than she did in there. If she was miserable either way, she might as well go back inside, where at least the glitter and color and opulence lived. But with a dying career that had been mediocre at its peak, there was little her presence had to offer. Five years of booking nothing but commercial failures meant that even her manager, Julie, who’d been there since her first audition, was considering dropping her as a client. The world Dimple had fought so hard to cling to was slipping through her gloved fingers and there was nothing she could do about it.
The music faded until it was gone, replaced by the clicking of her heels over white marble.
Peace, at last.
If there was one thing Dimple could appreciate about the Singhs, it was that they were connoisseurs of the arts in all its forms. Oil paintings on the walls, stone sculptures on display. Several kingdoms lived within this mansion. Lands of glittering temples and vast palaces.
Out here, Dimple was alone. Perhaps there was some irony in the fact that Hollywood’s newest generation of artists had more desire to self-medicate behind closed doors than to appreciate the finer things. The very things that had paved the way for the art they created on-screen.
She came to a stop in front of a young woman’s likeness fashioned in stone. Her fingers darted out, tracing the dips and curves of her nose, her cheeks, trying to vicariously understand what it was to be immortalized. The statue was beautiful, with an arched nose and thick brows. This—the touching—was surely not allowed amongst such precious artifacts, but there wasn’t so much as a security camera in sight.
Such was the folly of the rich. To let their wealth speak for them. Look at our jewels, see how little we care what happens to them. Take it, break it if you dare. We will buy hundreds more to replace it. It sent a thrill down Dimple’s spine.
There was something fascinating in art, inverse to that of life. Wherein women in this business lost value with age, this stone woman would only grow in value as time went on. The statue would be remembered exactly like this—young and beautiful, forever. Unlike Dimple. As of now, nothing of hers would stand the test of time. And neither would she.
Dimple pressed her palm against the statue, contemplating pushing. Smashing it to pieces on the ground. Subjecting it to the same fate she couldn’t seem to escape; to be discarded, forgotten. But it wasn’t a fate she would wish upon anyone. Not even stone.
She dropped her hand.
There was a grand staircase at the center of the mansion, stark white in comparison to its blood-red runner and just as ostentatious as the chandelier that hung above it. Dimple scanned the empty balcony of the second floor. The difference in popularity between the two stories was evident; Irene Singh did not allow people upstairs, where her family’s rooms were.
As she climbed, Dimple could almost pretend she was the star of this event. A crowd staring up at her as though she were holier than the sun. Camera shutters and blinding flashes vying for her attention. Perhaps this was how Irene felt every day.
Dimple reached the second-story landing, heart stuttering as she took in the unforgiving marble from her new vantage point. A twenty-foot drop, the police reports would later confirm.
The sound of another pair of heels had her stiffening, fantasies dashed yet again. She braced herself, putting on her most somber face. It felt oddly as though she’d been caught amidst committing some sort of misdeed.
“Hello, Irene,” she greeted the owner of the mansion before turning to face her.
They assessed each other at the top of the grand staircase. Irene Singh was, of course, dressed entirely in the exclusive fashion brand Salomé. Dimple had never once been offered the opportunity to don one of their gowns, let alone one as beautiful and expensive as Irene’s velvet black number.
“What are you doing up here?” Irene’s smile was polite, but the sharpness of her gaze was anything but.
“I could ask you the same question,” Dimple replied.
“I live here,” she said, which was fair. “You on the other hand—well, I’m surprised you showed up at all.”
Copyright © 2026 by Isha Raya. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
