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Lessthan three minutes.

I’d walked in to find the director, L.R. Sims, perched on the mahogany arm of a plush leather chair. Across from him, sprawled at a u-shaped desk scattered with papers, sat a sparse-haired, boulder of a man, toying with the label on an unlit cigar. I’d never seen him in person, but I recognized him immediately, his face just as ruddy as it had been during his acceptance speech three years earlier when he’d taken home the Academy Award for Best Picture. He wasSand Seekersexecutive producer, Waylon MacArthur.

The watery blue eyes beneath his creased brow turned in my direction. He offered no greeting, instead analyzing me as I crossed the floor, and then turned to give L.R. a nod of approval.

“Very good.” The assessment came out in a voice half-an-octave higher than anticipated from a man of his stature. “She’ll be easy to sell.”

I stood in the middle of the room as he took another head-to-toe sweep of my body, then fished out a matchbook from inside his snug blazer, returning his attention to lighting his cigar.

“As we’ve discussed, Miss Kingsbury offers a malleable canvas,” L.R. filled the silence, shooting me an acknowledging chuck of his square chin, before sliding to his feet to pace the room.

I’d met the animated director on several occasions during my quest for the role. He’d been friendly. Personable. It had been easy to see why he was one of the most highly regarded directors in the industry. Lauded as a visionary, praised for his decisive nature and open-minded innovation, having the opportunity to work under his direction was one of the most exciting aspects of winning the part.

But today he was a different person. His entire focus had orbited MacArthur as they picked up in the middle of a conversation carried over from prior to my arrival.

Yes, the right decision had been made to cast me in lieu of Pugh.

Florence, I’d assumed.

No, it was good I wasn’t too tall—I wouldn’t look imposing beside my co-stars.

Whoever they were remained a mystery to me.

Yes, I was pretty, but nottoopretty to be off-putting to the female audience.

What?

No, my previous work was entirely unremarkable, which gave the audience an opportunity to build a relationship with a character instead of a name.Um, great—thanks? I think?

All of this was said in front of me, about me, as if I wasn’t even there.

None of it was a new discussion. Most of the talking points had been addressed with me by L.R. and the casting director at one time or another over the course of my numerous auditions. Nor, obviously, was it the first time it had been debated between L.R. and MacArthur, either.

But for some reason, their one-hundred-eighty seconds of chitchat had been so vital, I had to fly home on a red eye flight from Maui, making four ridiculous connections—Honolulu, Seattle, Phoenix, Oakland—to make it to a five PM meeting in Universal City on a Tuesday afternoon.

And that had been it. I was dismissed.

Sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the 101 heading back toward my apartment in Hollywood, I wanted to call Aaron to ask him what the hell just happened. What the fire had been? Was it an experiment to test my commitment? Some kind of point being made that the studio could sayjumpand I’d only askhow high?

I imagined that was the core of the exercise. It was such a typical power play. A reminder that this was exactly what I’d signed up for.Let us point out, little lady, how fortunate you are.Thousands of other girls had auditioned for this role, and I was the lucky one to answer at their beck and call.

I asked Siri to call Aaron, and then told her to cancel. What was the point? Thiswaswhat I’d signed up for. I didn’t need him to tell me that.

Rolling all the windows down in my base model Honda Accord, I smacked a frustrated palm against the steering wheel, unintentionally producing a honk. The guy in a BMW X5 ahead of me responded with a one-finger salute and shout offuck off.

Welcome home.

I was pissed at the traffic. Pissed at Aaron. Pissed at the big wigs holding the keys to my career. But more than anything, I was pissed at myself for not having a backbone. Had Chris Hemsworth—Adam Driver—Leonardo DiCaprio—ever made a twenty-hour travel expedition just to stand in the center of a room while two men openly discussed how they were handsome, but nottoohandsome, which was a benefit due to the fact that it wouldn’t alienate their viewers? Or had it ever been mentioned how convenient it was their height wouldn’t affect the fragile egos of their fellow headliners?

I doubted it.

But then it occurred to me that probably wasn’t the case for Meryl. Charlize. Cate. Sandra. I’d no doubt they’d all been through this before. And probably much worse.

That realization sobered me, and as much as it brought with it a new kind of outrage, it also simmered me down. I’d get through this. Just like they had.

I hoped.

Waiting in the gridlock, I glanced at my console. Three texts. All from Dani. Photos I hadn’t responded to of her latest activities on her honeymoon. Swimming with sea turtles and dolphins. A helicopter ride over the Moloka’i sea cliffs. A night snorkel with manta rays.