Page 37 of Sexted By a Stranger

"Here, I almost forgot to give you this—an agent's contact info.

" She turned the screen toward me, showing a string of unfamiliar numbers.

"A producer friend of mine recommended him.

This guy specializes in signing sexy, promising actresses, and he's totally professional.

Real good at making stars, not one of those sketchy types.

I already put in a good word for you. Just send him your materials—and make sure to include some gorgeous photos. "

She sent me the number, then stood up and grabbed her purse. "I've got some stuff to take care of. Stay in touch!"

"Thank you, Ivanka!" I stared at those digits on my phone screen, feeling like I was holding a ticket to a whole new world. The gratitude in my voice was completely genuine.

By the time I dragged my exhausted body back to my tiny apartment, it was two in the morning.

I closed that rickety door behind me, the lock clicking with a sound that seemed to draw a line between my two worlds. Here, there was no club noise or glitzy atmosphere—just a dim yellow bulb, peeling paint, and an ancient radiator that wheezed like a dying animal every midnight.

Right on schedule—a rent reminder from my night-owl landlord.

I gritted my teeth and transferred the money, watching nearly half my paycheck vanish instantly.

Paying rent was always a painful process. Who would've thought that such a remote, run-down little apartment could cost $1,500 a month? And the landlord had the nerve to remind me that next month's rent was going up to $1,650—because of "market conditions." At this rate, I'd be sleeping on streets.

I sent another chunk of money home to Mom, same as always.

She couldn't know how hard things were for me in Los Angeles.

My account balance: less than $1,000.

Audition transportation, makeup, wardrobe—all expensive. Not to mention food.

LA's brutal cost of living showed no mercy to dreamers like me.

I was like a butterfly trapped in a glass box, able to see the brilliant world outside but unable to fly toward it, no matter how hard I struggled.

Sometimes I wondered if I'd been braver, would everything be different? But logic always stepped in, reminding me not to compromise my principles. I told myself to stay in line, work hard, and keep my head down.

But deep inside, that voice refusing to accept mediocrity never stopped screaming. It reminded me this wasn't the life I wanted.

I was sick of this boring, dead-end existence. In all my time in LA, I am just living dead. I'd never truly lived for myself.

I wanted change. I craved someone who could pull me out of this suffocating cycle.

I sat on the edge of my bed and opened that contact Ivanka had sent me—the one I'd already pinned to the top of my messages. My heart was pounding in my chest.

Would this be another disappointment, or a real turning point?

My eyes drifted to the poster on my wall—Bette Davis in All About Eve.

She was everything I dreamed of becoming: powerful, elegant, conquering the world with her talent.

But reality? Reality was me playing empty-headed bit parts in third-rate productions, fake-smiling while dodging the inappropriate advances of greasy producers.

No. I couldn't keep going like this. A surge of desperate determination rose up in me.

I stood abruptly and walked into the bathroom, turning on the shower. Scalding water pounded my skin, seeming to wash away the day's exhaustion and humiliation.

I closed my eyes. The sound of water blocked out everything else, leaving just one thought in my head: grab this chance, whatever it takes.

After my shower, I towel-dried my body and stood in front of the fogged-up full-length mirror.

I wiped away the steam.

The girl in the mirror was naked, radiating a kind of raw vitality that hadn't been completely worn down by the world yet.

Honey-colored hair hung damp against my shoulders, water droplets sliding down my defined collarbones, over my flat stomach, disappearing into shadow.

I had a body that could stop traffic—even I had to admit that.

Narrow waist, curved hips, long legs that went on for miles.

But I was more than just this flesh. I had dreams of making it in front of the camera, acting skills I'd been honing for years.

Yet somehow, all anyone ever seemed to see was this skin I lived in.

It was both my greatest asset and my heaviest chain.

I took a deep breath and walked back to the bedroom, opening a suitcase I hadn't touched in ages.

At the bottom lay something I'd bought but never had the courage to wear—my secret weapon.

It was an impulse purchase from some clearance sale, maybe representing my hopes for a more exciting life, maybe proof of desires I'd buried deep inside.

Now it was time to put it to work.

It was a set of black silk and delicate lace lingerie—elegant yet mysterious.

First the panties, soft fabric conforming to my curves. Then the high-waisted corset top that knew exactly what to hide and what to reveal, lace outlining my waist while maintaining perfect mystery in all the right places.

Standing in front of the mirror, my pulse quickened. The woman reflected back was both foreign and familiar—the most primitive, wild version of myself that I'd almost forgotten existed.

Her eyes didn't show the daytime fatigue or nighttime numbness, but a fearless defiance mixed with desire and ambition.

I picked up my phone and started adjusting angles.

At first, my movements were stiff—I wasn't sure what poses to strike.

Seductive smile or aloof pout? The first few shots came out awkward and unnatural.

Click.

Gradually, I found my rhythm.

My body began flowing naturally, like a dancer finding her stage presence.

I took dozens of shots, then sat on my bed to go through them one by one.

This one looked too rigid, like a mannequin. Delete. This one had bad lighting, showing off the wall's shabbiness. Delete.

Eventually, only three photos remained in my gallery.

I selected those three photos and calmly typed a few lines in the message field.

Me: Eva Stone, actress, seeking representation. Attached are headshots.

No excessive flattery, no begging. This was me. This was everything I had to offer.

Yeah, these photos were pretty damn revealing.

My thumb hovered over the send button, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Press this key, and there'd be no going back. I might receive the opportunity I'd been waiting for, or I might just be throwing my dignity into the abyss.

I closed my eyes. Mom's increasingly hunched figure flashed through my mind—bent over from years of supporting my dream—along with those directors' dismissive stares and predatory smiles.

Fuck it.

I opened my eyes and hit send.