Olivia
Later that evening, I had made the decision to confront CeCe. The weight of questions and doubts pressed heavily on my chest, and I knew I had to face her head-on. The invitation to her apartment had hung over my head all day, a nagging obligation that I could no longer ignore. Arriving at her doorstep, I hesitated for just a moment before knocking.
When the door swung open to reveal her face, I was met with an expression of mock affection. "Olivia, my darling dear, how are you?" she chirped, her voice dripping with insincerity as she stepped aside to let me in.
But I wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. "Cut the bullshit, CeCe," I snapped, punctuating my statement by slamming the front door behind me with a force that echoed through the hallways. The sound of the door slamming felt satisfying; it was a declaration that I was done playing games.
CeCe regarded me coolly, raising a single eyebrow in feigned surprise. "Excuse me?" she replied, her tone deceptively sweet.
The fury boiled over, and I couldn't hold back. "Who the fuck are you?!" I screamed, my voice reverberating off the walls like a thunderclap.
"I'm sorry?" she said, her tone laced with an innocent ignorance that only fueled my anger.
"You were married to him!" I shouted, my hands running through my hair in sheer frustration, choking on my disbelief.
"To who, dear?" she replied, her voice dripping with mockery, as if I were the foolish one.
"Are you really going to make me say his name?" I asked. The thought of even uttering it felt like a betrayal.
"Whose name?" she taunted, a sinister smirk playing at the corner of her lips. "Go on, dear, tell me."
"CeCe, you're sick," I said, shaking my head in disbelief, my gut tightening as I processed the emotional manipulation I had just walked into.
"I'm actually quite well today," she said with a smile that sent a chill down my spine. It was a smile that told me I had underestimated her.
"No, you're sick in the head! I trusted you! I trusted you, and you lied to me!" Panic surged through me as I threw my hands up in frustration, desperate for some acknowledgment of the betrayal.
"Well, I can't help that you're naive," she chuckled, a mocking edge to her voice. "And I helped you."
"Helped me?" I echoed, bewildered. "What kind of game is this?"
"It's no game. I helped you, didn't I?" she questioned, and there it was again—the twisted logic she held onto like a life raft.
"No! You helped yourself!" I shot back, feeling the righteousness of my anger. It was painfully obvious she cared only for her own interests.
"Well, of course," she laughed lightly. "I helped us both. Why on earth would I help you and not help myself?" Her words dripped with self-preservation, and I recoiled at her selfishness.
"But why?" I asked, genuinely confused and seeking answers that would help me understand her motivations.
"Listen, Olivia, I can't help that your mother left you behind and now anyone a tad bit older who is a female you cling to for dear life. That's something I can't help with. But possibly a therapist may be helpful with that. I'm better with other things," she replied, a thinly veiled condescension threading her words.
"I want the tapes back," I said, crossing my arms over my chest in a defensive gesture, the stakes of our interaction weighing heavily in the air.
"I can't do that," she said coldly, her tone betraying no remorse.
"It's my tape! I want it back!" I shouted, my frustration spilling over into desperation.
"Sorry, I can't do that," she repeated, her tone unchanged as if she found amusement in my anguish.
"I can't trust you with it! How do I know you're not using it as blackmail?" The accusation hung in the air, thick with tension as I glared at her.
She shrugged carelessly, "I don't know, Olivia."
"I'll go to the police," I threatened, my heart racing as I considered the drastic route.
Her expression darkened, her eyes narrowing as a cold smile graced her lips. "Well, in that case, I suppose it is blackmail. I'll tell the world everything about you. After all, I'm the one who created you. There would be no Olivia Moore without Cynthia Waters," she said, her voice ice-cold and laden with malice. "Jesus, the world would find out you slept your way to the top. America's sweetheart. You'll lose it all," she chuckled, relishing in the power she wielded.
"You wouldn't do that," I said, shaking my head, the lump in my throat growing as I struggled to swallow.
"Oh, I would," she confirmed. "I absolutely would. I've done it before. I can do it again." Her words felt like a dagger driven deep, piercing through the veil of my confidence.
"You're just jealous," I shot back, the fear fueling my anger. "You're jealous that you've always been behind the scenes. You can only turn people like me into stars. But you couldn't become one. That's what this is about," I accused, my voice rising. "So you married him. He used you, cheated on you, promised you everything and left you with nothing. I may have mommy issues, but your issues are way worse than mine."
"That may very well be the truth," she replied, her voice steely. "But you'll do what I say or you'll leave me with very little options, and the options I'll be left with won't be good ones."
"Are you threatening me?" I asked, the gravity of her words settling in with a weight I couldn't shake.
She was—no doubt about it. I was nothing but a pawn in a chess match far beyond my understanding, a piece in a game where my fate was precariously held in her hands. It dawned on me then that the price of fame came with strings attached, and I hadn't come seeking fame; I had only aspired to act, to lose myself in characters and stories. But now I understood that in this brutal industry, fame and artistic expression were inextricably linked, intertwined like peanut butter and jelly, and the cost could be devastating.
I could feel the walls of the bathroom closing in around me, my knees buckling under the weight of betrayal and fear. The reflection staring back at me was now a stranger, and I realized with chilling clarity that I had been drawn into a dark world of manipulation without even knowing it. My breath quickened, and as the walls of the bathroom seemed to close in tighter, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was standing on the edge of a precipice, ready to plunge into the unknown depths of a terrifying reality.
And as if my already tumultuous day couldn't have possibly gotten worse, there she was—CeCe, gliding through the bathroom doors with that insufferable, fake smile plastered on her face that did little to conceal the venom beneath. I had been escaping the chaos outside of the bathroom, seeking a moment of solitude when the last thing I needed was her presence. "CeCe, what are you doing in here?" I asked, my voice shaking slightly, trying to maintain some semblance of composure.
Her expression was unchanging as she stood beside me, both of us gazing into the bathroom mirror. "Truth or lie?" she posed, her tone deceptively cheerful. The implications of her words made my stomach twist. "The lie is I told Johnny I would come check on you. He's quite worried about you. The truth is I came to ask you why you haven't been returning my calls." The way she turned her body towards me made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up; I could feel her eyes piercing through me from the reflection in the mirror, even if I couldn't tangibly see her menacing glare.
My heart raced as I mumbled, "I've just...I've just been thinking about how I was going to tell you...I think I'm going to be taking a brief break from filming." I lowered my gaze, unable to meet her eyes, nor my own reflection. The weight of my truth felt suffocating, and I longed to escape from the oppressive atmosphere she had created.
"Why on earth would you do something like that?" she questioned, her voice dripping with feigned concern. "You just won your second Oscar. You've made history! You can't stop now." The enthusiasm in her tone clashed with the calculating nature of her words; she was trying to angle me back into the role I played for her benefit, not mine.
"I want to. I need to," I insisted, finally turning to face her. "I love him, CeCe." The admission tumbled from my lips, raw and vulnerable, a truth I had grappled with for far too long.
She let out a laugh that echoed with insincerity. "Ha! Most women do." Her dismissive tone ignited a fire in me, a fierce determination to assert my own reality.
"No, I'm serious!" I exclaimed, my voice rising with urgency. "I'm in love with him. This isn't a game. I can't keep doing films if I want to have anything real with him." The fear of losing Johnny mixed with my desperation to make her understand my heart.
"Then it's quite simple, isn't it? You won't have anything with him," she replied coldly, her words slicing through the air and making it impossible to ignore the threat woven into her logic.
"No. I can't do that," I protested, shaking my head vehemently. The thought of compromising my feelings for the sake of my career felt like suffocating in quicksand.
"Can't or won't?" she probed, her eyes narrowing, challenging me to speak the truth that I was afraid to voice.
"CeCe, listen to me—" I begged, feeling the panic bubbling just below the surface, desperate to bridge the divide between us.
But she leaned in closer, her tone sharp, a whisper that felt like a warning. "No, Olivia. You listen to me. I made you. And I can and I will destroy you. It's your choice." With that chilling proclamation hanging heavy in the air, she spun on her heels and exited the bathroom, leaving me reeling in the fallout of her words.
Alone in the cramped space, I took several deep breaths, trying to ground myself amidst the chaos of emotions swarming within. The reflection in the mirror mocked me, showing a woman who looked utterly defeated, complete with tear stains tracing down my cheeks. I hurriedly gathered my makeup, dabbing at the evidence of my distress.
I took one last, lingering glance at my reflection in the mirror, observing every detail of my appearance, from the way my hair framed my face to the slight flush of anxiety on my cheeks. Amid the soft glow of the bathroom light, I mustered a smile, as if trying to convince not just myself, but the person staring back at me, that everything was going to be alright. "It's showtime," I whispered softly to myself. Even though the spotlight was not literally shining on me and the cameras of my chaotic existence weren't rolling, I felt as though my life was unfolding like a series of films—some dramas, others thrillers, but mostly a relentless horror that had more chapters than I could count, each one more unnerving than the last. Deep down, I felt trapped in this narrative, but I was reminded that Johnny was waiting just outside the door, concerned about me. Steeling myself, I squared my shoulders and pushed the door open.
As I stepped out, my eyes scanned the room until they landed on Johnny, who stood amidst a small group of familiar faces. He was chatting amiably, but when he spotted me, his expression shifted to one of genuine concern, the warmth of his smile tinged with worry. His hand slid to my lower back, a comforting presence that steadied my nerves. "Hello, my love. Feeling better?" he asked, his voice laced with tenderness.
I nodded, keeping my gaze locked with his, trying to convey reassurance even as doubt swirled in my mind. But then, my eyes drifted, and I caught a glimpse of CeCe from across the room. Her sinister smile danced on her lips, a smirk that sent a chill down my spine as she raised her glass of wine, her gaze piercing through the crowd. My nerves began to fray again. As a waiter glided by balancing a tray laden with champagne flutes, I instinctively grabbed one. Without a second thought, I gulped it down in one swift motion, ignoring the furtive, knowing looks that Johnny and Colin exchanged.
"Sorry, would you excuse us?" Johnny said, his voice a touch more serious.
"I'll see you guys around," Colin replied, his smile still painted on his face. "I have to go find Jose."
With that, he waved and drifted into the crowd, leaving Johnny and me standing close together, the air thick with unsaid words.
Johnny's grip on my arm tightened slightly as he inspected my face, his brow furrowed with concern. "Are you okay? I'm a little worried," he admitted, his eyes searching mine for the truth.
"I'm fine," I replied, forcing a nod even as my heart threatened to betray me.
"I don't believe that," he countered, his voice gentle but firm.
"I'm fine," I insisted, a bit more emphatically this time, wanting desperately to convince him.
"Olivia," he said my name like a plea, as if he sought deeper understanding.
"Johnny," I responded with a smile, tugging on his arm playfully in an attempt to lighten the mood. "I'm just enjoying the night. Okay? Nothing's wrong." The words felt hollow, but I plastered on a grin, hoping to ease the tension.
He studied me closely, and for a moment, I feared he might call me out on my facade. But with a resigned nod, he let it slide—at least for now. "Okay. Well, how long did you want to stay?" he asked, his tone shifting to one that suggested he respected my wishes.
"Not too long. Just a bit," I replied, trying to sound casual but feeling the weight of my emotions pressing down on me.
"Okay," he nodded, his hand rubbing soothingly against my back. "You know I hate these sorts of events, right?" His attempt at humor was like a lifeline, a reminder of our shared experiences amidst the chaos of the evening.
"Yeah," I acknowledged, grateful for his support. "I'll be right back. I'm just going to go say hi to Finn." I turned to Johnny, my heart fluttering with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. I wanted to escape for just a moment, to ground myself amidst the whirlwind of my thoughts.