Jealousy, she realized, wasn’t the hot, red thing described in cheap novels. It was cold. It was the click of a lock. It was a quiet, precise calculation.
That night, Helena didn’t go home. She sat in her glass-walled office overlooking the empty soundstage, scrolling through entertainment news on her tablet. Every headline seemed designed to mock her.
“Sable’s Meteoric Rise: The New Face of Indie Erotica?” “Kaelen and Sable’s Off-Screen Spark Fuels ‘Jealous’ Trailer to 2M Views” “Inside MissaX: Is Helena Locke Losing Her Grip on Her Biggest Star?” MissaX 23 02 17 Helena Locke Jealous Mommy XXX ...
She got into her car and didn’t start the engine. Instead, she pulled out her phone and deleted the draft of a far crueler plan—one that would have buried Sable in a development deal for three years, the industry’s version of exile.
Helena Locke had built her reputation on composure. As the senior talent manager at MissaX, she was the calm eye in every storm of ego, wardrobe malfunctions, and last-minute script rewrites. But today, her neatly filed nails were digging crescents into her leather-bound notebook as she watched the playback on the studio monitor. Jealousy, she realized, wasn’t the hot, red thing
Jealousy had made her clever, but not yet cruel. She wanted to keep it that way. For now, she would let Kaelen have his lightness. She would let Sable have her laugh. And she would find out, in the cold quiet of her own ambition, what was left of Helena Locke when she wasn’t the one being watched.
The strategists exchanged glances. “But the analytics show—“ It was a quiet, precise calculation
She expected pushback. Instead, she got nods. That was the power she’d cultivated: they trusted her instincts. What they didn’t know was that her instinct tonight wasn’t about content calendars or market trends. It was about the way Kaelen had looked past her, and the way Sable had laughed—a sound that made Helena feel, for the first time in years, utterly replaceable.