Matilda Liang stood beneath the grand awning of the Grand Imperial Hotel, clutching her handbag tightly to her chest. The towering skyscraper loomed above her, its sleek glass facade reflecting the soft shimmer of rain-soaked streetlights. A gust of wind swept through the air, carrying the crisp, metallic scent of wet pavement and the distant murmur of city traffic. She pulled her coat tighter around her slender frame, shivering as the chill of the approaching winter seeped into her bones.
She wasn't a fan of the cold. Never had been. But here she was, standing in front of the most prestigious hotel in City B, because her agent had been insistent.
"Mr. Zhang is producing a historical drama," Scott Li had said during their call the night before. "You've always wanted a role in a period production. This is the opportunity you've been waiting for. You can't miss it."
Matilda had hesitated. Meeting a producer at a hotel restaurant instead of a production office felt... off. But she'd been in the industry for three years without landing a major role. Despite attending a prestigious drama school abroad, she remained stuck in supporting roles, overshadowed by newcomers with better connections or more "marketable" images.
Maybe it was time to be more proactive, as Scott suggested.
The automatic doors slid open with a soft whoosh, and Matilda stepped inside. The transition from the damp chill to the warm, elegant interior was immediate. The Grand Imperial's lobby was a masterpiece of modern opulence—polished marble floors gleamed beneath her heels, while crystal chandeliers overhead bathed the space in a golden glow. The faint strains of classical piano music drifted through the air, mingling with the subtle floral scent from the towering arrangements of white orchids and lilies placed strategically throughout the room.
She adjusted her posture and walked toward the elevator bank. The polished brass doors reflected her image back at her: dark brown hair tucked into a neat low bun, minimal makeup accentuating her soft features, and a navy-blue coat cinched at the waist. The face of an actress trying to prove her worth in a world that thrived on appearances.
The elevator ride to the 25th floor was smooth and silent. When the doors opened, she was met with the subdued ambiance of The Taste, the city's most coveted Asian-fusion restaurant. The air here was warmer, scented with sesame oil, ginger, and a hint of jasmine tea. The restaurant exuded understated luxury—dark wood paneling, silk screens depicting tranquil mountain landscapes, and tables draped in crisp white linens. The gentle clink of cutlery and hushed conversations created an intimate atmosphere.
A polished-looking maître d' greeted her with a smile. "Good evening, Miss. Do you have a reservation?"
"Yes. I'm meeting Mr. Ben Zhang."
The maître d' consulted the sleek tablet in his hand. "Ah, yes. Miss Liang." His eyes softened with recognition. "Please, follow me."
As Matilda followed, she noticed the clientele—men in tailored suits, women in elegant cocktail dresses, and a few familiar faces from the entertainment industry. The restaurant was bustling, but the private dining rooms at the back remained secluded.
The maître d' stopped at Room 2 and knocked gently before sliding the door open.
"Miss Liang has arrived," he announced before stepping aside.
Matilda inhaled deeply and stepped inside.
The private dining room was more lavish than she'd expected. A circular mahogany table dominated the space, though only one place was set. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the glittering cityscape, the lights of City B stretching endlessly beneath a velvet sky. In the corner, an ornate vase with hand-painted cranes stood beside a discreet bar cart stocked with expensive liquors.
Ben Zhang rose from his chair with a broad smile. "Ah, Miss Liang. So glad you could make it."
He extended his hand, and Matilda forced herself to accept it. His grip was too tight, his palm clammy against hers. He was older than she'd imagined—late forties, maybe early fifties—his hair slicked back with too much gel. His tailored suit strained across his torso, the buttons near his stomach barely holding.
"Please," he said, gesturing to the seat beside him. "Join me."
Matilda hesitated, then lowered herself into the chair. It was closer to his than she'd have liked. Her back remained straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
Mr. Zhang reached for the crystal decanter on the table and poured two glasses of red wine. He handed one to her, his knuckles grazing her fingers.
"Thank you," she said, setting the glass down untouched. Her stomach churned.
"I've seen your work," Zhang began, swirling his own wine. "You have a certain... charm on screen. A natural elegance." His eyes traveled from her face down to her chest. "I think you'd be perfect for a role in my next film."
Matilda's heart gave a hopeful jolt. "A historical drama, right?" she asked, keeping her tone even. "I've always been passionate about period pieces. I'd love to learn more about it."
"Ah, yes. A Tang Dynasty epic," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Lavish costumes, intricate sets. The role I have in mind for you is a concubine who catches the emperor's attention. It's not the lead, but it's pivotal."
She nodded, trying to ignore the discomfort crawling up her spine. "That sounds fascinating. I'd be honored to audition."
Mr. Zhang chuckled softly. "Audition?" His smile widened, but his eyes remained cold. "You're already here, Miss Liang. That shows initiative. And in this business, initiative opens doors."
She stiffened. "I'm here to discuss the role, Mr. Zhang."
"Of course." He leaned forward, placing his wineglass on the table with deliberate care. His knee brushed against hers. "But talent alone isn't enough in this industry. You need the right… advocates." His hand landed on her thigh, squeezing lightly. "I can be that advocate."
Matilda's breath caught in her throat. Her pulse roared in her ears. She shifted her legs away. "I think there's been a misunderstanding."
"Don't play coy," he said, his voice low. "Do you know how many actresses would kill for this opportunity? You're beautiful, Matilda. Smart. But that only gets you so far." He slid closer. "If you want to be a star, you need to make certain... sacrifices."
Her chair scraped against the floor as she shot to her feet. "I should go."
Mr. Zhang stood too, his face darkening. "You're making a mistake."
"I don't think so." She turned toward the door, her heart racing.
His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist in a bruising grip. "You're just like the others. Ungrateful. Do you know who I am?"
"Let go!" Matilda twisted her arm, but his grip tightened.
He yanked her toward him, his breath hot against her cheek. Panic surged through her as his free hand grasped at her waist. She swung her handbag at his head, but he ducked, laughing.
"No one's going to help you," he sneered. "Not here."
She stomped on his foot with her heel. He grunted, momentarily loosening his grip. Matilda lunged toward the door, but his fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her back.
"Agh!" she cried out, feeling the sharp sting on her scalp.
"Stupid girl," Zhang hissed, forcing her toward the table. "You want to be famous? This is how it works!"
Tears blurred her vision as she struggled against his weight. The world tilted. Her pulse hammered in her ears. She opened her mouth to scream, just as the door burst open with a deafening crack.
Two men in dark uniforms rushed in.
"Step away from her!" one barked.
Mr. Zhang released her, stumbling back as one guard seized his arms and yanked them behind his back. The other positioned himself between Matilda and Zhang, his expression sharp and protective.
"What the hell is this?" Zhang shouted, his face twisted with rage. "I'm a producer, damn it! Do you know who I am?"
"Yes," said the taller guard. "We know exactly who you are."
He nodded toward Matilda. "Miss Liang, are you hurt?"
She couldn't find her voice. She shook her head, though her knees wobbled beneath her.
The guards dragged Mr. Zhang toward the door. His eyes locked on Matilda, his expression venomous.
"You'll regret this," he spat. "You think anyone will believe you?"
The door slammed shut behind them.
Matilda sank into the chair, the adrenaline drain leaving her cold and hollow. She pressed a hand to her chest, struggling to breathe. Outside the window, the city lights continued to twinkle, oblivious to the nightmare she'd just escaped.