Chapter Text
Main Characters
Ruby Jamison
18 years old
Assistant for a Hollywood producer and Hollywood bombshell, Lana Chastain
Lana Chastain
23 years old
Famous Hollywood actress
Information
A/N: Heyyy. So this is my very first story I have ever published. I don't really expect anyone to read it, but if you are a living, breathing human out there who is reading, enjoy!
This story is one that I decided to write to practice my writing skills. After having read The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo, I felt compelled to write a sapphic romance set in the 1950s, exploring the complexities of love and identity during that time between the Marilyn Monroe-esque Lana Chastain and the seemingly shy young Ruby Jamison who just arrived in Hollywood to assist a Hollywood producer - and by extension - Lana Chastain.
If there are some spelling mistakes or grammar stuff in the story, please note that I am not a native English speaker. Notes are welcome as well - but please keep it constructive.
Please Enjoy!
- M
STANDING AT THE VERY ENTRANCE of the Hollywood Sapphire Studios lot, my heart was racing like a runaway train. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the sprawling complex, where dreams were born and shattered daily. It was a world of glitz and glamor, a far cry from my quiet midwest hometown I had just left behind, much to my foster parent's dismay. But standing here, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of film crews and nerves, I felt a strange mixture of excitement and dread.
"Miss Jamison! You're late!" A voice jolted me back to reality. It was James Whitmore, the studio's head of production. His hair was dancing in the light breeze as he hurriedly walked on the pavement. Mr. Whitmore was all business. His lips were in a permanent line, and I hurried to catch up once he walked past me.
"I'm so sorry, I got lost," I tried to remind myself to not stammer. I didn't stammer unless I was nervous or intimidated. In this case, I was both. I felt my cheeks flushing as the words came out less confidently than I'd have liked them to.
"Just stick close to me. You've got an important job today," James replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We're doing a read-through with Lana Chastain."
The name hung in the air like a whispered secret. I'm almost certain my heart skipped a beat at the simple mention of her name. Lana Chastain. The Hollywood Goddess. The bombshell that you couldn't help falling—at least a little—in love with no matter who you are. The name alone evoked images of dazzling smiles, elegant charlotte blue gowns, and a charisma that captivated millions. I had seen her on the silver screen, playing strong, independent women who somehow always fell victim to the whims of men. But there was something about Lana that felt different, something that I had been desperate to understand since I first saw her Silent Witness.
As I walked through the studio gates, my eyes darted to the posters lining the walls—each one a testament to the films that had come to life within these confines. I let my fingers brush against the smooth surface of a promotional poster for Deep Water that would star Lana in the role of Melinda.
I could hardly believe it; I was about to meet the woman who had turned so many of my late-night fantasies into reality.
My anticipation built as we approached the soundstage. I could hear the distant sound of laughter, the shuffling of scripts, and the clatter of chairs being moved around. I steeled myself in an attempt to ignore the knot tightening in my stomach. What if I said something stupid? Or even worse, what if I said something offensive? What if Lana looked right through me and didn't see anything special at all? Just another person willing to sacrifice their dignity to be in her presence.
"Remember, Ruby," James' voice cut through my thoughts. "Lana can be... slightly difficult. Don't take it personally."
'Difficult'. That had to be an understatement. I'd heard gossip from my acquaintances in the industry. There had even been a few stories in the gossip rags that told the tales of Lana's cold—sometimes outright—diva behavior, the rumors of her tempestuous relationships. But as I stepped through the doorway and entered the soundstage, my breath got caught in my throat. There, in the center of the room, stood Lana Chastain.
She was even more stunning in person than I had imagined. I had seen celebrities in real life during the short month I'd been in Hollywood. They do not look the way they do on screen or on the red carpets. But Lana was stuck out like a sore thumb among those celebrities. Her blonde hair framed her face in soft waves, and her green eyes sparkled with an intensity that seemed to demand everyone's attention if you were lucky—or unlucky—enough to have them set on you. She was draped in a silk robe, a cigarette dangling from her fingertips as she chatted effortlessly with the director. I felt a jolt of electricity course through my body, a mix of admiration and fear.
The moment my eyes met with hers, my heart started racing. For a split second, the world around me faded. It was just those green eyes and me, separated by an invisible barrier. But as quickly as it had come, the moment vanished, and was once again replaced by the chaos of the studio.
"Ruby!" James' voice broke through the haze of overwhelm I felt. "Get the scripts ready."
With a shaky breath, I stepped forward, my heart was pounding. I was determined to make a good impression, to show Lana that I wasn't just another assistant. This was my chance—my chance to step into the world I had always dreamed of, even if it meant navigating the complexities of a star who was as elusive as she was beautiful.
As I moved closer, she somehow glowed even brighter. As I handed Lana a script with slightly trembling fingers, Lana's fingers brushed ever so slightly. It was almost so light that Lana probably missed it. I wondered for a moment if I had just imagined it, but I knew it was real when the skin she brushed was burning from her touch. In that fleeting moment, I thought I felt a connection—a spark that ignited something deep within me. Little did I know what I was getting myself into. Lana didn't look up immediately. Instead, she exhaled a slow stream of smoke, her gaze fixed on something far away—probably in some glamorous, unreachable place where stars like her lived. The director, Mr. Herrington was in the corner, chatting animatedly with the cinematographer. I stood there awkwardly, feeling the weight of the moment as if the air had thickened around me.
Lana took the script without a word, her long, slender fingers brushing lightly against my skin. My heart skipped a beat again. Was she doing that on purpose? I tried to steady myself, but it was impossible not to be affected by Lana's presence, let alone her touch. The way she seemed to command the room without even trying.
Lana's silence was unnerving to me. Her eyes skimmed over the pages as she flipped through them with practiced disinterest. She took a drag from her cigarette continuing the casual movement. I found myself studying her face; the lines of her jaw, the gentle curve of her lips, the slight furrow in her brow. In the dim studio light, Lana looked less like the glamorous screen goddess I had imagined and more like a woman worn thin by something invisible. It was jarring because just a minute ago I saw the opposite of what I was currently seeing now. Something weighed heavy behind her eyes.
"New?" Lana finally spoke, her voice low and almost bored, but there was an edge to it. She glanced at me through half-lidded eyes, exhaling another cloud of smoke. I swallowed, trying to force my vocal cords to make a sound.
"Yes," I said, the nervousness came out painfully clear and much smaller than I intended. "First day."
Her lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile—more like a smirk, really. "First day," she repeated, her voice as smooth as the smoke that had just escaped from her lips. It was as if she was savoring the words. "Well, here's a tip." She leaned in ever so slightly, the smell of her perfume mingling with the cigarette smoke—heady, intoxicating, dangerous. "In this town, you learn quickly or you don't last long. Understand?"
I nodded, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. Lana's green eyes were now fully on me, and for a moment, I felt exposed, like she could see through me, past my nerves and straight to the part of me that had spent countless nights watching Lana's films, secretly wishing for something more than admiration.
"I'll keep that in mind," I managed to say, thankfully steadier this time, though my heart continued to race, perhaps even faster than before.
Lana didn't respond. She simply turned back to the script, flipping through it again. She seemed bored already, her eyes darting across the page without much interest. I realized I hadn't moved, hadn't even taken a breath since Lana first spoke. The director called for a five-minute break, and the crew scattered, talking amongst themselves, heading out of the soundstage. I stood there, entirely unsure of whether to stay or leave, but before I could make a decision on my own, Lana glanced back up at me. I always felt as though being the physically taller one in the situation made you seem more powerful, however, that didn't seem to apply in her presence.
"You've seen my films?" It wasn't really a question. More like a statement, as if she already knew the answer and was merely confirming it. There was a flicker of something in her eyes now—curiosity, maybe, or the faintest glimmer of amusement.
I hesitated, caught off guard by the directness. "I have yes," I admitted, then quickly added, "I've always admired your work."
Lana raised a perfect eyebrow. "Admired, huh? Is that what they call it now?"
I froze, unsure how to respond. The heat in my cheeks returned and I felt like a fool for saying anything at all. Lana's eyes were fixed on me, sharp and unblinking, waiting for a reaction. I wasn't sure if this was a test, a tease, or something else entirely.
"I—I just think you're very talented," I stammered, my words coming out in a rush. I felt like an idiot. The pounding in my chest was the same as when I'd first watched Lana on the big screen for the first time—a mix of awe and fear.
She gave a soft chuckle, the sound was low and throaty. She flicked the ash from her cigarette onto the floor, the smoke curling lazily around her. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I've heard worse."
I tried to smile, but it felt forced, awkward. I wasn't sure what Lana expected from me, or if this was just how she treated everyone—like they were beneath her. But there was something in the way Lana's eyes lingered on mine, something that hinted at more than just arrogance. Something darker, something broken. A tiny piece of my heart broke when I saw it.
"Ruby, right?" Lana asked, leaning back against the chair now, still watching me with that same unsettling intensity.
"Yes," I replied, surprised that she even remembered—let alone paid attention to it.
"Well, Ruby," Lana said, the corner of her mouth curling into a half-smile, "you'll be seeing a lot of me from now on. I hope you can keep up."
The challenge in her voice was unmistakable, and I felt the weight of it settling in my chest. I hadn’t even been here two weeks, but already was beginning to understand that this place—this world of bright lights and dark corners—was more than I had imagined. It wasn't just about the films, the art, the glamor, or the fame. It was about survival.
"I'll try my best," I said. My voice became a little firmer now, though I could feel the unease still twisting inside of me.
"Good," Lana replied, her eyes still locked on mine. "Because this town chews up girls like you and spits them out."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and cold. I swallowed hard, feeling the truth of Lana's statement settle over me like a shadow. But behind the shadow, there was something else—something in the way Lana was looking at me, something unspoken, simmering just beneath the surface.
For a brief, fleeting moment, I thought I saw a crack in Lana's perfect facade. It was just a flicker, a brief glimpse of something softer, something vulnerable. But then it was gone, and Lana was Lana again—untouchable, beautiful, and dangerous.
The director called everyone back to set. Lana stood, brushing off her silk robe and adjusting her hair. As she walked away, she threw a glance over her shoulder at me, her eyes lingering just a second too long.
I watched her go, my heart was still racing and my mind was spinning. I had no idea how to pinpoint a word that even vaguely represented my thoughts. But one thing was clear: Lana Chastain was not what she seemed.