Slave of the Crew: The Shameful Downfall of a Screenwriter

I remember the exact moment my life began to unravel. It was a Tuesday afternoon in late October, and I was sitting in my favorite café near the Chunxi Road shopping district, nursing a cappuccino and staring at the final draft of my latest screenplay. The film was already generating Oscar buzz, and the director had called it "the most nuanced character study in a decade." I felt invincible. I had earned that feeling. Fifteen years of relentless writing, three Best Screenplay awards, and a reputation for turning down lucrative offers that didn't meet my artistic standards. I was Su Wan, the screenwriter who could make or break a project with a single signature.

My phone buzzed, and I saw Zhao Weiwei’s name flash on the screen. My best friend since college. The woman who had held my hand through my mother's funeral, who had celebrated every one of my victories as if they were her own. Or so I believed.

"Wanwan, you won't believe what I just heard," she said, her voice breathless with excitement. "Director Zhou is desperate. His lead actress dropped out of this new project, and he needs someone who can bring authenticity to the role. Someone with presence. Someone like you."

I laughed. "Weiwei, I'm a screenwriter. I write the words. I don't speak them."

"But that's exactly why it's perfect! You understand the character better than anyone. The film needs someone who can embody the script's soul. And you'd only be playing a supporting role. It's practically a cameo. Three weeks of filming, and you'll be back to your desk with a whole new level of respect from the industry."

I set down my coffee cup and watched the foam settle. Zhao Weiwei had always been my most enthusiastic cheerleader, but this was different. There was a desperation in her voice that I'd never heard before. I should have listened to that instinct. I should have hung up and forgotten the whole thing.

"What's the film about?" I asked.

There was a pause. I heard her exhale slowly. "It's a period piece. About… women in the Red Light District. Prostitutes. But it's not exploitative! Director Zhou has a vision. He wants to show their humanity, their struggles. And the lead character—she's a madam. You'd be playing one of the prostitutes, a woman named Mei. She's tragic, complex. You'd be wonderful."

The word "prostitute" hung in the air like a bad smell. I'd spent my entire career writing roles that elevated women, not degraded them. But Zhao Weiwei was right about one thing: authenticity mattered. If I wanted to understand the lives of characters I created, I needed to experience different perspectives. And it was just a supporting role. Three weeks.

"When does filming start?" I heard myself ask.

"Next Monday. I'll send you the script. And Wanwan? I'm so proud of you. This is going to change everything."

I should have asked what she meant by "everything." But I was too flattered by the prospect of being wanted, of stepping out from behind the keyboard and into the spotlight. My husband, Lu Ting, had been distant lately. His investment firm was struggling, and he spent most evenings in his study, staring at spreadsheets. Our marriage had become a stale routine of polite conversation and separate bedrooms. Maybe this role would reignite something in me. Maybe it would remind him of the woman he married.

The script arrived that evening. I read it in one sitting, and my stomach turned. The film was titled "Gilded Chains," and it was as exploitative as I had feared. Long, lingering shots of women being beaten, humiliated, stripped of their dignity. The character of Mei was a broken shell who existed only to suffer. But the writing was sharp, the dialogue raw. There was a potency to the misery that I recognized as good craftsmanship. Perhaps I could bring a subtlety to the role, a quiet resistance that the script alone couldn't convey.

Monday came with a grey drizzle that matched my mood. The location was an old warehouse on the outskirts of the city, converted into a film set that reeked of damp wood and cheap perfume. The "prostitute" costumes hung on racks like dead things: thin silk robes, threadbare corsets, shoes that curled at the toes from years of imagined wear. I slipped into the first outfit, a plum-colored robe that fell open at the chest, revealing more skin than I had ever shown in public. The fabric smelled of mothballs and cigarettes.

Zhao Weiwei arrived an hour later, all smiles and warm embraces. She was dressed in a crisp blazer and tailored trousers, looking every bit the producer's assistant she had become. "You look perfect," she said, adjusting the collar of my robe. "So authentic."

"Authentic isn't the word I'd use," I muttered.

Director Zhou was a thin man with nervous eyes and a voice like cracked porcelain. He shook my hand with surprising firmness and guided me to the set. "You'll be in scene four today," he said, pointing to a mattress on the floor, surrounded by fake cobwebs and peeling wallpaper. "Your character is entertaining a customer. The customer is played by Zhang Lei—he's method, so don't mind if he stays in character."

The first take was a disaster. I had never acted before, and every line I delivered sounded wooden and rehearsed. The crew exchanged glances. The sound guy adjusted his headphones. Director Zhou called cut and pulled me aside.

"Su, you're thinking too much. You're a prostitute. You've been doing this for ten years. You don't care anymore. You're numb."

"I am numb," I said, which was true, though I meant it in a different way.

"Then show me. Stop trying to be elegant. You're not Su Wan the screenwriter here. You're Mei. Mei has no dignity."

The second take was worse. I stumbled over my lines. The crude phrases felt alien in my mouth. "What do you want, sir?" I said, and the words came out like a question instead of a weary transaction. Zhang Lei, still in character, grabbed my wrist and twisted it. "Louder," he growled. "You sound like a schoolgirl."

I pulled away, my skin smarting. The crew was silent. Zhao Weiwei was watching from behind the camera, her face unreadable. For a moment, I considered walking off the set. But then I remembered Lu Ting's cold shoulder, the whispers at industry parties that I had peaked, the relentless pressure to stay relevant. This role was supposed to prove something. To whom, I wasn't sure.

"Let's try again," I said.

We filmed for six hours. By the end, my knees were bruised from kneeling on the floor, my back ached from being pushed against the wall, and my voice was hoarse from shouting lines I had written for other characters but never imagined speaking myself. As I changed back into my clothes, Zhao Weiwei approached me with a towel and a bottle of water.

"You did good," she said, but her eyes flickered to the side. "But director Zhou mentioned that the lead actress, Xia Mengqi, had some notes on your performance. She's very particular about the emotional authenticity of the scenes."

I hadn't met the lead actress yet. I knew her only from tabloids: a rising star with a reputation for perfectionism and a volatile temper. The next day, during the rehearsal for a group scene, I finally saw her in person. Xia Mengqi was tall and slender, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that could freeze water. She wore a vintage cheongsam that hugged her curves like a second skin, and she moved through the set as if she owned it.

"You must be the screenwriter," she said when she saw me. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "I've heard so much about your work. How brave of you to step in front of the camera."

"I'm just helping out," I said.

"I know. Weiwei told me everything. She said you're doing this to 'understand the craft' better." Xia Mengqi laughed, a high, brittle sound. "How sweet. But you should know, this film is very important to me. It's my first dramatic role. I can't have any... amateurs dragging down the production."

Her words were like tiny cuts, precise and shallow. I felt my face flush, but I forced a smile. "I'm doing my best."

"Good. Keep doing that." She turned away and called for her assistant, dismissing me without another glance.

That evening, I locked myself in the dressing room and cried. The tears came in hot, silent waves. I had never felt so exposed, so humiliated. And yet, part of me couldn't stop. A darker part, a part I didn't want to acknowledge, found a strange thrill in the degradation. The script called for me to kneel, to beg, to submit. And with every take, I felt the boundaries of my identity blurring. Who was Su Wan, really? Was she the award-winning screenwriter, or was she the woman on her knees, reciting lines about being worthless?

Zhao Weiwei found me there, my mascara smeared, my robe half-open. She sat beside me and put an arm around my shoulders. "It's hard," she said softly. "But you're doing so well. Everyone is talking about your commitment. Director Zhou said your last take brought him to tears."

"I think I'm losing myself," I whispered.

"No, you're finding yourself. This is growth, Wanwan. You'll come out of this stronger. And when it's over, you'll have a new chapter in your career. Trust me."

I looked into her eyes, searching for sincerity. I found only a mirror of my own desperation. I nodded, wiped my face, and prepared for the next day's shoot.

The weeks that followed were a blur of sore muscles, hollow applause, and increasingly intimate scenes. I learned to disassociate. I learned to let my mind float above my body while my mouth recited the script's humiliations. I learned to accept the crew's stares, the whispered jokes, the hands that lingered too long during the "choreographed" assaults. And through it all, Zhao Weiwei was there, holding my hand, soothing my doubts, telling me that this was necessary.

It was only at the end of the third week, when I stood in the makeup trailer and caught my reflection in the mirror, that I realized the truth. The woman staring back was not Su Wan. She was a stranger with hollow eyes, a slack jaw, and a resignation that terrified me. My confidence had been stripped away line by line, scene by scene. I had become the character. And somewhere deep in my chest, I felt the faint spark of shame, flickering like a dying candle.

I was supposed to be famous. I was supposed to be respected. Instead, I had allowed myself to be led into this gutter by a friend who smiled while she pushed me down, an actress who enjoyed my fall, and a husband who hadn't called once to ask how I was doing.

The invitation to play this role had seemed unexpected, even exciting. But now I understood: it was a trap, baited with flattery and set by trusted hands. And I had walked right into it.

The chapter of my downfall had begun, and I was the only one who didn't know the ending.

The director’s voice cut through the hum of the set like a blade. “Su Wan, hold that pose just a second longer—perfect. That’s exactly the kind of subtle dignity the script needs.”

I stood at the edge of the mock-up courtyard, the early autumn sunlight catching the silver threads in my silk blouse. The crew had paused their work, cameras half-lowered, to watch me. It wasn’t the first time. My posture had always drawn eyes—the way I held my spine straight without stiffness, the tilt of my chin that suggested both confidence and quiet sorrow. For this role, the elegant widow of a fallen general, I had spent weeks studying the carriage of women who had once owned the world and lost it. Now, the director’s praise felt like a small victory in a war I was slowly losing.

Xia Mengqi stood ten feet away, arms crossed, her designer sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She was the lead actress—the one whose name sold tickets, whose face graced billboards. But right now, her lips were pressed into a thin line, and her eyes had that brittle gleam I had come to recognize. Jealousy. It clung to her like perfume, sharp and cloying.

“That’s wonderful,” she said, her voice honeyed but with an edge of rust. “But the character is supposed to be broken. She’s lost everything. She wouldn’t hold herself like a duchess.”

The director glanced at her, then back at me. I kept my expression neutral, but I felt the sting. She wasn’t wrong about the character arc—eventually, the widow would crumble. But we were filming the early scenes, where her pride still held. I’d written those beats myself, after all.

“I think Su Wan has the right approach for this sequence,” the director said carefully. “We can add more weariness in post.”

Xia Mengqi’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “If you say so. But I think a little more… authenticity might help. Maybe Su Wan should spend some time with the crew on a real set. You know, experience the grime, the fatigue. She’s been cooped up in her writer’s room for so long.”

The words were velvet, but the poison was unmistakable. She was calling me soft. Untested. I had written this script, poured months of research into it, and yet she framed my precision as a weakness. Around us, the production assistants busied themselves with cables, pretending not to hear. But I caught the sideways glances. The crew knew better than to take sides. Not when Xia Mengqi was the star.

I forced a small, gracious nod. “Of course. I’m always open to deeper immersion.”

Her smile widened. “Good. I’ll talk to the producer. We’ll set something up.”

She turned and walked away, her heels clicking with finality. I watched the way her shoulders relaxed once she thought no one was looking—that tiny victory she didn’t bother to hide. My chest tightened. I knew that expression. I had seen it on Zhao Weiwei’s face a hundred times before, right before she stabbed me in the back.

But that was another story.

That afternoon, the producer called me into his trailer. It was a cramped space, cluttered with storyboards and coffee cups, but he offered me a seat with an exaggerated courtesy that made my skin prickle.

“Su Wan, listen,” he said, leaning back with a practiced grin. “Xia Mengqi has a point. You’re a screenwriter, not an actress—but you’re playing this minor role, and she’s the lead. She feels you’re not bringing enough grit to the part. She suggested a little… experiential exercise.”

“What kind of exercise?”

“She wants you to shadow the crew’s daily labor. Cleaning, setting up props, running errands. Just for a couple of days. Get your hands dirty. She says it will give you more ‘texture’ on screen.”

I stared at him. “I wrote the script. I know the character’s psychology.”

“Of course you do.” He spread his hands. “But this is about team harmony. Xia Mengqi is the star. If she’s uncomfortable, the whole production suffers. Think of it as a compromise. Just two days. Then we film your scenes and you’re done.”

I felt the trap closing. The request was absurd, humiliating. A screenwriter doesn’t clean up after the crew to “understand” a role. But the producer’s eyes held no room for negotiation. This was the price of working with a diva. And if I refused, I’d be labeled difficult, unprofessional. In this industry, that label stuck faster than praise.

“Fine,” I said, my voice steady despite the burn in my throat. “I’ll do it.”

His grin returned, relieved and dismissive. “Great. Xia Mengqi will be thrilled. We’ll start tomorrow morning. Report to the set coordinator at six.”

I walked out of the trailer into the cooling evening air. The filming site was a rural estate, rented for its crumbling grandeur. The sky was streaked with amber and violet, beautiful and distant. I leaned against a stone pillar and let the quiet wrap around me. This was supposed to be my story, my words brought to life. Instead, I was being reduced to a prop for someone else’s amusement.

But I had no choice. Not yet.

The next morning, I arrived before six. The set coordinator, a tired man named Old Chen, handed me a worn jumpsuit and a list of tasks. “Start with the prop storage,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “Organize the crates by scene number. Then help with the catering setup.”

I changed in a cramped closet that smelled of dust and sweat. The jumpsuit was stiff, three sizes too large. I rolled the sleeves and tied the drawstring tight. As I stepped out, I saw Xia Mengqi watching from the makeup tent, a cup of coffee in her hand. She smiled and raised the cup in a mock toast.

I turned away and walked toward the storage shed.

The work was mindless and exhausting. The crates were heavy, and the labels had worn off. I spent two hours cross-referencing props with the script notes, my own handwriting mocking me from the pages. By the time the sun climbed higher, my back ached and my hands were streaked with grime. A production assistant named Xiao Li brought me water, her expression apologetic.

“Ms. Su, you don’t have to do this,” she muttered. “She’s just trying to humiliate you.”

“I know,” I said, taking the cup. “But I signed a contract.”

Xiao Li shook her head and walked away.

By noon, the crew had heard about my “experiential exercise.” Some treated me with pity, others with barely concealed amusement. One of the grips, a burly man with a shaved head, made a joke about “the writer getting her hands dirty for once.” His friend laughed. I kept my face blank and continued sorting.

At lunch, I sat alone at a rickety table, eating a boxed meal that tasted of cardboard. Then Zhao Weiwei appeared, her smile radiant, her dress pristine. She had come to visit the set, she said. She sat down across from me, her eyes scanning my jumpsuit with feigned concern.

“Su Wan, you look exhausted,” she cooed. “What are you doing in that thing?”

I didn’t have the energy to spar. “Just part of the job.”

“Xia Mengqi is quite… imaginative,” she said, savoring the words. “But you know, if you ever want to step back, I could talk to the producer for you. I have some influence.”

She didn’t say it as a kindness. She said it as a performance, showing that she knew people, that she had power I didn’t. I remembered how she had stood beside me at my wedding, praising Lu Ting as the perfect husband. Six months later, she was the one in his bed.

“I don’t need your help,” I said.

She shrugged, still smiling. “Suit yourself.”

She stood and walked toward the VIP tent, where Xia Mengqi was laughing with the assistant director. I watched them exchange glances, then look at me. The pieces clicked together. This wasn’t just Xia Mengqi’s whim. Zhao Weiwei had been whispering.

The afternoon brought worse tasks. Cleaning the portable toilets. Scrubbing the floor of the cooking tent. Old Chen handed me each assignment with an apologetic grimace, but he didn’t object. Orders from above. My hands blistered from the disinfectant, and my knees ached from kneeling. The sun was relentless, burning through the thin jumpsuit.

Around four, Xia Mengqi approached, flanked by two assistants. She was holding the script, my script, and tapped it with a manicured nail.

“How are you feeling, Su Wan? Gritty enough yet?”

I straightened, refusing to show weakness. “I’m feeling very… grounded.”

She laughed, a sharp, tinkling sound. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking. The widow in the later scenes—she becomes a servant, doesn’t she? Maybe you should practice that too. I’ll have the director write in a new scene. You can serve tea to the cast during the next read-through. It’ll be authentic.”

My hands trembled, but I kept them still. “That’s not in the script.”

“It will be,” she said. “The writer can always revise.”

She walked away, and I watched her go, the script clutched in her hand like a trophy. The rage I felt was cold, precise. She didn’t just want to humiliate me; she wanted to rewrite my story, to make me act out my own degradation. And I had no power to stop her.

That evening, I returned to my cramped hotel room, the cheapest the production provided. I stood in the shower for a long time, letting the hot water wash away the grime but not the shame. My phone buzzed. A message from Lu Ting: “Hope filming is going well. Weiwei said she saw you today. You look happy.”

Happy. I almost laughed. He had divorced me two months ago, citing incompatibility and my “excessive focus on work.” Now he was living in my apartment, sleeping in my bed, with my best friend. And he had the audacity to tell me I looked happy.

I didn’t reply.

The next day, the new “serving scene” was added. The director avoided my eyes as he explained the change. “Just a small improvisation, Su Wan. It’ll add depth to your character’s arc.”

I stood in the center of the read-through circle, a tray of teacups in my hands. The cast and crew watched, some with pity, some with amusement. Xia Mengqi lounged in her chair, legs crossed, waiting. I walked to her first, my steps measured, my face calm. I set the cup before her.

“Tea, Ms. Xia?”

She took it, her fingers brushing mine deliberately. “Excellent. You’re learning.”

I served the others one by one. When I reached the empty chair where Zhao Weiwei had sat the day before, I paused. She wasn’t there, but her presence lingered like a stain. I finished the circle and stood aside, tray empty.

The assistant director clapped. “Perfect. Great energy. We’ll shoot that next week.”

I walked off set, past the crew, past the props, past the storage shed where I had spent the morning. I found a quiet corner behind the main building, out of sight. I leaned against the wall and let my body slide down until I was sitting on the ground, knees drawn up.

The laughter from the set drifted over. Someone was telling a joke. The sound was distant, muffled, like it came from another world.

I had written this script to reclaim my voice after the divorce. I had thought art could heal the wounds. Instead, I was being forced to perform my own humiliation, scene by scene, day by day. And the worst part was the quiet truth I couldn’t escape: I was letting it happen. Because I was afraid. Afraid of losing the job, afraid of being blacklisted, afraid of ending up with nothing.

But I was already losing everything.

I stayed there until the sun set, until the stars pricked through the indigo sky. Then I stood, brushed off the dirt, and walked back to the hotel. Tomorrow, there would be more tasks. More tea. More degradation. And I would endure it, because I didn’t know any other way.

But deep inside, a small ember of anger was growing. It wasn’t the hot, blinding anger of a moment. It was the slow, steady burn of a coal that refused to die. I didn’t know what I would do with it yet. But I knew one thing for certain: I would not stay broken forever.

The director’s voice cut through the haze of the set like a knife. “Action!”

I stood frozen in the center of the makeshift bedroom, a cheap motel room they’d dressed with garish red curtains and a stained comforter. The cameras were rolling, the boom mic hovered just out of frame, and every eye in the crew was fixed on me. I was supposed to be playing a prostitute—a woman broken by circumstance, selling her body for survival. But this wasn’t acting. This was punishment.

Xia Mengqi’s character, the police officer, was interrogating me. But the script had been rewritten overnight. Instead of a simple scene where I confessed my crimes, I was now supposed to be “trained” by the madam of an escort service—a role Xia Mengqi had insisted on playing herself. The madam would teach me how to please clients, how to submit, how to be a good little whore.

I had read the revised pages that morning, my hands trembling as I flipped through the yellowed paper. Zhao Weiwei had brought them to my trailer, her face a mask of sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Wan,” she’d said, squeezing my arm. “But you know how it is. The producers want authenticity. And Xia Mengqi—she has the final say now.”

I had tried to protest. I had marched onto the set, demanding to speak to the director, but he just shrugged. “Listen, Su Wan, you signed the contract. You’re the lead. This is what the role requires. If you can’t handle it, we can always recast.”

Recast. That word echoed in my mind as I stood there, wearing a cheap lace bra and a thong that bit into my hips. I was no longer Su Wan, the award-winning screenwriter. I was just a body, a piece of meat for the cameras.

Xia Mengqi stepped into the frame. She was wearing a tight leather dress, her hair slicked back, a riding crop in one hand. Her lips curled into a smirk as she circled me like a predator.

“You’re pathetic,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “You think you can just lie there and collect the money? No, darling. You work for every penny. You get on your knees, you beg, you do exactly as you’re told. Understand?”

I stared at a point on the floor, my jaw clenched. This wasn’t in the script. She was improvising, and no one was stopping her.

“I asked you a question,” Xia Mengqi snapped. She brought the crop down on my shoulder, not hard enough to leave a mark, but sharp enough to sting. I flinched.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I understand.”

She laughed, a cold, brittle sound. “Good. Now, let’s start with the basics. The first rule of being a good whore: you never say no. No matter what the client wants, you smile and you take it. Show me. Show me your best whore smile.”

I tried to lift the corners of my mouth, but they felt like lead. My lips trembled.

“Is that supposed to be a smile?” Xia Mengqi taunted. She turned to the crew, spreading her arms. “Look at this! She can’t even fake a smile. How did she ever win that award? For best script? Please. Her writing is just as wooden as her face.”

A few of the crew members snickered. I felt heat rise to my cheeks, but I couldn’t tell if it was shame or anger.

“Again,” Xia Mengqi said. “This time, show me desperation. You need the money so badly, you’d do anything. Your mother’s sick, your kids are hungry. Whatever sad backstory you want. But you need that client’s approval. You need him to like you. So smile like your life depends on it.”

I took a breath. I thought of my mother, who was actually healthy and living in a retirement village. I thought of Lu Ting, who had thrown me away like garbage. I thought of my empty bank account, the producer’s threats, Zhao Weiwei’s fake concern. And I smiled. It was a twisted, pathetic thing, but it was a smile.

“Better,” Xia Mengqi said, her eyes glittering. “But not good enough. Let’s try a different approach. You see that chair? I want you to walk over to it, slowly, seductively. Imagine there’s a man sitting there. You’re going to sit on his lap and whisper sweet things in his ear. Make him want you.”

I walked. My legs were shaking, my bare feet cold on the linoleum floor. I reached the empty chair and hesitated.

“Sit,” Xia Mengqi commanded.

I lowered myself onto the chair as if there were indeed someone there. I leaned forward, my lips close to the backrest, and whispered, “You look like you’ve had a long day. Let me help you relax.”

My voice was barely audible, but the boom mic picked it up. I heard someone behind the camera chuckle.

“Pathetic,” Xia Mengqi said again. She stepped behind me and grabbed my hair, yanking my head back. “You’re supposed to be seductive, not whispering to a ghost. Look at the camera, you idiot. Look at the audience. They’re your clients now. Every single one of them is watching you, judging you, wanting to see you humiliate yourself. You think they want subtlety? No. They want vulgarity. They want you to beg, to cry, to degrade yourself. So give it to them.”

Tears welled in my eyes. I blinked them back, but one escaped, trailing down my cheek.

“Oh, wonderful,” Xia Mengqi said with a sneer. “Now we have tears. Perfect. That’s exactly the kind of raw emotion we need. Keep crying. Cry harder. And while you cry, get on your knees.”

I didn’t move. My body refused.

“Did you hear me?” Xia Mengqi’s voice turned icy. “Get. On. Your. Knees.”

The assistant director, a weasel-faced man named Chen, stepped forward. “Maybe we should take a break?” he suggested nervously.

Xia Mengqi turned on him. “No breaks. We have a schedule to keep. And this—this actress—needs to learn her place.” She looked back at me. “Fine. If she won’t do it herself, we’ll help her.”

Two burly grips grabbed my arms and forced me down onto my knees. The rough floor scraped my skin. I let out a small gasp of pain.

“Now,” Xia Mengqi said, standing over me, “let’s continue the training. You’re going to apologize to me. For wasting my time. For being such a worthless actress. And you’re going to do it with conviction.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice flat.

“Not good enough. Say it like you mean it.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated, a little louder, trying to muster some semblance of sincerity.

Xia Mengqi crouched down to my level, grabbing my chin and forcing me to look at her. “You’re sorry for what? Spell it out.”

“I’m sorry for wasting your time,” I said, the words tasting like ash. “I’m sorry for being a worthless actress.”

“And?” she prompted.

“And for being a worthless woman.”

Her smile widened. “There. That’s better. Now crawl over to that table and bring me the ashtray.”

I looked at the table on the other side of the room. It was littered with props: empty beer bottles, a half-smoked cigarette, a cheap glass ashtray. I crawled. My knees ached. The crew watched in silence, some with pity, some with excitement. I reached the table, grabbed the ashtray, and crawled back.

“Good girl,” Xia Mengqi cooed as I handed it to her. She took it, then dropped it on the floor. “Oops. Pick it up.”

I bent over and picked it up. She took it again and dropped it even farther away.

“Again.”

This went on for several minutes. Each time I retrieved the ashtray, she’d find a reason to make me do it again—wrong hand, too slow, not enough eye contact. By the time she was satisfied, my knees were raw and bleeding through the sheer stockings I wore.

“Cut!” the director shouted. “Excellent. Let’s reset for the next setup.”

I stayed on the floor, trembling. No one helped me up. The crew began moving lights and cameras, oblivious to my existence. Zhao Weiwei approached, her face a picture of concern.

“Wan, are you okay?” she asked, kneeling beside me. She offered me a bottle of water. “Here, drink.”

I took it mechanically, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped it. “Why are you doing this?” I whispered.

“Doing what?” she asked, her eyes wide and innocent. “I’m just trying to help. You need to get through this shoot, Su Wan. Think of the contract. Think of your reputation.”

“My reputation is ruined,” I said bitterly. “I’m a prostitute in this movie. I’m a laughingstock.”

“It’s just a role,” she said, but her voice was too syrupy sweet. “You’re the writer. You should understand the art of performance. Sometimes we have to suffer for our craft.”

I stared at her. The woman who had been my friend since college, who had encouraged me to marry Lu Ting, who had cried with me when we divorced. And now she was here, watching me crawl on my knees, pretending to care.

“Get up,” she said, offering her hand. “The next scene is ready.”

I took her hand and let her pull me to my feet. My legs were unsteady. I looked around the set, at the amused faces of the crew, at Xia Mengqi who was now laughing with the director, at the camera that was still rolling, capturing every moment of my humiliation.

The assistant director came over. “Su Wan, for the next scene, we need you in the bathtub. There’s a scene where the madam gives you a ‘lesson’ on hygiene. You’ll be naked from the waist up—don’t worry, we’ll have steam and strategic angles.”

Naked. Of course. I nodded, too numb to protest.

I walked to the bathroom, a small room with a cracked mirror and a clawfoot tub filled with murky water. The grips handed me a robe. I took off the lace bra and thong, wrapping the robe around myself. The fabric was thin, scratchy.

Xia Mengqi followed me in, carrying a brush. “I’ll be scrubbing you,” she said sweetly. “Hard. It’s symbolic, you know. Cleansing you of your sins.”

I stepped into the tub. The water was lukewarm, but it felt cold against my raw knees. I sat down, the robe floating around me. Xia Mengqi knelt beside the tub and began to scrub my arm with the brush. It was rough, abrasive.

“Too hard?” she asked, not waiting for an answer. “Good.”

She scrubbed my back, my shoulders, my neck. The bristles left red marks on my skin. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.

“You know,” she said in a low voice, “I always hated you. Ever since you won that award. You acted so superior, so untouchable. But look at you now. You’re nothing. Just a whore in a movie, getting scrubbed by a real actress.”

I said nothing. What could I say? She was right.

“I’m going to make sure this movie is your legacy,” she continued, scrubbing harder. “Every review will mention your performance. ‘Su Wan, in her breakout role as a prostitute, brings raw authenticity to the screen.’ You’ll be famous for this. Forever.”

She laughed, a sound that echoed off the bathroom tiles.

“Cut!” the director called. “Perfect. That’s a wrap for today’s scenes.”

I climbed out of the tub, water dripping onto the floor. Zhao Weiwei handed me a towel, her smile sickeningly sweet. “You did great, Wan. Really.”

I took the towel and wrapped it around myself. I walked back to my trailer, past the crew who averted their eyes, past Xia Mengqi who was already on her phone, past Chen who looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t.

In the trailer, I sat in front of the mirror. My reflection stared back at me: hollow eyes, chapped lips, red marks on my arms. I didn’t recognize myself. I didn’t know who I was anymore.

I thought about calling Lu Ting. But what would I say? He’d probably laugh, or worse, he’d pity me. I thought about calling a lawyer, but the contract was ironclad. I was trapped.

So I sat there, in the silence, waiting for tomorrow’s call sheet. Waiting for the next scene. Waiting for the next humiliation.

Because that’s what I was now. A prostitute—on screen and off. And I was just getting started.

The blank page on my laptop screen stared back at me like an open wound. I had been sitting in my cramped office for three hours, the cursor blinking mockingly at the bottom of a document that read "Scene 47 – Revised." My fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly, as if they knew what I was about to type would scar me forever.

Xia Mengqi had sent her demands through the assistant director that morning. She wanted more "emotional authenticity" in the scenes between the lead actress and the antagonist. More "physical vulnerability." The words had dripped with a sweetness that made my stomach turn, because we both knew what she really meant. She wanted scenes where she could hurt me on screen, disguised as fiction. She wanted my degradation written into the narrative, sanctioned by the producers, approved by the director.

The worst part was that I had no choice. The contract I had signed three months ago, in what felt like a different lifetime, contained a clause that gave the lead actress script approval. A standard clause, my agent had assured me. Every A-list star had one. Nobody had anticipated that Xia Mengqi would use it as a weapon against me.

I started typing.

*INT. DARK ROOM - NIGHT*

*The ANTAGONIST, played by XIA MENGQI, confronts her servant, played by an unnamed extra. The servant has failed to complete a simple task.*

"On your knees," Xia Mengqi's character says in the script.

I paused, my throat tightening. The words on the screen seemed to burn into my retinas. This was supposed to be fiction. This was supposed to be a movie. But as I typed the next line of dialogue, I could already feel the phantom weight of Xia Mengqi's gaze on me, could already anticipate the way she would look at me on set, the smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

*The servant hesitates. The antagonist backhands her across the face.*

My fingers stopped moving. I stared at the stage direction I had just written. A backhand. A simple, violent gesture that would take seconds to film but would require me to actually be struck. Because Xia Mengqi had made it clear that she would not use a stunt double for this scene. She wanted "authenticity." She wanted to feel the impact.

A knock at my door made me jump. I saved the document quickly, as if someone might see what I was writing, and called out, "Come in."

Zhao Weiwei entered, carrying two cups of coffee. Her face was arranged in an expression of concern, but her eyes—I had known her long enough to read her eyes—held a glimmer of satisfaction that she couldn't quite hide.

"You're still working?" she asked, setting the coffee on my desk. "It's almost midnight."

"I have to get these revisions done by tomorrow morning," I said, closing my laptop slightly, as if that could hide the shameful words I had been typing.

Weiwei sat down in the chair across from me, crossing her legs elegantly. She looked pristine, put-together, everything I no longer was. Her hair was perfectly styled, her makeup fresh despite the late hour. I caught a glimpse of my own reflection in the dark screen of my phone—matted hair, dark circles, lips cracked from nervous biting.

"Lu Ting called me today," she said, her voice carefully casual.

I felt my chest constrict. "He called you?"

"He's worried about you, Wan Wan. We're both worried. He says you've been distant, that you've stopped returning his calls."

I laughed, a bitter, hollow sound that echoed off the bare walls of my office. "He divorced me, Weiwei. He took half of everything I owned and left me with nothing but debt and a career that's circling the drain. Why would I want to talk to him?"

"He made mistakes," Weiwei said, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "We all make mistakes. But he still cares about you. He told me he's been doing research on the crew you're working with. He thinks they're taking advantage of you."

"They are taking advantage of me. That was the point of signing that contract. I needed the money."

"The money isn't worth your dignity, Wan Wan."

I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to tell her that dignity was a luxury I could no longer afford, that every day I showed up on that set was a day I chose survival over self-respect. But instead, I just nodded, sipping the coffee she had brought me. It was bitter, no sugar, the way I used to drink it before everything fell apart. She remembered. Of course she remembered. She remembered everything about me, which made her betrayal cut so much deeper.

"I should get back to work," I said, my voice flat.

Weiwei stood, smoothing down her skirt. She paused at the door, turning back to look at me with an expression that tried very hard to be kind. "If you need help with the script, you know I'm always available. I've been doing some freelance editing work. I could look over the revisions for you, make sure they're... acceptable."

Acceptable. The word hung in the air between us like a threat disguised as an offer.

"I'll manage," I said.

After she left, I opened my laptop again and stared at the half-written scene. My hands were shaking as I continued typing, adding more stage directions, more dialogue, more opportunities for Xia Mengqi to hurt me on camera.

*The antagonist grabs the servant by the hair, forcing her head back. The servant's eyes are filled with tears. She begs for mercy.*

"Please," the servant says. "I'll do anything. Please don't hurt me."

*The antagonist laughs, a cold, cruel sound. She tightens her grip on the servant's hair.*

"You'll do anything anyway," the antagonist says. "That's already decided. The question is whether you'll do it willingly or screaming."

I stopped typing, my breath catching in my throat. The dialogue felt too real, too personal. It was as if Xia Mengqi had written it herself, had reached into my mind and pulled out my deepest fears and put them into the mouth of her character.

But the worst part was yet to come. I scrolled to the end of the document, to the notes section that Xia Mengqi had sent me through the director. Her own handwriting, scanned and attached to the email:

*In the abuse scenes, I want to see real fear. I want to see the servant break. I want the audience to feel uncomfortable, to question whether this is acting or something else entirely. Make it visceral. Make it humiliating. I want to see her on her knees, begging, crying, broken. And I want to see her get back up only to be knocked down again. That's drama. That's art.*

That's revenge, I thought. That's what happens when you accidentally sleep with a producer's wife, not knowing she's married to a man who controls the film industry. That's what happens when you become famous, when you write a hit movie, when you start to believe you have value beyond what men are willing to pay for your body.

I kept typing. Scene after scene, I wrote my own degradation.

*The servant is forced to crawl across the floor, her hands bound behind her back.*

*The servant is stripped of her clothing, made to stand naked and shivering while the antagonist circles her, pointing out every flaw.*

*The servant is locked in a closet for hours, darkness pressing in on her, her own screams for help going unanswered.*

Every word I typed felt like a small death. Every scene I crafted was a piece of my soul being carved out and handed over to Xia Mengqi on a silver platter, wrapped in professional courtesy and contractual obligation.

At three in the morning, I finally finished. The document was forty-seven pages long. I had written fourteen new scenes, each one more degrading than the last. I closed my laptop, feeling the weight of what I had done settle onto my shoulders like a lead blanket.

I didn't sleep that night. I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, imagining the next day's shoot. Xia Mengqi would read the new scenes, would smile that cold, satisfied smile, and would begin the process of bringing my words to life. She would stand over me, her hand raised, and the director would call "Action," and she would hit me. Not a stunt hit, not a choreographed slap with a turned head. A real hit, fueled by years of jealousy and the particular hatred that only women in this industry can feel for each other.

The morning came too quickly. I dressed in my usual set clothes—plain black pants, a loose shirt, no makeup—and drove to the studio. The parking lot was already full of crew vehicles, and I could see the lights of the soundstage glowing through the industrial windows.

Inside, the set was buzzing with activity. Gaffers adjusted lights, sound technicians tested microphones, and the director sat in his chair, reviewing the shot list. Xia Mengqi was already in makeup, her hair being styled into elaborate waves, her face being painted to look flawless and cruel.

"Su Wan!" The director waved me over. "I read the new scenes. They're intense."

"That was the goal," I said, my voice flat.

"Xia Mengqi's going to love them." He grinned, oblivious to the horror of what we were about to film. "This is going to be the most talked-about movie of the year. People are going to remember these scenes."

I wanted to say that people would remember me being humiliated, remember the way I broke on camera, remember the tears and the begging and the screams. But I just nodded.

The first scene we shot was one I had written in a fugue state, my fingers moving across the keyboard without my mind's permission. The antagonist forces the servant to kneel on a hard floor, her hands tied behind her back, and then proceeds to walk around her, delivering a monologue about power and submission while occasionally kicking her.

"Let's rehearse," the director said.

Xia Mengqi stepped into frame, her costume perfect, her expression already settling into the cruel lines of her character. She looked at me, standing in the servant's position, and smiled.

"Don't worry," she said, loud enough for the crew to hear. "I'll be gentle."

A few of the crew members laughed. I forced a smile onto my face, feeling my lips crack from the effort.

"Action," the director called.

Xia Mengqi's face transformed. She became the antagonist, her eyes cold, her voice dripping with contempt.

"On your knees."

I lowered myself to the ground, the hard floor pressing against my bones. My hands were not actually tied, but I held them behind my back, trying to remember the script's stage directions.

"You think you deserve mercy?" Xia Mengqi circled me, her heels clicking against the floor. "You think your suffering matters to anyone?"

She stopped in front of me, and in a move that was not in the script, she reached out and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look up at her. Her fingernails dug into my skin, hard enough to leave marks.

"I asked you a question," she said, improvising. "Do you think your suffering matters?"

"No," I said, the word coming out choked.

"Louder."

"No!"

She released my chin and stepped back, satisfied. "Cut," the director called. "Great, great. Let's do it again, but this time, Su Wan, I want to see more fear in your eyes. More desperation."

We did it again. And again. And again. Each time, Xia Mengqi found new ways to hurt me. A pinch that wasn't visible to the camera. A twist of my arm that made me gasp. A kick that landed harder than necessary, leaving a bruise that the makeup team would have to cover for the next scene.

Between takes, I retreated to a corner of the set, clutching a bottle of water and trying to steady my breathing. My body ached. My face stung where she had grabbed me. And I still had thirteen more scenes to get through.

The worst was yet to come. Scene 52 began with stripping.

"Script says the servant is forced to remove her clothing," the director announced, reading from his copy. "We'll do the reveal from behind, to keep the rating manageable, but I want to see the vulnerability."

I felt my heart stop. I had written this scene. I had typed the words, had described the way the servant's hands trembled

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The numbness was the only thing that kept me from shattering completely. I had learned to disconnect my mind from what happened to my body, to float somewhere above myself and watch with detached horror as strangers did what they pleased with my flesh. It was the only way to survive the nights that blurred together in a haze of grunts and sweat and the smell of other people's desire.

But even numbness has its limits.

I was cleaning the conference room after the morning script meeting, my knees raw against the cold tile floor, when I heard footsteps that made my blood run cold. The click of expensive heels, the familiar rhythm of a confident stride I had known for fifteen years.

"Su Wan? Oh my god, is that really you?"

I didn't need to look up. I would have known that voice anywhere. Zhao Weiwei. My best friend since university, the woman who had stood beside me at my wedding, who had held my hand through my mother's funeral, who had been the first person I called when my marriage started falling apart.

But I wasn't Su Wan anymore. Not really. The Su Wan she knew was a successful screenwriter, a woman of dignity and accomplishment. The thing kneeling on this floor was something else entirely.

I kept my eyes fixed on the scrub brush in my hand, my fingers white-knuckled around its handle. Maybe if I didn't move, didn't speak, she would think she was mistaken. Maybe she would walk away and I could preserve this last shred of my former life.

"Su Wan, look at me."

The voice was closer now. I felt a shadow fall over me, smelled the familiar perfume I had bought her for her birthday last year. Chanel No. 5. She had always loved that scent. I had chosen it because she deserved something that matched her elegance, her warmth, her unwavering loyalty.

Or so I had believed.

"Really, Wanwan, you're going to ignore your oldest friend?" Her voice carried a singsong quality now, almost playful. "After everything we've been through together?"

I lifted my head slowly, and the sight of her nearly stopped my heart. She was radiant. Her hair was perfectly styled, her makeup immaculate. She wore a cream-colored suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe had in my former life. Her eyes were wide with what appeared to be concern, but I had known her long enough to recognize the glint beneath the surface. Something hungry. Something predatory.

"It's nice to see you," I managed, my voice barely a whisper.

"Nice? Is that all?" She laughed, but the sound was hollow. "I've been looking everywhere for you, darling. Lu Ting told me you'd had some kind of breakdown, that you'd become... well, he didn't go into detail. Then Yang Ming called me. Said he had a proposition I might find interesting. A role in this little production of his, something about a troubled screenwriter who needs guidance. I had no idea it was you."

The way she said "guidance" made my skin crawl. I wanted to stand up, to face her as an equal, but my legs wouldn't obey. The crew had trained me well. I stayed on my knees, my head bowed in the posture they demanded.

"He told you what happened to me?" I asked, hating the pathetic whimper in my voice.

"He told me enough." Zhao Weiwei crouched down, bringing her face level with mine. Her eyes were appraising, clinical. "He said you had to be taught a lesson. That you'd gotten too big for your britches, thought you could control everyone on this set. And that now you're learning humility." She reached out and touched my cheek, her fingernails tracing a line down to my jaw. "I must say, the transformation is remarkable. You always were so... pristine. Untouchable. It's refreshing to see you like this."

"Please, Weiwei. Please don't do this." The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "Don't join them. You're my best friend. Help me get out of here, I'm begging you."

Her laughter was a sharp, cruel sound. "Your best friend? Is that what you think?" She stood up, brushing off her perfect skirt as if my misery had dirtied her. "Do you have any idea what it's been like, watching you glide through life? Getting everything handed to you? The awards, the recognition, the handsome husband? And did you ever once think to share any of that success? No. You were always too busy being Su Wan, the brilliant screenwriter, the star of every room."

"That's not true," I protested weakly. "I helped you. I recommended you for--"

"You recommended me for scraps!" She spat the words. "Supporting roles when I should have been the lead. Parties where I was your shadow, your little sidekick. Do you know how many times I had to smile and nod while people fawned over you? How many nights I went home and cried because I was tired of being invisible?"

The conference room door opened, and Yang Ming walked in, his face breaking into an oily smile when he saw Zhao Weiwei. "Ah, I see you've found our little cleaning lady. Welcome aboard, Zhao Weiwei. I trust the role interests you?"

"You could say that." She turned to him with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I've been waiting for an opportunity like this for a very long time."

"Excellent." Yang Ming clapped his hands together. "Then let's formalize things. Su Wan, come here."

I crawled to him on instinct, my body responding before my mind could protest. Zhao Weiwei watched with undisguised delight as I positioned myself at his feet, my forehead pressed to the floor.

"Good girl," Yang Ming said, patting my head like I was a dog. "Now, I told you that you'd be getting new masters, didn't I? Consider this your official introduction to another one." He gestured to Zhao Weiwei. "She will have equal authority over you as the rest of us. You will serve her as you serve me, the director, and the rest of the lead crew. Is that understood?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"Yes, what?" Zhao Weiwei cut in, her voice sharp.

I closed my eyes. "Yes, Master."

"Good. But that's not quite right either, is it?" She turned to Yang Ming. "I think she should have a special title for me. Given our history, I deserve something personal."

Yang Ming nodded, his eyes gleaming with interest. "Whatever you wish."

Zhao Weiwei circled me slowly, her heels clicking against the floor like a countdown to some fresh hell. "You used to call me 'sister,' remember? 'Sister Weiwei' because we were supposed to be family. But that was a lie, wasn't it? You were never my sister. You were just someone who used me to make yourself feel better about your own success."

"Please," I said again, but the word had lost its meaning.

"How about 'Mistress'?" she suggested. "That has a nice ring to it. From sister to Mistress. It has a poetic sort of justice, don't you think?"

"Whatever you command," I said, the words tasting like ash.

"Then let's begin your first lesson." She reached into her purse and pulled out a slim tablet, tapping at the screen. "I've been reading through the script. It's quite good, I must admit. Even in your current state, your talent shines through. But there are some... modifications I want to make."

"You're a writer," I said, looking up despite myself. "You can't--"

"I'm the mistress now, not a writer. And I can do whatever I please." She showed me the screen. She had pulled up a scene I had written years ago, a tender moment between the protagonist and his dying mother. The scene that had won me my first major award. She had rewritten it, turning the mother-son relationship into something grotesque, the dialogue dripping with sadism.

"This is what you'll write now," she said. "You'll rewrite your beautiful words into something ugly. And you'll do it with a smile."

"Why are you doing this?" I asked, the question ripping out of me like a scream. "What did I ever do to deserve this from you?"

Zhao Weiwei's mask of pleasant cruelty slipped for just a moment, revealing something raw underneath. "You were perfect, Su Wan. You were always perfect. And I was never good enough, not next to you. Not for the awards, not for the roles, not for Lu Ting." She paused, letting that last name hang in the air. "Especially not for Lu Ting."

"Lu Ting?" I felt the world tilt around me. "What does he have to do with this?"

"He's your husband, isn't he? Was your husband. But do you know who he called when you two started having problems? Who he turned to for comfort?" Her smile was back, sharper than before. "Me. He called me. He told me that living with you was exhausting, that you were always working, always so focused on your career that you never had time for him. And I was there. I listened. I cared."

"You and Lu Ting?" The room was spinning. "You were having an affair?"

"Not at first. I had too much respect for our friendship. But when he started talking about divorce, I realized I had a choice. I could let him go back into the world and find someone else, or I could be the one who caught him when he fell." She knelt down, grabbing my chin and forcing me to look at her. "So I caught him. And now you're nothing but a broken piece of garbage, and I'm about to become the lead actress of this film and, very soon, the new Mrs. Lu."

The walls were closing in. My husband. My best friend. The two people I had trusted most in the world, and they had been plotting this together. How long had it been going on? How many dinners had she eaten at our table, laughing and smiling while she dreamed of taking my place?

"He signed the divorce papers last week," she continued, enjoying my agony. "He gets the house, the investments, and the rights to all your scripts that are still under contract. You get nothing. Not even your dignity, apparently."

"Ladies, as entertaining as this is," Yang Ming interrupted, "we have a schedule to keep. Zhao Weiwei, you have a fitting in ten minutes. And Su Wan, you have the bathrooms to clean. Everyone has their role."

Zhao Weiwei stood, smoothing her suit one more time. "We'll continue this conversation later. I have so many ideas for our sessions together." She paused at the door, turning back with a smile that was all teeth. "Oh, and Su Wan? I should tell you. Lu Ting said to give you his regards. He said he hopes your 'lessons' are teaching you exactly what you deserve."

She left, and the door clicked shut behind her. I stayed on the floor, trembling, unable to move. The betrayal was a physical presence in my chest, crushing my lungs, stopping my heart. My best friend and my husband. The two remaining pillars of the life I had lost, and they had been eroded from within all along.

But even in that moment of absolute despair, a small voice in my head whispered the truth I had been avoiding: I had been too blind to see it. Too focused on my own success, my own rise, to notice the resentment growing in the people around me. I had been arrogant, careless with the hearts of those who loved me. And now I was paying the price in the most degrading currency imaginable.

That night, Zhao Weiwei returned to my quarters. She had dismissed the other crew members, saying she wanted "private time" with her old friend. The thin mattress on the floor seemed to shrink as she stood over me, her shadow swallowing the dim light.

"On your knees," she commanded.

I obeyed. What else could I do?

She circled behind me, and I felt the cold bite of leather against my neck. A collar. She had brought a collar for me to wear, studded with imitation diamonds that caught the light like small, cruel stars.

"For when you're serving me," she explained, fastening it around my throat. "It's not real jewelry, of course. That would be too good for you. But it will remind everyone who sees you exactly where you belong."

The clasp clicked shut, and I felt the weight of it settle around my neck like a noose.

"You know," she said, still standing behind me, her hands on my shoulders, "I've thought about this moment for years. About what it would feel like to finally be the one in control. And you know what I've realized? It feels exactly like I always knew it would." She lean

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I am Su Wan.

Today marks the third month of filming. I stand before the full-length mirror in my dressing room, my reflection barely recognizable. The woman staring back at me has hollow eyes and a vacant expression. I trace my fingers along the outline of the mirror’s frame, hesitating, before letting my hand drop to my side. I force myself to look.

The changes began subtly, almost imperceptibly at first. Now they scream at me from every angle.

My breasts, once firm and proud, now bear the marks of constant abuse. Areolas that were pale pink have darkened to an angry reddish-brown, as if bruised from within. The nipples themselves stand perpetually erect, no longer responding only to cold or arousal, but to the mere brush of fabric against my skin. They have become sensitive in ways I never imagined possible—not with pleasure, but with a dull, constant ache. I touch one lightly with my fingertip and flinch. The sensation shoots through me like electricity, but there is nothing erotic about it. It is the response of a body trained to react, conditioned to anticipate what comes next.

I remember when Xia Mengqi first noticed the change. We were between takes, and she was adjusting her costume while eyeing me with that predatory gaze she has perfected. “Your nipples are always hard now,” she observed, her voice carrying across the set. Several crew members turned to look. “It’s like your body is begging for attention even when your mouth stays shut.” She laughed, and everyone laughed with her. I stood there, my arms crossed over my chest, trying to hide what she had already exposed. But it was futile. Nothing about my body was private anymore.

During filming, the cameras capture everything from angles that should be impossible, zooming in on details I never knew could be visible. The director insists on multiple retakes, each variation demanding a different level of exposure. By the eighth or ninth take, I have lost count. My body responds mechanically to direction now, no longer requiring conscious thought. “Raise your hips. Arch your back. Part your lips. Wider. Yes, like that. Hold it.” These commands echo in my skull long after the cameras stop rolling.

Between scenes, I sit in a corner of the soundstage, wrapped in a thin robe that offers no warmth. No privacy. The other actresses pass me without meeting my eyes. Or they stop to murmur something meant to wound, delivered with a smile. Zhao Weiwei visited the set last week, pretending to check on me between takes. She brought coffee and spoke in soothing tones, but I saw the way her eyes lingered on my exposed skin, cataloging each new mark, each subtle deformation. “You look tired,” she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “Are they working you too hard?” She knew exactly what they were doing to me. She helped design this role, after all.

Lu Ting called last night. Not to speak with me directly, but to confirm the divorce papers had been processed. Zhao Weiwei answered his call on my phone, I realized later when I checked the call log. The number was blocked, but I recognized the pattern. They are together now, living in the apartment I decorated, sleeping in the bed I chose. She spins him stories of my degradation, I am certain of it. She always knew how to twist information to serve her purposes. He married her within weeks of our separation. I wonder if she told him about my current role. I wonder if he cares.

The vaginal changes are hardest to accept. Where once there was sensitivity and function, now there is something else entirely. The tissues have stretched and altered, no longer returning to their original shape after each scene. The muscles no longer clench with instinctive resistance. They have been taught to yield, to remain open and available regardless of my emotional state. I sit on the toilet in my dressing room, staring at the tile floor, trying to remember what it felt like to have control over my own body. I cannot.

During a particularly grueling day of filming, Xia Mengqi insisted on directing a scene herself. She had the makeup artist apply a special cream to my most intimate areas, claiming it would make the lighting more flattering. It was not makeup. It was something that made my skin hypersensitive, then numbed it completely. I could feel nothing by the time the cameras rolled, yet my body responded to every touch as if by reflex. The crew watched in silence. The director nodded approvingly. Xia Mengqi smiled her cold, beautiful smile.

Afterwards, in the bathroom, I examined myself in the harsh fluorescent light. My vagina looked different. Swollen. The labia, once symmetrical and neat, now appeared uneven, the left side slightly enlarged from repeated friction against costumes and props that were not designed for comfort. The entrance gaped slightly, no longer closing naturally. I touched the area with trembling fingers, feeling unfamiliar textures, a looseness that felt wrong. I remembered how it used to be—tight, responsive, something precious that I shared only in intimacy. Now it is a tool. A prop. A thing to be used and discarded between scenes.

The anus has fared no better. During the third week of filming, the script called for a particularly invasive scene. I protested, but my contract was ironclad. The lawyers had ensured that. Every loophole was sealed, every objection anticipated. So I lay on the cold bed of the set, my legs spread apart by restraints, while cameras captured angles I cannot bear to remember. My anus, never stretched or penetrated before, tore slightly during the first attempt. Blood stained the sheets, and the director cursed the delay. The makeup artist was called in to conceal the damage. Filming resumed.

Now, weeks later, the shape has not returned to normal. The sphincter no longer closes with its original tightness. There is a slight protrusion of tissue, a hemorrhoid that formed from the trauma and never fully resolved. I apply creams the production nurse provides, but they only temporarily soothe the pain. The permanent change remains—a relaxed opening, a darkened ring of skin, the evidence of what has been done to me. When I walk, I can feel the difference. When I sit, I adjust my position to avoid direct pressure. The body remembers what the mind tries to forget.

Xia Mengqi noticed, of course. She notices everything. During a break, she beckoned me to her trailer and made me undress from the waist down. She examined me with clinical detachment, spreading my legs with her hands, tilting me toward the light. “Still healing,” she observed, pressing a finger against the altered tissue. “But it’s changing nicely. The cameras will love this.” She pulled out her phone and photographed me without asking, without warning. The flash illuminated the dark space. I closed my eyes and waited for her to finish.

“You know what’s interesting?” she said, scrolling through the images on her screen. “Your body is actually adapting. Look.” She showed me a picture taken three weeks ago, then one from today. Side by side, the changes were unmistakable. My nipples darker, more prominent. My vagina reshaped, almost re-formed by constant use. My anus transformed into something that no longer resembled its original state. “The body is amazing,” she continued, almost thoughtfully. “It learns. It accommodates. It becomes what it’s forced to be.”

I stared at my own image, and I could not find the woman I used to be. She was gone, erased by degrees, replaced by this stranger whose flesh bore the marks of every violation. I remembered writing a scene like this once, years ago, for a film that never got made. The director had wanted to explore the way trauma inscribes itself on the body, the permanent calluses of the soul. I had thought I understood what I was writing. I knew nothing.

When the doctor visited the set for routine checkups, he was brisk and businesslike. He had seen this before, clearly—the way performers’ bodies are remade by their work. He noted the discoloration of my nipples, the asymmetry of my labia, the persistent relaxation of my anus. “The changes are likely permanent at this point,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “Extensive tissue remodeling has occurred. You may experience reduced sensation in some areas, altered function in others. These are common outcomes for this type of role.” He prescribed more creams. A follow-up appointment. Then he left to examine another actor.

During a particularly long night shoot, the director had me suspended in harnesses for hours. The straps cut into my thighs, spread me open, held me in position while cameras circled like predators. I hung there, my body on display, while adjustments were made, angles discussed, lighting refined. By the time they released me, I could barely stand. My legs trembled. My muscles had locked in unnatural positions. The crew helped me down, their hands impersonal on my arms, my waist, my hips. I was cargo. I was equipment. I was a body that needed to be repositioned for the next shot.

Zhao Weiwei called again that night, her voice brittle with false concern. “I heard about today’s shoot. Are you okay? They really push you, don’t they?” I heard the click of Lu Ting’s lighter in the background—he had recently taken up smoking again, a habit he had quit when we were married. “You know, I could talk to the producers for you. Maybe tweak the role a bit. Make it more bearable.” She would tweak nothing. She would twist the knife. I knew this, but I had no words left to respond. I hung up and stared at the ceiling of my dressing room, counting the water stains like constellations.

The next morning, I had difficulty walking. The permanent changes to my body had made certain movements painful. My stride had narrowed. I shifted my weight differently. The costume department noticed and adjusted my wardrobe accordingly—looser trousers, more forgiving fabrics. They did not ask why. They did not care. Their job was to dress the body, not to wonder about its history.

Xia Mengqi found me in the green room before the first scene. She had coffee and croissants, as if we were old friends meeting for breakfast. “You’re moving differently now,” she said, studying me over the rim of her cup. “It’s actually better for the role. More vulnerable. More broken.” She set down her coffee and reached for me, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. I did not flinch. I did not pull away. Somewhere along the way, I had stopped resisting small touches. “You’re becoming exactly what we needed,” she whispered, and for a moment, I almost heard warmth in her voice. But it was not warmth. It was satisfaction. The satisfaction of a creator seeing her vision realized.

During the scene, I was required to lie still while another actor performed intimate acts on my body. My nipples responded on cue—permanently erect, always ready for the camera. The discoloration was visible even under dim lighting, a detail the cinematographer praised as “authentic.” I listened to their hushed conversations about shadows and highlights, about how my altered anatomy caught the light in interesting ways. I was a landscape being surveyed. A terrain being mapped. The person I used to be had no place in these discussions.

After the scene, I showered in the communal bathroom. The water was hot, almost scalding, but I did not feel it properly anymore. I looked down at my body, watching rivulets of water trace the paths between my breasts, over my stomach, between my thighs. The skin was different. The shapes were different. I ran my hand over my nipple and felt only a ghost of sensation, a faded memory of what touch used to mean. The areola was rough against my palm, the texture changed from constant friction.

Xia Mengqi appeared at the shower entrance, still in her costume. She watched me without speaking for a full minute. Then she said, “I want to document this. The progression. Before and after. It would make an interesting portfolio.”

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The morning light on the last day of filming was a special kind of cruel—too golden, too warm, as if the universe itself wanted to mock us with its beauty. I knelt on the dry grass at the edge of the set, the coarse blades cutting into my bare knees through the thin fabric of the cheap servant's dress they had made me wear. The dress was short, indecently so, barely covering the tops of my thighs, and the fabric was a sad, faded gray that had once been white. It was the kind of costume reserved for the most degraded extras, the ones who played slaves or maids in the background of grand scenes, but today it was mine alone.

The crew bustled around me, setting up the final group photo. There was a lightness in the air, the kind of relieved energy that comes when a long, grueling project is finally coming to an end. People laughed, called out to one another, shared inside jokes about sleepless nights and blown takes. I heard their voices as if from a great distance, muffled by the roaring in my ears.

I tried to remember what it felt like to be one of them. To stand on my own two feet, to laugh, to joke, to exist as a person rather than a piece of set dressing. But that memory felt like a photograph from another person's life, faded and incomprehensible.

The leash around my neck was heavier than it had any right to be. It was a simple leather collar, black and unadorned, with a silver ring at the front where the leash clipped on. The leash itself was a length of dark leather, smooth and supple, ending in Xia Mengqi's perfectly manicured hand. She had been holding it for the past hour, looping it lazily around her wrist like an accessory.

"Kneel straighter," she said, her voice sweet and casual, as if she were commenting on the weather. "Your back is curving. It looks sloppy."

I adjusted my posture, feeling the muscles in my thighs protest. The position was deliberately uncomfortable—knees together, back straight, hands resting on my thighs with palms up. It was a pose of submission, of offering, of total surrender. Xia Mengqi had designed it herself, consulting with the photographer to make sure the angle was perfect.

"Like this?" I asked, my voice hoarse from disuse. I had not spoken much in the past few days. No one had asked me to.

Xia Mengqi tilted her head, studying me like a painting she was considering buying. "Better. But lift your chin. I want to see your face in the photo. I want everyone who sees this to know exactly who is kneeling at my feet."

I lifted my chin. The collar pressed against my throat, not uncomfortably, but with a constant reminder of its presence. I had worn it for three days now, ever since the crew had returned from the location shoot. At night, Xia Mengqi would unlock it and let me sleep in a corner of her trailer, and in the morning, she would snap it back into place with a satisfied smile. The skin beneath it had developed a permanent red ring, tender and raw.

Around us, the cast and crew were arranging themselves for the photo. The director, Zhong Dian, stood in the center, his arm around the shoulders of the lead actor, a handsome man whose name I could not bring myself to remember. On Zhong Dian's other side stood Zhao Weiwei, her hair perfectly styled, her smile polished and professional. She was playing the female lead's best friend in the film, but she had been promoted to second lead after my script had been rewritten to give her more scenes.

Zhao Weiwei caught my eye and gave me a small, sympathetic smile. It was the same smile she had given me at the hospital, when I had woken up from a daze to find my entire life in ruins. The same smile she had given me when she had volunteered to take over my duties on set. The same smile she had given me when she had married Lu Ting, three weeks after my divorce was finalized.

I had thought, at the time, that she was my only friend. I still did not know if that was true, or if she had always been something else entirely.

"Almost ready," the photographer called out, adjusting his tripod. "Can we get everyone a little closer together? And who is the woman on the ground?"

"Just a prop," Xia Mengqi said, before I could speak. She laughed, a light, tinkling sound that made several crew members chuckle along. "We're doing a power shot. It's for the poster."

The photographer nodded, accepting this explanation without question. Why would he question it? He had no reason to believe that the woman kneeling in the dirt, wearing a collar and leash, was the same woman who had written the script he had been shooting for the past three months. Why would anyone believe that?

I had written the script. I had poured my soul into those pages, crafting a story about a woman's strength and resilience, about finding dignity in the face of oppression. And now I knelt on the ground, living out the exact opposite of everything I had written.

The irony was not lost on me. It was, perhaps, the cruelest joke of all.

"Do we have the names?" the photographer asked, pen poised over his clipboard. "For the credits?"

"Zhong Dian, director," the director said, his voice bored. "The usual cast. And the extras can be listed as background."

"What about her?" the photographer pointed at me.

"Don't bother," Xia Mengqi said. "She's not an actress. She's just... set dressing."

A few people laughed. I kept my eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance, focusing on the feel of the grass against my knees, the weight of the collar around my neck, the warmth of the sun on my face. These physical sensations were the only things I could trust anymore. Everything else—my memories, my sense of self, my understanding of the world—had become unreliable, shifting like sand beneath my feet.

Zhao Weiwei stepped out of the group and approached me. She crouched down, her designer jeans stretching over her knees, and placed a hand on my cheek. Her touch was gentle, almost motherly.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice low enough that only I could hear.

I looked up at her. Her eyes were soft and kind, the eyes of a friend who cared. But I had learned, in the past few months, that kindness was often just a mask. And I had learned, in the past few days, that the people I trusted most were the ones who had hurt me deepest.

"I'm fine," I said, because that was the only answer I was allowed to give.

Zhao Weiwei's smile tightened, just a fraction. "You're doing so well," she said. "Just a little longer, and it will all be over."

She stood up and returned to her place in the group, taking her spot beside Lu Ting. My ex-husband. The man who had promised to love me until death, who had then taken everything I owned and married my best friend before my side of the court documents had even dried.

Lu Ting did not look at me. He had not looked at me once, not since the divorce. His gaze was fixed on the camera, his arm wrapped possessively around Zhao Weiwei's waist. They made a handsome couple, I had to admit. Tall and elegant and successful, two beautiful people who had stepped onto the stage of my life and taken everything that was mine.

"Positions, please," the photographer called out. "We're doing the main shot first, then some individual and small group shots."

Xia Mengqi tugged on my leash, pulling me closer to her feet. "Move closer," she said. "I want you directly in front of me."

I crawled forward on my knees, the gravel biting into my skin. The movement was automatic now, learned through repetition. I had spent the past three days learning how to crawl properly, how to kneel properly, how to sit at Xia Mengqi's feet and be the object of the crew's amusement. It was a skill I had never expected to acquire, and yet here I was, an expert in my own degradation.

"Perfect," Xia Mengqi said, as I settled into position. She rested her hand on my head, her fingers tangling in my hair. "Now everyone, look at the camera and smile!"

The camera clicked. I did not smile. I could not remember how.

The photographer reviewed the shot on his screen, nodding in satisfaction. "Great composition. The power dynamic really works well. Mengqi, can you hold the leash a little tighter? I want it to be visible."

Xia Mengqi pulled the leash taut, and I felt the collar press against my throat, not painfully, but firmly. The message was clear: I was owned. I was controlled. I was nothing.

"Perfect," the photographer said. "Now hold that. One more."

Click.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice screamed. It was the voice of the woman I used to be, the screenwriter who had won awards and commanded respect, the woman who had believed that talent and hard work would always be rewarded. That woman was dying, fading away with each click of the camera shutter, with each casual humiliation, with each moment I spent on my knees.

But another voice was growing louder. It was a voice that whispered that this was all I deserved. That my success had been a fluke, my talent a lie, my entire life a house of cards that was destined to collapse. It was the voice of Lu Ting, telling me I was worthless. The voice of Zhao Weiwei, telling me I was lucky to have any work at all. The voice of Xia Mengqi, laughing as she tightened my collar.

I did not know which voice was real anymore.

"Okay, now we're doing the individual shots," the photographer announced. "Mengqi, you're up first. Do you want to keep her?"

Xia Mengqi looked down at me, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Of course. She's my good luck charm."

The crew rearranged themselves, clearing a space for Xia Mengqi's solo shot. She struck a pose, one hand on her hip, the other holding my leash with casual elegance. She looked like a goddess, a queen, a predator at the top of her food chain. And I looked like what I had become—a beaten, broken creature, kneeling at her feet.

I tried to remember the last time I had stood up. It had been three days ago, when Xia Mengqi had first locked the collar around my neck. She had told me to kneel, and I had refused. I had stood there, trembling but defiant, insisting that I was a person, a writer, a human being with rights and dignity.

She had laughed. Then she had called for Zhong Dian, and he had laughed too. Then she had called for Zhao Weiwei, and even my best friend had laughed, her eyes cold and distant.

Do you remember what you wrote in your script? Xia Mengqi had asked me, holding up a dog-eared copy of the original screenplay. You wrote that the heroine would do anything to survive. That she would crawl through mud. That she would beg. That she would sell her soul if it meant living another day.

I had written those words. I had believed in them. I had thought they were about strength.

But now I understood. They were about something else entirely. They were about the moment when survival becomes more important than dignity, when the body takes over and the spirit breaks. They were about the animal inside every person, the creature that will do anything, endure anything, to keep breathing.

I had written about a woman who crawled. And now I was that woman.

"Su Wan," Xia Mengqi said, her voice sharp. "I asked you a question."

I blinked, pulling myself back to the present. "I'm sorry," I said. "What did you say?"

Xia Mengqi's smile faded, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. "I said, are you ready for the group photo? Or do you need more time to prepare yourself?"

"I'm ready," I said, though I was not. I would never be ready.

"Good. Then stay still."

She tugged on the leash, adjusting my position. I shifted on my knees, feeling the gravel bite deeper into my skin. The pain was familiar now, almost comforting. It was something I could understand, something I could hold onto in a world that had become incomprehensible.

The crew formed up around us, arranging themselves in a rough semicircle. Zhong Dian stood in the center, his arms spread to encompass the group. Zhao Weiwei and Lu Ting stood to his left, their bodies pressed together in a display of unit

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The air in the ballroom was thick with perfume, laughter, and the clink of champagne glasses. The celebration banquet for the film’s record-breaking box office was in full swing. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over polished marble floors, and guests in glittering gowns and tailored suits moved between tables laden with delicacies. I used to be among them—smiling, networking, accepting congratulations as the screenwriter whose story had captivated millions. Now I was beneath them.

I knelt in a shadowed corner near the service entrance, a velvet cushion placed on the cold floor for my knees. A leather collar encircled my throat, its silver ring cool against my skin. I was naked. The air conditioning raised goosebumps on my arms, but I barely felt it. My focus was on the man before me—a middle-aged producer whose name I had once known from meetings in luxurious offices. Now he was just a pair of trousers undone, a hand gripping my hair, guiding my mouth as I performed my duty.

My jaw ached. Saliva pooled on my tongue. I tried not to gag. *Don’t think. Just survive.* That was the mantra I repeated, over and over, as I had learned in the past weeks since my world collapsed. Every night of the shoot, every scene they forced me to play for real, had ground down my resistance. The woman I had been—the celebrated screenwriter, the wife of a rising businessman, the confident artist—felt like a stranger now. This body, kneeling and servicing, was all that remained.

The producer grunted, tightening his grip. I muted my whimper, focusing on the rhythmic motion. The taste of salt and skin filled my mouth. His other hand rested on the back of my head, pushing me deeper. I closed my eyes and let my mind drift to the patterned tiles I had seen earlier—a mosaic of gold and cream. I counted the squares in my head. One, two, three…

“Well, well, what do we have here?”

That voice cut through my counting like a blade. My eyes snapped open. Xia Mengqi stood above me, flanked by Zhao Weiwei. The producer glanced up, startled, then laughed nervously.

“Ladies!” he said, pulling away from me. I sagged forward, gasping for air, but my hands remained on the floor. Kneeling. Waiting. The producer zipped his trousers with unsteady fingers. “Just a little… entertainment before the main course.”

Xia Mengqi’s lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She wore a red gown that hugged her figure, diamonds glittering at her ears and throat. The lead actress of the film, the darling of the press, the woman who had stood on stage tonight to receive award after award. And beside her, Zhao Weiwei—my former best friend—wore a pale blue dress, her hand resting lightly on Mengqi’s arm. Her expression was one of false sympathy, the same look she had given me the night Lu Ting served me divorce papers.

“Oh, I see,” Mengqi said, her voice dripping with honeyed malice. “Su Wan, is that you? I almost didn’t recognize you from this… angle.”

Weiwei giggled, covering her mouth. “Mengqi, don’t embarrass her. She’s working.”

My face burned. The producer muttered an excuse and retreated into the crowd, leaving me alone with them. I lowered my gaze to the floor, my hair falling forward to hide my nakedness. Not that it mattered. Everyone knew. Everyone had seen the rushes, the daily reports, the private footage that Mengqi and the director had gleefully shared. My shame was public property.

But public was one thing. Here, in this corner, they could do whatever they wanted.

“You know,” Mengqi said, circling me slowly, her high heels clicking against the marble, “this is a celebration of the movie’s success. And you played such a… vital role.” She paused behind me. I felt the tip of her shoe touch my lower back, then trace a line down my spine. “I think we should thank her properly, don’t you, Weiwei?”

“Absolutely,” Weiwei said. She stepped closer, her shadow falling over me. “Su Wan, look at me.”

I didn’t want to. But weeks of conditioning had taught me that disobedience was punished. Slowly, I raised my head. Weiwei’s eyes were cold, triumphant. She used to cry on my shoulder about her failed relationships, her career struggles. I had championed her, recommended her for jobs, and brought her into this production. And she had repaid me by seducing Lu Ting, by stealing every contract, by feeding information to Mengqi so they could orchestrate my fall.

“You look tired,” Weiwei said softly, reaching down to touch my cheek. Her palm was warm. For a second, I almost leaned into the comfort. Then she grabbed my chin, forcing my head up. “But you’ll have plenty of time to rest later. Right now, you need to thank everyone who made this movie possible.”

Mengqi laughed. “Yes, properly.” She walked around to face me, then reached into her small clutch purse. I heard the click of a smartphone. “I’m sure the crew would love to see how grateful you are.”

They both moved back, giving me space. I stayed on my knees, trembling. A small crowd was gathering now—crew members, some actors, a few executives. They had seen me at low points before, during the shoot, when I was forced to perform scene after scene of humiliation. But this was different. This was a celebration. Their mood was buoyant, and my degradation was entertainment.

“On your hands and knees,” Mengqi commanded.

I obeyed. The marble was cold against my palms and knees.

“Now crawl toward me. And when you reach me, you’ll kiss my feet. Every guest you pass, you’ll apologize for being so pathetic. Understood?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came. My throat was dry. I saw Weiwei’s phone recording, the red light blinking. I saw the titters of the onlookers. I saw the distant back of Lu Ting, standing near the bar with a drink, not even glancing this way. He was now Weiwei’s husband. He owned my former house, my car, my savings. I had nothing.

“I said,” Mengqi repeated, her voice hardening, “understood?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes… Mistress.”

The word tasted like ash. But I had learned. There was no way out except through.

I began to crawl forward. The first steps were agony. Every inch of me screamed to stand, to run, to grab a knife from the buffet table and slash their smug faces. But I kept my head down, my hands pressing against the cool tiles. I passed a cameraman I had worked with for years. I saw his boots stop in front of me.

“I’m… sorry,” I said, my voice barely audible. “I’m so pathetic.”

He didn’t respond. I kept crawling.

A makeup artist. A sound technician. A script supervisor. Each one I passed, I repeated the apology. Some of them stepped away quickly, embarrassed. Others stepped closer, deliberately blocking my path, forcing me to wait. Mengqi’s laughter rang out behind me.

When I reached Mengqi’s feet, I was shaking. Her heels were stilettos, shiny and sharp. I lowered my head and pressed my lips to the leather toe of her right shoe. The crowd gasped, then laughed. Someone whistled.

“Louder,” Mengqi said. “We can’t hear your gratitude.”

I pressed my lips again, harder, and said, “Thank you for giving me this opportunity.”

Weiwei stepped forward, angling her phone. “And who am I?”

I looked up at her. She smiled, so familiar, so cruel. “Thank you, Weiwei. For… for everything.”

“That’s better.” She turned off the recording. “I’ll send this to Lu Ting. He’ll be so proud.”

Something inside me snapped. Not the final thread of my dignity—that had frayed long ago. But a small, sharp shard of anger pierced through the numbness. I lifted my head, met her eyes, and said, “Why?”

Mengqi’s expression flickered. “Why what?”

“Why are you doing this?” My voice cracked. “I gave you everything. I wrote that script for you. I made you a star. And this is how you repay me?”

Mengqi’s smile vanished. She bent down, her face inches from mine. “You think I owe you? You think your mediocre writing made me? I made that movie. I carried every scene. And you?” She spat the word. “You were just a vehicle. And now you’re a used one, good for nothing but this.” She straightened, and her foot shot out, kicking me in the shoulder. I fell sideways, gasping.

“Get up,” Weiwei said coldly. “We’re not done.”

I struggled back to my knees. My shoulder throbbed. But I had stopped caring. The numbness settled over me again, thicker than before. I was a thing, a tool, a body to be used. This was my reality. There was no escape, no rescue, no hidden kindness. Only the next command.

Mengqi reached into her clutch again, this time pulling out a small leather leash. She bent down, clipped it to the ring on my collar. “Stand up.”

I did, shakily. My nakedness felt more exposed standing, my breasts and sex bared to the room. The crowd had grown. Some were filming on their phones. I saw the director in the corner, watching with a glass of wine, nodding in approval.

Mengqi tugged the leash. “Follow.”

I walked behind her as she made her way through the ballroom, Weiwei at her side. We passed tables of food, and Mengqi stopped at one. She picked up a silver platter covered in small cakes. “Open your mouth.”

I obeyed. She placed a cake on my tongue. It was sweet, rich, but I barely tasted it. She fed me three more cakes, then wiped her fingers on my cheek.

“Such a good pet,” she cooed. “Now, I think you need to drink something.” She picked up a glass of red wine, swirled it, then poured it slowly over my head. The liquid ran down my hair, my face, my chest. It dripped onto the floor. I didn’t move.

Someone in the crowd clapped. Others joined in. The applause spread, mocking, celebratory. I stood there, wine staining my skin, the leash taut in Mengqi’s hand.

Weiwei stepped close, her voice a whisper only I could hear. “This is what you deserve. You thought you were better than me. Look at you now.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The woman who would have fought back, who would have screamed or cried or raged, was gone. She had died somewhere in the weeks of shoots, in the nights of being passed from actor to actor, in the morning when I woke up in Lu Ting’s bed only to find the divorce papers on the nightstand.

Mengqi tugged the leash again, leading me toward a large table at the center of the room. The film’s producers and investors sat there, including the producer I had been servicing earlier. They looked up, amused.

“Gentlemen,” Mengqi said, “I present to you the film’s script supervisor and… special guest.” She laughed. “She’s offered to entertain us tonight. Isn’t that right, Su Wan?”

I nodded, my head bobbing like a doll.

“Speak,” Weiwei hissed from behind.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m here to entertain.”

The men exchanged glances. One of them—a bald executive I had argued with about script changes—leaned forward. “Get on the table. Show us what you can do.”

Mengqi unhooked the leash. I climbed onto the table, my hands and knees on the white tablecloth. Dishes clattered. A glass tipped over, spilling water onto the fabric. I didn’t apologize. I didn’t think. I simply lay down, belly flat, face turned to the side, waiting.

The applause was louder now. Someone wolf-whistled. Mengqi picked up a plate of fruit and sat down in a chair beside the table. She held up a grape. “Catch.”

I opened my mouth. She tossed the grape. It hit my forehead and rolled off. Laughter.

“Try again,” she said.

Another grape. This one bounced off my nose. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, Weiwei was beside Mengqi, leaning down to whisper something. They both laughed. The bald executive called for more wine. The waiter arrived, and Mengqi grabbed the bottle.

“Su Wan, hold still,” she said. She poured the wine directly into my open mouth. I choked, sputtered, but kept swallowing. The white wine burned my throat. When the bottle was empty, she set it down and clapped.

“Good girl.”

I lay on the table, soaked, humiliated, exposed. The ceiling spun above me—chandeliers, gold trim, painted clouds. I had once written a scene like this, a queen humiliated by he

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