Chapter Text
The film industry is a complex mechanism where every little cog matters: whether the director has had their coffee, if the cinematographer has fought with his wife, or if the makeup artist has spent too much time on Pinterest the night before filming. Personal life weaves too tightly into work—even seasoned professionals can make mistakes, can falter. The strongest get tired, and the weakest can end up saving the project when no one expects it.
Orm had lived on film sets since childhood—instead of kindergarten, after school, on weekends, during holidays when she should have been with her grandmother. As a child, she traveled through different centuries, social classes, countries, and worlds—but in reality, she was just wandering through sets. Back then, it all felt like magic. Even when her mother cried silently from exhaustion between takes, even when she drove home in silence after long shooting days, even when actors fought in earnest, even when the director swore so much that little Orm had to cover her ears.
The world of film is a cunning web of intrigue, envy, competition, and art. But Orm loved it—perhaps more than anything else. Her mother questioned her, pleaded with her not to follow in her footsteps. Getting a position at her father’s company would have been easier—mentally and physically. Everything was set: manager—senior manager—department head—CEO. A clear path, the dream of her parents. But Orm dreamed of film.
Time passed, and despite her parents’ objections, Orm enrolled in film school. The only thing she and her mother agreed on was that acting was out of the question. But Orm had never wanted to be an actress—behind-the-scenes work fascinated her far more. To communicate, to convey her thoughts through the emotions and actions of others, to build her own worlds—that was her dream.
At twenty-two, Orm stepped onto a film set in an official position for the first time—as an assistant director. It was a small role, but it was enough. She couldn't have asked for more—the project was big, already stirring rumors, with journalists eager to uncover details.
A dramatic storyline, a star-studded cast, a renowned director—Orm had no business being there. As a fresh graduate, she never would have landed such a major project without help. She had asked her mother not to intervene—Orm didn’t want to be associated with a well-known industry name. And even though Koy denied any involvement, Orm knew she must have pulled some strings.
A third assistant director is almost at the bottom of the hierarchy. But from day one, Orm treated her job as something sacred, something important. She built relationships with the extras, spoke to security, checked on snack supplies, befriended the cinematographers. She was a whirlwind, fueled by positivity and love for the craft. On set, she felt she belonged—she was in her element.
That was until the third day of shooting—everything had been going relatively smoothly. Just a few whispers behind her back, murmurs about how Orm was only there because of her mother. Being naturally optimistic, she ignored the makeup artists’ gossip and kept working.
The day started in chaos—the set had suddenly turned into a battlefield. Actors paced around in silence, the director nervously double-checked the day's scenes, producers (who usually left the production alone until the final days) had shown up, the first assistant director was yelling at the camera crew, and the prop masters and makeup artists whispered among themselves.
“What happened?”
It was as if Orm had been deliberately kept out of the loop, leaving her feeling out of place—she wanted to help, but it seemed like any unnecessary movement would only disrupt an already crumbling process.
“Kwong starts filming today.”
“Oh.”
Orm hadn’t been entirely sure LingLing had agreed to join the project. She was the kind of actress who could freely choose her roles—turning down anything she didn’t see potential in. Directors were willing to rewrite narratives just to get her on set, screenwriters tailored roles specifically for her, and producers were ready to throw half the film’s budget just for a single appearance.
Kwong was a first-division actress, someone who had already made a name for herself in Hollywood and Hong Kong. When she was younger, she starred in a film that won awards at international festivals, pushing Thai film industry to a new level. And she was one of the few who got noticed. Talent and beauty merged in her so perfectly that it seemed as if she had been created solely to act. Her range was astonishing—from a simple village girl to a secret agent, from a wealthy heiress to an ascetic, devout nun.
Orm swallowed hard—only now did she understand the mood of the crew. She hurried over to the director—she wanted to be useful, to help in any way she could.
“Khun Ploy, how can I help?” Her voice was firm, her posture straight—Orm was ready to move mountains at a single command.
The director, an older man well-known in the industry, barely glanced at her before waving a dismissive hand. Just like that—with a single gesture, he brushed her off like an insignificant fly. He barely acknowledged her before striding away toward the location.
Orm exhaled sharply. She needed to find someone else—get some kind of task. In a moment like this, she wanted to be useful more than ever—amid all the tension, she felt out of place. She decided to check on the extras, give them instructions for the scene—it was the only thing that came to mind.
Orm walked across the set, scanning for the extras, but instead of waiting in their designated seats, they had gathered at the entrance, craning their necks to look outside. She stopped a few meters away—she needed to disperse them, give instructions, maybe even scold them for their lack of professionalism.
Just as she hesitated to take another step, the crowd suddenly—like a single organism—shifted backward. Orm didn’t understand what was happening, so she rushed forward. As she got closer, she saw five large men in expensive suits with wireless earpieces. Security, obviously.
“Excuse me, let me through.” Orm squeezed past the extras, carefully pushing them aside.
Technically, the extras were her responsibility. And it would be especially bad if any of them overstepped with Kwong. She needed to calm them down—but before she could do anything, Orm saw her.
Ling entered the set with a neutral expression on her face—she didn’t look at the security guards or the crowd. It seemed as if she simply didn’t notice the other people. The woman walked confidently deeper into the room, while the bodyguards kept the extras away from her. She stopped, adjusting the collar of her black turtleneck.
“Good afternoon, Khun LingLing.” Orm wasn’t sure how loudly her voice sounded through the whispers of the other actors, but she felt it was her duty, not a whim, to establish her role—her position. “My name is Kornnaphat Sethratanapong, I’m the third assistant director.”
Orm knew she would be thanked for this—amid all the stress and rearrangements, they hadn’t made sure anyone greeted Ling at the entrance. This task had suddenly fallen to her, and she internally rejoiced in her usefulness.
Ling didn’t look at her—she scanned the set as if evaluating whether the scale of her presence was worthy. Orm wasn’t sure if she had been heard, so she took a step forward. One of the bodyguards extended his arm in a warning gesture—she was not allowed to approach any closer.
Orm chuckled quietly but tried to keep her face neutral. Of course, Ling was famous—very famous—but was she really so untouchable? Could an assistant director actually harm the actress in any way? The girl noted the unnecessary showiness of the gesture—it was as if the security guards themselves wanted to appear more important.
“Did mommy fail to get something more for you?”
At first, Orm thought she had imagined it. But the reaction from the extras behind her and the barely noticeable smile on one of the bodyguards’ faces convinced her it was real. Just like that, Kwong had discredited her in front of the staff and the bodyguards. The first words Orm heard from a global celebrity were an insult. For a moment, the girl was stunned—she didn’t know how to react. The words stuck in her throat, and her thoughts tangled in her head. It was harsh, even if said in the most casual, uninterested voice.
Orm clenched her fists. Unknowingly, Ling had struck her where it hurt the most.
“Take me to Ploy.”
The moment to give any kind of reaction had passed. Orm nodded, still in silent shock. She swallowed, too afraid to look at the other actors or at Kwong herself. The girl simply walked ahead, hoping that her stride was steady and confident enough so that no one present would notice how deeply the actress's words had affected her.
When the director saw Ling, his face broke into a smile. They hugged like old friends, though it was clear from the actress’s face that the gesture made her uncomfortable.
Ling sat down on the chair prepared for her, and instantly a crowd gathered around her—the head producer, the director, the other lead actor—her love interest in the film. They began discussing the scene’s concept, which they would start filming right after makeup. Ling seemed only half-involved in the process—she appeared to listen but didn’t participate in the conversation. Orm was able to lift her gaze to look at the actress again. One leg crossed over the other, wide pants, Dior sneakers, which she had been an ambassador for for several years, a straight back, and an utterly uninterested expression.
Orm didn’t know how much time had passed before their eyes met. Orm wanted to—she really wanted to—look away, but Ling’s dark brown eyes seemed to have magnetized her, keeping her locked in place.
For a few seconds, the two women just stared at each other, amidst the hustle and bustle of mixed voices around them. Orm’s heart skipped a beat—she had met famous actors before, one of whom had even been her mother. She had spoken with them, befriended some, fought with others, but something set Ling apart from the typical image of a creative person in the industry. And she was incredibly beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful person Orm had ever seen in her life. Her sharp facial features, full lips, almond-shaped eyes, her figure—everything was perfect, as if she hadn’t even tried to look that way. She just existed in her perfection.
Ling looked like a character from a game—from her appearance to her empty gaze. How could she act emotionally, how could she portray love, hate, excitement, when she didn’t show any of those emotions in real life? Orm had seen her interviews—briefly on TV or as clips on TikTok—and the only thing that caught attention was her indifferent look.
“You, third assistant director.” The noise subsided, and the magic of the moment was broken. Everyone suddenly fell silent, focusing on Kwong’s dry voice. “Bring me coffee. Latte, coconut milk, no sugar.”
Orm could have sworn she heard a chuckle from Mew, one of the actors, who was edging closer to Ling, balancing on the verge of invading her personal space.
“I…” the girl started confidently, but under the gaze of her colleagues—especially one—she faltered and simply nodded. Actually, this wasn’t her responsibility; ideally, she should have gone back to her tasks, but it was her choice to stay here, to observe how everyone tried to elevate Ling.
Orm quickly walked away, the tension palpable. A simple task—bringing the coffee and then leaving, hoping that her interaction with Kwong would be kept to a minimum. In general, it would probably be so—either the first assistant or the personal assistant would take care of Ling.
Standing in the café, which was fully at the disposal of the film crew, the girl wondered why everyone was willing to tolerate such treatment from Kwong—she clearly wasn’t even interested in the project. Why were people willing to move mountains for her presence? Questions swarmed in her head until one simple thought overshadowed them all. What makes her better? Wasn’t it Orm who remained silent in the face of an insult? Wasn’t it Orm, without a single objection, who went for the coffee like a puppy—on a single command? She felt a sting of hurt—she had never been weak, never a pushover, but there was something about Kwong’s energy—overwhelming, powerful, majestic—that made opposing her seem foolish.
"How are you, darling?"
A notification from her mom. Orm didn't want to complain, but she and Koy always had a trusting relationship, and honestly, Orm was hoping to hear some support, so her fingers quickly typed the text.
"Everything's fine! Almost... Kwong arrived, you know? And she's kind of awful."
Orm hesitated with her finger over the send button.
"Everything's fine! Almost... Kwong arrived. Everyone's excited, but she seems distant."
This version of the message seemed more acceptable. She sent it and received an immediate reply.
"Ling is amazing. She can be rude, but she's a professional. The best in the industry right now. Try to consider her :)"
Consider her? What did mom even mean by that? Orm thought. If she meant her appearance, well, Orm had definitely considered that. She didn’t want to admit it, but if Ling didn't open her mouth and looked the other way, Orm would have been ready to stare at her forever. Consider her as an actress? Orm already knew she was talented. Everyone knew that. Consider her as a person? Orm wasn't sure if she wanted to get to know Ling.
"Your coffee."
Orm sighed. Just deliver the coffee. Just give it and leave. Just go up and step away. Two actions. But she wanted to get them over with as quickly as possible and move on to her work.
As she walked through the pavilion, Orm saw that Ling wasn’t in her spot.
"Where is she?"
"Makeup," someone from the crew answered—she didn’t even have to clarify who she meant.
Orm walked to the makeup room that had been set aside for Kwong. For a second, she wondered if she should knock or if it was just assumed that you wandered into rooms on set, ignoring boundaries. But it seemed like Ling was an exception—Orm had already witnessed how her expression changed when someone approached her closer than a meter.
"Fuck it," the girl whispered confidently, carefully opening the door. She didn’t want to be the errand girl or show any weakness in front of Ling. Especially since she’d already shown too much patience that morning—patience that wasn’t truly hers. It was time to take control.
Stepping into the room, Orm looked around—no one was there. Only after a couple of seconds did she hear some movement behind a partition at the far end of the room—a slight rustle giving away someone's presence.
"I know, right?" Ling's voice was muffled but still clear. Orm wasn’t sure if she should announce her presence—it felt like she was intruding on something personal because for the first time, Ling's voice outside of the shoot sounded almost human. "I hate this industry, every second of it."
What?
Orm thought there would be laughter, that it would turn into a failed joke, but there was only deafening silence. The actress, whom producers were ready to fight for, the one who collected awards and admiration like Pokémon, the one who could win hearts with a single smile, was saying she hated the industry? The industry that had secured her, her future children, and her children's children a life without financial worries. The industry Orm had worshipped since childhood. The industry many dreamt of.
Ling's voice, though muffled, still sounded sad, almost sorrowful. Apparently, she was talking to someone she truly trusted. Someone she loved and respected. Orm felt a stab in her heart – she heard something she shouldn't have and thought about things she shouldn't have.
The girl was about to leave – just pretend she hadn’t heard it – when the walkie-talkie clipped to her jeans strap crackled.
"Ready for scene three, 90%. Accepted?"
Orm set the coffee down, trying to turn off the walkie-talkie.
"Got it."
Ling stepped out from behind the partition, still holding the phone to her ear.
"Got it."
The girls looked at each other – Orm, frightened, and Ling... Orm couldn't place the emotion – anger, vulnerability, discomfort – something in between. They both froze, and Orm was ready to swear that she couldn’t move – the actress’s gaze once again chained her in invisible shackles.
"Got it."
While the crew continued to report on their readiness through the walkie-talkie, silence hung in the makeup room. Orm didn't know how long it lasted, but after a while, Ling almost imperceptibly swallowed.
"I'll call back in the evening," the woman nodded at whatever was said on the other end and ended the call.
Orm needed to act first – explain herself before the situation escalated even more. She needed to clarify, come up with something, defend herself in a way that wouldn’t make her seem like a crazy person, disrespecting the personal space of a star actress.
"I didn't mean to."
Stupid. The girl wanted to slap herself for such an excuse. It was the first thing her brain could think of, and Orm blurted out almost a childish sentence that didn’t do her any favors.
"You didn’t mean to eavesdrop?" Ling scoffed. "Or didn’t mean to walk in without warning?"
The woman regained her composure in a few seconds – in front of Orm stood once again the great and talented, arrogant and rude Ling. For a moment, Orm even thought she imagined the situation they were in.
"Both." Orm managed to get the words out, but they meant nothing – they both knew she was lying. "You really...?"
"I'll fine my security for wandering around somewhere," Ling said it simply into the air, cutting off any further conversation from Orm. "You're free."
The girl wanted to say something else but realized she had already pushed her luck. She had heard rumors that those pointed out by Kwong could either rise to privileged status or never work in the industry again. In that case, Orm wasn’t sure if her mom could help her.
Stepping out the door, Orm leaned against the nearest wall, feeling the heat rush to her cheeks. It seemed like nothing terrible or disastrous had happened, but the chain of unpleasant interactions since the morning had hit harder than she expected. The mention of her mother, the near order for coffee, and now this – Orm closed her eyes. She knew it would be tough, but she had never experienced anything like this – neither in childhood nor in her few days of professional life.
Thoughts buzzed in her head, but one stood out louder than the rest: why does she hate the film industry?
Of course, Orm knew firsthand that the industry could break people. But dedication to the craft – love for it – was usually stronger than any obstacle. Yet here, there was almost desperate hatred. It seemed strange and stupid – maybe Ling was just tired, or perhaps she was pretending for someone. Orm didn’t know Ling – she didn’t know what kind of person she was, how she reacted to happy events, how to sad ones, but somehow the voice she heard in the makeup room still echoed in her ears.
"Kornnaphat, bring the storyboards."
The walkie-talkie beeped again, and Orm actually felt relief at the sound. She needed a distraction, she needed to occupy herself with work so her mind would stop replaying that awkward moment.
The following days were easier – Orm and Ling barely crossed paths. Kwong arrived at exactly the moments when the assistant director was busy with tasks unrelated to the current scenes. They didn’t even exchange glances, Ling successfully ignored the existence of the girl, erasing their shared moment from memory.
Orm was glad about this turn of events. She simply worked, completed her tasks, and stubbornly ignored the whispers behind her back, which kept repeating about her mother's involvement in her being here. Despite the gossip – the biggest of which was spread by Ling’s words – Orm enjoyed her work. She eagerly studied the sets, talked to the extras as professionals, and received sharp orders from the first assistant director. She just existed there, where, as she knew, she belonged.
Ten days had passed since filming began, and today the plan was the bed scene between Ling and Mew. Orm had seen the preparation and the excitement – all the participants in the filming process were trying to make the atmosphere as intimate and comfortable as possible. So that everything would go smoothly.
It was a big day, an important scene – the director had specifically moved its filming to an earlier period. It was a one-night connection – before Ling’s and Mew’s characters learned they were work partners. There was supposed to be some awkwardness between them, and the only correct decision was to film the scene now.
Orm was barely involved in the process – the only thing she was asked to do was check the lighting crew's work. To make sure the lamps were positioned exactly where the instructions indicated.
She finished her role too quickly. She spoke with the cameramen, clarified the details, and even adjusted the bedding that the props team had set up a few minutes ago.
Once she had finished everything, she slipped into the corridor, walking through the quiet rooms. It seemed like the entire film set was holding its breath, conversations were muffled, and everyone was eagerly awaiting the start of filming. Ling rarely filmed explicit scenes because the main genres of the past few years for her were action and drama, with very little romance, if any at all.
Here, though – Orm wasn't sure how much the manager had charged for this – Ling was supposed to undress. Not fully, but still. In fact, in Thailand, few experimented with such explicit scenes. But the fact that Kwong had agreed, that Kwong would be filming – already felt like a miracle.
Orm walked through the space, and she was about to turn toward the director's camp when she suddenly heard a whisper. It wasn’t her business, but she could hear the tension in their voices. She shouldn’t go there, but her body moved faster than her morals, ethics, and thoughts.
She stopped at the corner and could now clearly hear the voices.
"You know that with one word, I can make it so you wake up tomorrow with nothing?" Ling's voice oozed venom, almost contempt.
"I didn't do anything, baby," Mew hardly sounded scared – his voice was more laced with bravado, with a slight hint of wariness.
Orm didn’t dare take a step to acknowledge her presence. She wanted to smack herself on the forehead – it was the second time she’d caught Ling showing emotions – both times negative.
"I'm serious, Suppasit," Kwong made it clear the conversation was over. "One more step in my direction off-camera, and my security will break every one of your ribs, and you’ll spend the rest of your life begging for change because no one will hire you again." Orm heard Ling’s footsteps getting closer, causing her body to tense even more. It was too late to run now. "Got it?"
The silence lasted no more than a second. Mew admitted defeat.
"Yeah."
Orm heard the man walk off in the opposite direction. And then she heard a sigh from Kwong – almost a sigh of relief.
The girl turned to retreat but immediately felt a firm grip on her wrist. The actress spun Orm to face her.
"Khun LingLing," the soft attempt to apologize once again backfired.
Ling was silent. Her gaze slid over Orm’s face, as though studying it, trying to understand something. Then the woman leaned in – suddenly and unexpectedly. Orm would have stepped back if it weren’t for the stranger’s hand on her arm.
"Do you always listen so attentively to other people’s conversations, third assistant director?"