Chapter 3

The California sun had felt different back then, warmer, full of promise. Film school was a dream, and Isabella was the brightest part of it.

I worked three part-time jobs to afford the tuition, to stay in the same classes as her. She was Isabella Hayes, daughter of a studio giant, effortlessly brilliant, beautiful. I was just Ethan Miller, the kid with a scholarship and a worn-out camera.

I poured everything into winning her over. Late nights writing scenes I hoped would impress her, scouting locations for her student films, championing her ideas in class even when others dismissed them.

And for a while, she saw me. Really saw me.

"You get it, Ethan," she'd said once, her eyes shining, after I'd helped her fix a problem with her short film, "You just... get me."

Those were the golden days. We'd spend hours in old cinemas, talking about Truffaut and Kurosawa, planning the movies we'd make, the stories we'd tell. 'Desert Bloom' started then, a whisper of an idea, my idea, born from those conversations but distinctly mine. She was my muse, my first reader, my biggest cheerleader.

Or so I thought.

Then Julian Vance transferred in, smooth as silk, with a trust fund and the kind of connections that made even Isabella's father take notice. He was the son of a rival studio head, a strategic alliance in the making.

Slowly, things began to change.

"Julian thinks 'Desert Bloom' needs a stronger commercial hook," Isabella would say, casually.

Or, "Julian's father might be interested in producing something for us, but it needs to be more... collaborative."

Her assurances of loyalty started to feel thin. "Don't be silly, Ethan. You're my guy," she'd say, but her eyes would be distant.

Then came the industry events. Isabella on Julian's arm, laughing a little too brightly. Me, on the sidelines, feeling a familiar knot of anxiety tighten in my chest.

I confronted her once, after a particularly galling evening where Julian had practically claimed her as his own.

"What's going on, Bella?" I asked, the words catching in my throat.

She turned on me, her eyes cold. "Don't be so insecure, Ethan. It's not attractive. Julian is helping us. He's helping *me*."

Helping her. Or helping himself. The lines were blurring, and I was being pushed out of the picture. My script, my 'Desert Bloom', was suddenly 'our' project, and then, insidiously, 'their' idea. The erosion was subtle at first, then brutally fast.