INT. SET — VICTORIAN MANSION — NIGHT
The faint echo of applause still lingers in the corridors. A quiet buzz, like a ghost of something sacred. Something unforgettable.
"Did you see the way she knelt—? Like a fallen angel…""And Becky… God, her presence filled the room like royalty born and bred.""It didn't feel like a scene… it felt like history unraveling itself in front of us."
CUT TO:
Becky stands on the ornate balcony, wine glass poised like a scepter in her hand. The stars glitter above her like a crown bestowed by the universe itself. Her blonde hair shimmers under the silver light, and her breath fogs slightly as she exhales, a whisper of peace floating into the night.
She closes her eyes. A smile tugs at her lips — not joy, not relief, but something quieter. A pause in a war.
She felt a sense of peace and tranquility as she watched the stars twinkle above her, and she couldn't help but feel grateful for the moment of solitude. As she took another sip of her wine, she closed her eyes and let out a contented sigh. When she heard a knock, she wondered who this person could be who disturbed her seconds of peace and just being herself. She reluctantly got inside her room and made her way to the door, hoping it wasn't someone who would ruin her relaxing evening.
KNOCK
Becky flinches.
The moment was broken.
She steps back into her room with reluctance, like a queen forced off her throne. Her brows furrow in irritation as she opens the door — and is greeted not by a maid but by Freen, hiding behind a smile too wide to be sincere.
Before a word could escape, SLAM — the door swings back and catches Freen's nose.
FREEN:"Urgh!"
The pain shoots up her face, blinding her for a second. She hops on her heels like a child before pushing the door open again, determined not to lose her composure.
Inside, Becky sits beside the fireplace, her silhouette a study in elegance — an oil painting brought to life. The room flickers gold from the flames, and Freen stands at the edge of it, breathless.
And suddenly—
She is not herself.
Not in this room. Not in this life.
She sees another woman. A mirage, maybe. A goddess draped in braided white-blonde hair, skin alabaster and glowing. A face like Becky's but sharper. Colder. Perfect. Regal.Her heart clenches.
In her mind, she could see the image of Becky with white-blonde hair and expressive blue eyes. The woman has a resemblance to Becky's facial features, except this woman, in her mind, is more beautiful and more English-looking than Becky.
As this woman's skin is so fair, she does look like a goddess, and the long, straight, and smooth white-blonde hair gives her a more goddess-like look.
The woman is looking so elegant and high-class, while Becky has brown eyes and brown hair, and you can see the Asian blood in her features.
"Freen.""Freen.""CUT!"
The director's voice slices through the illusion like a blade through silk.
BACK TO REALITY.
She stumbles. Becky rises instantly — but her Victorian gown limits her steps. A staff member rushes in, but Becky clings to Freen, shielding her from others' touch.
It is silent admiration disguised in instinct.
ECHO:"Did you see that? Becky didn't let her go—""That's not acting. That's real."
The crew surrounds them, buzzing with both concern and awe. Mee, Becky's assistant, rushes in with water and comfort, combing Freen's hair as if smoothing a storm.
DIRECTOR WUTTAPONG:"Okay, everyone. Break for five minutes."
Freen breathes, fragile but anchored. A moment passes. Then:
FREEN:"I'm okay. Really. Let's not delay the masterpiece we're trying to build."
ECHO:"She's brilliant.""They both are."
INT. SET — SCENE 90 — TAKE TWO
Lights. Camera. Silence.
Director Wuttapong:"Rolling. Scene 90. And… action."
The mansion comes alive again.
Lady Rebecca, crowned in firelight, reads silently on her grand couch. The room is a chamber of golden shadows. Enter Freen, quiet, breath held.
She pauses. The flames kiss Lady Rebecca's face, revealing no flaw. Not one. A goddess, yes — but with a demon's bite.
Freen chuckles at her inner monologue. That's when it begins.
LADY REBECCA (sharply):"Are you laughing at me, servant? "
Freen blinks. She hadn't realized she was audible.
SLAM.Rebecca shuts her book so hard beside Freen's ear that a ring echoes.
FREEN (internal):This devilish brat white woman!
LADY REBECCA:"What, you're going to punch me? Don't you dare, you low-born—!"
Freen bows repeatedly, her fists shaking from restraint. Her eyes burn.
Rebecca raises her hand, signaling— kneel.
A hush ripples through the room.
Freen glares.
Rebecca glares back.
This is not just a scene. It is a war.
Freen kneels.
REBECCA (whispers):"What the heck are you doing? "
She accidentally kicks Freen while trying to wave her off.
FREEN (exploding):"YOU DEVIL, YOU DEVIL, I AM GETTING FULL OF YOU; I SWEAR I COULD KILL YOU RIGHT NOW! "Lady Rebecca was cut off when Freen burst out in her face!"
Gasps. Real ones. From the cast and crew watching nearby.
Becky — no, Lady Rebecca — shivers. Something just cracked inside her.
Lady Rebecca shivered in horror at what Freen had just done to her, but Freen seemed to notice the terrified face of Lady Rebecca, and she softened.
''Why does it feel like I have seen this before, her raging, her turning her back on me?'' Becky's thought made her pause, and seeing the scene in her head, no camera, no crews, no lights, but the scene itself, her and Freen in the same situation
What's happening?
But Becky shake the thought and focused on her role
Freen turns to leave.
LADY REBECCA:"Wait."
The word stops Freen in her tracks. Slowly, the servant turns back.
She may not understand it, but she has a hint that it is calling her.
(As the characters of this adaptation were in the timeline of the 16th-18th century)
She faced the lady, and she saw the young lady take the handkerchief off the floor. She finally understood what it meant earlier, so she came in her direction and helped the young lady get up from the floor.
Rebecca lifts the fallen handkerchief and finally gestures for Freen to sit.
FREEN (confused, resisting):"No, My Lady…"
Free can't believe that the young lady wanted her to sit beside her.
She was a lowly servant compared to the goddess in front of her. She shook her head, declining, and instead sat on the floor.
Freen panicked when the young lady sat beside her instead; she could not believe a high-class person like Lady Rebecca would sit beside her on the floor. She was about to stand up, but her body froze when Lady Rebecca held her wrist to stop her from standing up.
Freen's heart skipped a beat when their eyes met again today for the second time when she faced the young lady. The young lady was stunned looking at Freean's eyes she have such a beautiful eyes she thought. There's this familiar feeling again whenever this servant looks at her. She may not admit it but can feel like she'd seen these eyes before.
But it's impossible.
"Urgh." Freen winced in pain once the handkerchief touched her nose. She hadn't even noticed that the young lady was going to wipe her nose off. She pulled her face away, but the young lady held her chin, which made Freen's face so red.
But Rebecca sits beside her, on the floor.
Gasps again.
ECHOES:"She knelt, and then she joined her — on the ground.""This isn't just acting. It's alchemy."
Their hands touch. Freen flinches. Rebecca doesn't let go.
LADY REBECCA (concerned):"You're cold. Are you alright? "
Freen doesn't answer. Her whole system is overloaded. Rebecca dabs her nose with the handkerchief, her touch soft and deliberate.
"Are you sure you are alright? You're sweating," the young lady says and touches her forehead. Freen was overwhelmed; she didn't even know how to react anymore. her head is processing everything that is happening right now
Their eyes meet.
"You are so cold; your hands too. Why are you shaking?" Freen immediately pulled her hands away from the young lady.
"Okay," says the young lady.
LADY REBECCA (softly):"You're so weird…"
But Freen doesn't hear the words. She only sees the parting lips that bloom across Rebecca's lips — like dawn breaking through centuries of shadow.
Their faces are just inches away. The young lady was saying, "You must be thankful I am cleaning your dirty face. It is not my fault; it's just that you are so weird." But Freen couldn't understand what the young lady was saying; that's why she just looked at her with a confused look.
But Freen's heart melted when a smile formed on Lady Rebecca's lips.
FREEN (internal):Oh god, I'm dead.
LADY REBECCA
''Oh my god, servant! "
As Freen collapsed, from the overwhelming feelings she felt for her and the character she was playing
FADE TO BLACK.
ECHOES (FAINT, DISTANT):"Brilliant...""Unforgettable.""They don't even have to kiss. This is love. This is war. This is cinema."
Lady Rebecca's Drawing Room, Late Afternoon
"Oh dear heavens—Servant!"
Lady Rebecca gasped as Freen collapsed in her arms. Her strength surprised her—how tightly she held on, how fiercely she shook her head only moments ago—and now she fell like a withered rose in the cold.
"Fetch the physician—quickly! Someone come!" Rebecca cried out, her voice trembling with uncharacteristic desperation.
The chambermaids rushed in, skirts swishing over the marble floor, followed by the castle steward. They froze at the sight: their mistress kneeling on the rug, clutching the unconscious servant as though she were a lost sister rather than a lowborn house girl.
"Bring water, now! And herbs—something to wake her!" Rebecca ordered. She didn't wait for them to move. She gently laid Freen down on the rug, cradling her head in her lap. Her fingers shook as she loosened the servant's collar, brushing the damp hair from her fevered brow.
"You foolish girl…" she whispered, her voice faltering. "Why do you always choose to break apart in front of me?"
One of the maids brought a basin and cloth, and Rebecca herself dipped it, wringing it out before pressing it gently to Freen's forehead.
"Is she ill, my Lady?" the steward asked.
"Too proud for her own body, it seems," Rebecca replied bitterly. "She refused to eat all day. Thought she could go on working under this heat like a man. I warned her."
The old castle physician arrived, robes swaying as he knelt beside Freen.
"She'll live, my Lady. A fainting spell—brought by exhaustion, poor nourishment, and heat. She must rest. Let her lie still and quiet for now."
Rebecca looked down at Freen's peaceful face, so different in stillness—like a sleeping poem with all its resistance paused.
"I will see to her myself," Rebecca said.
"But my Lady," the steward started, shocked, "she is but a servant—"
"She is in my care now. And none shall question me on it."
They all bowed and slowly left the room, eyes cast downward.
Rebecca remained by Freen's side, sitting on the rug like a commoner, a wet cloth in hand and a war in her chest. She didn't understand this girl—nor the strange ache in her chest as she brushed her thumb over the servant's knuckles.
But she would wait. She would watch over her. And when Freen woke, she would demand answers—though the loudest questions were within herself.
INT. FREENS' BEDROOM — EVENING, PRESENT DAY
Freen woke with a start.
Her breath hitched as she sat up too quickly, heart pounding against her ribs like a wild drum. The room around her was unfamiliar at first—white walls, faint lavender diffusing from a corner humidifier, and her scripts scattered across the bed.
Reality settled in like a cold splash.
She was no longer in velvet halls or candlelit corridors. No ornate rug under her knees. No Lady Rebecca cradling her in a trembling embrace. Only the low hum of air-conditioning and the distant honk of traffic outside.
She was back.
The set. The costume. The scene.
She had fainted.
Her hands trembled as she reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. Half-empty. She didn't remember drinking any. A folded towel rested on her forehead, now lukewarm.
"Freen…?" came a soft voice from the cracked door.
It was one of the staff. Concerned. Normal.
She nodded faintly. "I'm alright," she croaked, but her voice betrayed her confusion.
They nodded, closing the door gently.
Silence returned. Heavy. Eerie.
She looked down at her fingers, half-expecting to see a thread of embroidery, a ring, a trace of another century. But there was nothing. Just trembling skin and the distant echo of something she couldn't name.
Then she noticed it.
On the inside of her wrist—a faint red mark.
It looked like… a pressed rose petal.
Her eyes widened.
She remembered. The rug. The voice. "Why do you always choose to break apart in front of me?"
She touched the spot softly, as if it might vanish.
"Was it… really just a dream?" she whispered.
But even as she asked, she wasn't sure she wanted an answer.