I woke up at eight-thirty in the morning feeling… actually, pretty well-rested.
No panic. No existential anxiety. Just the practical thought of I need to get ready and go meet this studio guy.
I was going to pay for a service. I wasn't asking for a job. I wasn't begging for favors. I was the client.
That realization was strangely liberating.
I took a quick shower (this time the shower decided to cooperate with water at a near-human temperature), put on comfortable jeans, a simple white top, and my black leather jacket because, frankly, it made me feel cool.
Minimal makeup—just enough so I didn't look like I'd just rolled out of bed. Hair pulled into a loose ponytail because it was hot and I had no patience for more than that.
"Ready," I said to the mirror. "Presentable. Professional enough. Let's do this."
The subway ride was smooth. I even managed to get a seat and spent the time scrolling through InstaLife, watching people post their perfectly curated lives while mentally rehearsing the song I was going to sing.
I arrived at the building at 9:55, five minutes early, which seemed like perfectly reasonable timing.
The elevator took me to the fourth floor, and I found the door with the VisionWave Studios sign without any trouble.
I knocked twice.
"Come in!" a cheerful voice called out.
I pushed the door open and entered a space that immediately screamed "professional but not pretentious studio." Camera equipment, screens, computers with multiple monitors, posters of past projects on the walls.
And in the center, sitting in a swivel chair near a desk covered in gear, was a man who looked like he'd stepped out of a "stylish creative professionals" catalog.
Mid-thirties, neatly styled brown hair, trimmed beard, thick-rimmed glasses that somehow worked perfectly with his navy blue button-down shirt rolled up to the elbows.
He stood up with a wide smile. "Cassandra? Marcus Chen. Pleasure to meet you!"
"Likewise," I said, shaking his hand. Firm, warm grip. Good sign.
"Please, have a seat!" He gestured to a comfortable armchair. "Coffee? Water? I have some slightly suspicious cookies from Seven-Twelve, but I don't recommend them unless you're feeling adventurous."
I laughed. "Water is great, thanks."
He grabbed a water bottle from a mini-fridge in the corner and tossed it to me. I caught it (surprisingly well, considering my 46 Agility points), and settled into the armchair.
"So," Marcus said, returning to his chair and crossing his legs casually. "Music video. Tell me more. What kind of vibe are you going for?"
"Something professional," I said. "Good video and audio quality. I'm going to sing a piano ballad—something very emotional. I just… honestly, I don't know much about video production, so I'm here to hear suggestions."
His eyes lit up with that creative spark. "Okay, okay. Emotional piano ballad. We can do something simple—just you singing, good lighting, focus on the performance. Or," he leaned forward, "we can do something more interesting. Like a real music video. Different angles, maybe some conceptual scenes that represent the emotion of the lyrics…"
I nodded. "That sounds cool. More… memorable, I guess?"
"Exactly! Content that stands out on Wetube needs that little something extra, you know?" He picked up a tablet and started taking notes. "And this song, is it a cover or an original?"
"Original," I said. Technically true. In this world, at least.
"Even better!" Marcus smiled. "Original content always has more value. What's the name?"
"'Someone Like You'."
He paused, thoughtful. "Huh, don't know it. But hey, always good to have new talent." He made more notes. "Okay, so tell me a bit about you. Where does this desire to record a video now come from? Is there a story behind it?"
I hesitated. "It's… kind of complicated."
"It usually is," he said with a kind smile. "But look, knowing where you're coming from helps me understand how to capture the right essence in the video, you know? No pressure, but… if you want to share."
There was something genuinely open in the way he spoke. No judgment. Just honest curiosity.
"Alright," I said slowly. "Basically, I was adopted when I was three by a wealthy family. And for twenty years I thought I was a real part of the family, but then…"
I started to tell the story.
And somehow, as I spoke, time seemed to… slip away.
---
Cut to: forty minutes later.
"—and then he literally told me I didn't deserve the Whitmore surname, like it was some supreme privilege or something," I was saying, taking another spoonful of chocolate ice cream from the tub Marcus had magically produced from somewhere.
I have no idea when exactly we became best friends eating ice cream straight from the tub, but here we were.
Marcus was sitting in his chair, completely turned towards me, elbow on his knee, chin in his hand, eyes fixed on me as if I were the most dramatic episode of his favorite series.
"No," he said, eyes wide. "He did not say that."
"He did! To my face!" I gestured dramatically with the spoon. "And like, okay, I get that the whole situation was a mess, but I was raised by them for twenty years. You don't just discard someone like that."
"That's insane," Marcus said, shaking his head. "Completely insane. And the girl who fell—Eloise—is she still in a coma?"
"Yes," I said, my voice softening. "And that's the part that really bothers me, you know? Because she never did anything wrong. She was genuinely sweet. Like, annoyingly sweet. But in a sincere way." I stirred the ice cream thoughtfully. "I didn't push her. She tripped. But no one will believe me because I spent months being the bitter, jealous sister."
"But you were jealous," Marcus pointed out, not accusatorily, just factually.
"Yes! Obviously!" I huffed. "My whole family basically traded me for her overnight! Like, sorry for having normal human feelings about being replaced?"
Marcus nodded. "No, totally valid. Jealousy is a normal human emotion. The problem is when people act on it in destructive ways. But like, making the occasional snide comment because you're dealing with massive family rejection? That doesn't make you a terrible person. It makes you human."
I looked at him, feeling something tighten in my chest. "You are literally the first person who hasn't made me feel like a monster for that."
"Because you're not a monster," Marcus said simply. "You're someone who went through an impossible situation and reacted imperfectly. That's… normal. Human. Understandable."
I blinked rapidly, pushing tears away. "Okay, stop, you're going to make me cry and ruin my makeup."
"Hey, no judgment here," Marcus smiled. "I cried watching a car insurance commercial last week because it had a cute puppy. Emotions are valid."
I laughed, wiping my eyes. "How did you end up being so… you know, emotionally intelligent?"
"Therapy," Marcus said without hesitation. "Lots of therapy. And also, growing up gay in a traditional Asian family forces you to develop emotional intelligence or implode. I chose the first option."
"Gay and Asian?" I blinked. "Wait, Chen. Are you Korean? Chinese?"
"Chinese," he said. "My parents immigrated before I was born. Great people, a bit conservative, took them a while to accept their gay son who wanted to make videos instead of being a doctor or lawyer." He shrugged. "But we got there. Eventually."
"That sounds… complicated."
"It was," Marcus admitted. "But it was worth it. Now my mom literally shows my videos to all her friends. It's kinda embarrassing but also cute."
I smiled. "That's really sweet."
"It is!" He grabbed his own spoon and stole some of my ice cream. "But hey, back to you. So you got disinherited, took the money, and now you want to do what exactly? Besides recording this video."
"Honestly?" I leaned back in the armchair. "I want to prove I'm more than just 'the rejected adopted daughter'. I want to build something of my own. Something that has nothing to do with the Whitmore family or all the drama. I want to sing because I love to sing, not because I'm trying to prove anything to them."
Marcus was nodding slowly, that thoughtful look back. "Okay. Okay, that's a powerful narrative. A fresh start. Self-discovery. Finding your voice—literally." He started taking notes again. "If you're comfortable sharing part of that story when you post the video, that could really resonate with people."
"Maybe," I said. "We'll see how I feel after recording."
"Fair enough." He checked his notes. "Okay, so here's what I'm thinking. We schedule the recording for three days from now. That gives you time to practice, I'll prep the set, we do this right. For complete professional quality—filming, lighting, editing, audio mixing—we're looking at around fifteen to twenty thousand."
I didn't even blink. "Works for me."
Marcus looked slightly surprised. "Okay, great! Usually people ask to pay in installments or—"
"I have the money," I said simply. Two million made fifteen thousand look like pocket change.
"Got it," Marcus said, clearly deciding not to ask further. "Cool. So we meet here on Thursday, say ten in the morning? Bring clothes you feel comfortable in, we'll test a few things, do multiple takes, and then I'll spend a few days editing. You should have the final video in a week."
"Perfect," I said, standing up and tossing the empty ice cream tub into the trash. "Thank you, Marcus. For real. Not just for the work but for… you know, listening to all my drama."
"Please," Marcus stood up too. "That wasn't drama. That was a full-blown miniseries. I was invested. Honestly, if you don't become a famous singer, consider writing a book."
I laughed. "I'll think about it."
"And hey," Marcus said as he walked me to the door, "something tells me we're going to be great friends. I have a radar for these things."
"Your radar is right," I said, smiling genuinely. "See you Thursday, Marcus."
"See you Thursday, superstar!"
As I left the building, I checked my phone and saw a new message:
Marcus: Btw forgot to mention - you have EXCELLENT taste in leather jackets. Very starter rockstar aesthetic. 10/10 😎
I laughed and typed back:
Me: Thank you?? You have excellent taste in… stylish nerd glasses?
Marcus: STYLISH NERD GLASSES. Officially my new descriptor. See you Thursday! And practice that song! 🎵
I put my phone back in my pocket, still smiling.
Three days until recording.
Three days to practice and prepare.
And for the first time since I arrived in this world, I had made a real friend. Someone who saw me as just… me.
Not the adopted daughter. Not the villain. Not the mistake.
Just Cassandra.