At 10 years old, Anastasia's daily life was a masterclass in discipline, disguised by the effortless grace of a golden child. To an outsider, she was the beautiful, red-haired prodigy of the Jones family. To Anastasia, every hour was a tactical rehearsal for the empire she was about to build.
The Morning RitualThe sun would barely be up over their Los Angeles suburb when Anastasia's day began. While her sisters, Sarah and Beth, were still buried under their floral-print duvets, Anastasia was already at her desk.
The 1979 morning air was cool, but she didn't notice. She spent her first two hours "scouting." She didn't have the internet, so she had turned the local newsstand into her database. She devoured Variety and The Hollywood Reporter with a clinical focus, tracking which scripts were being optioned and which studios were hemorrhaging money. By the time her mother called her for breakfast, Anastasia knew more about the industry's financial health than most junior agents at CAA.
The School of InfluenceWalking onto her middle school campus was where Anastasia practiced her "Gilded Aura." She moved through the hallways like a quiet tide, her long ginger hair glowing under the fluorescent lights.
She didn't seek popularity, yet it clung to her. During lunch, she would sit under a large oak tree, surrounded by a rotating cast of friends who felt inexplicably energized just being near her. She used these moments to "test" her power—suggesting a change in the school play's blocking or "convincing" the librarian to let her use the high-end projector for a "class project" that was actually her own private study of lighting.
Nobody ever questioned her. People simply felt that when Anastasia Jones spoke, the world made more sense.
The Afternoon WorkshopThe real work happened in the "Studio"—a corner of the garage her father had lovingly cleared out for her. It was filled with stacks of film reels she'd bought at estate sales, a second-hand Bolex camera, and hundreds of books.
Her sisters would often pop in, bringing her lemonade or snacks just for the excuse to be around her. "Whatcha doing, Stasia?" Beth would ask, leaning over a storyboard. "Mapping out the third act," Anastasia would reply with a soft, knowing smile. "It's about a woman who outsmarts the devil."
Her family adored her obsession. They didn't see it as a strange hobby; they saw it as the blossoming of a genius. Her parents were her first "investors," often taking her to the cinema three times a week. While other kids were eating popcorn and laughing at the cartoons, Anastasia sat with a notebook, scribbling down time-stamps of when the tension shifted and how the camera angles influenced the audience's emotions.
The Nightly ReflectionBy 9:00 PM, the house would go quiet. Anastasia would lie in bed, the 1970s wallpaper dimly lit by a streetlamp outside. She didn't feel like a child. She felt like a titan waiting for the clock to strike.
She thought back to her life as Lucy—the hospital walls, the weakness, the feeling of being a passenger in her own tragedy. Here, in 1979, she was the engine. She was healthy, she was loved, and she possessed a power that could bend the world to her will.
She closed her eyes, visualizing the contract . She could already see the ink on the page. She wasn't just dreaming of Hollywood; she was already living there. She was just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.