1
When the rainy season in Los Angeles turns violent, it resembles the self-destructive, film-noir classics of Hollywood’s Golden Age.
On the winding roads of Beverly Hills, a long, dark line of top-tier luxury cars crawled like a silent, submissive steel python, moving smoothly toward the brightly lit modernist mansion at the peak. Bright floodlights tore through the downpour, washing the expensive palm fronds along the route to a sickly, morbid shade of emerald.
In this silent film constructed of money and privilege, a yellow taxi—its hood rattling with the labored breath of a broken bellows—appeared blindingly conspicuous and utterly out of place.
The wheels screeched to a halt on the muddy verge, fifty yards from the mansion’s red carpet.
“This is as far as I go, miss. The security guards ahead won’t let yellow plates through without an invitation.” The driver braked with a hint of pity, wiping grease from the steering wheel.
“Thank you, that is quite enough.”
Camille spoke in a low voice, her accent a flawless, thick-tongued London English. She handed a few damp dollar bills to the front seat, inhaled the scent of cheap air freshener and secondhand smoke lingering in the cabin, and pushed the door open.
The biting Los Angeles downpour swallowed her instantly.
She didn’t carry an umbrella, choosing instead to wrap herself tightly in a translucent, cheap plastic poncho she had bought at a convenience store for three dollars. The rain lashed against her high-set cheekbones and deep-set eye sockets, washing over a face that, even under 35mm negative film, possessed a timeless bone structure, making her features appear almost translucent. It was the pallor of a cold, deep Eastern European winter, carrying a wild, sharp-boned elegance like a white swan. Yet, her eyes were filled with a near-lifeless, razor-sharp clarity.
Clutching her leaky high heels, she stepped across the uneven asphalt, avoiding the edges of the flashes, and darted into the temporary restroom on the side of the mansion—reserved for waiters and PR teams.
The moment she locked the plastic door, the roaring rain and the hypocrisy of the vanity fair outside seemed sealed off in another world.
Camille ripped off the poncho, revealing a dark green silk gown underneath. From the front, the tailoring was fluid, perfectly hugging her slender, angular shoulders and swan-like neck; it accentuated the fragile yet noble line of her collarbone to perfection.
But only she knew: she had clawed and bargained for this at a bankrupt vintage rental shop on Hollywood Boulevard. Because it didn’t fit, seventeen sharp silver safety pins were buried deep into the fabric along her back and waist.
Gritting her teeth, she used the cold restroom mirror to jam the final pin into the fabric—and into her own delicate skin. Bright red blood beaded instantly, only to be silently swallowed by the thick, dark green silk. The pins tightened the waistline and stole her breath, yet they perfectly camouflaged the arrogant, flawless posture of a fallen European aristocrat.
She sprayed a salon-grade perfume of English Pear and Freesia—a gift from the rental shop—into the air. The fragrance spread, yet it failed to mask the scent of the dark, damp, unwashed vapor of a low-end L.A. apartment that clung to her collarbone and hair.
“Ekaterina,” she whispered to the fox-like eyes in the mirror—eyes that wore a mask of flawless sincerity, yet held only desolation beneath. She murmured her true name, one that had long been buried. “Remember, you aren’t stepping onto a red carpet tonight; you are stepping onto the scaffold.”
By the time she pushed the door open again, she had become Camille Hart.
The security checkpoint at the mansion’s main entrance was guarded by three supervisors in tailored black suits, wearing Bluetooth headsets. The screening process here was even more snobbish than at JFK Airport; they didn’t just check invitations—they scrutinized the face behind them.
“I’m sorry, miss, your electronic invitation does not seem to be on tonight’s VIP list.” The supervisor looked Camille up and down with a cold, polite gaze. The dark green silk was expensive, but her wrists were bare—no sponsor-provided top-tier jewelry. That alone was enough to arouse suspicion.
Camille didn’t panic; she didn’t even twitch an eyebrow. She lifted her chin slightly, meeting his gaze with a look of weariness and aristocratic, condescending poise.
“My godparents, the Earls of Hart, had their private London PR firm send the confirmation to the organizers three weeks ago.” Camille’s London accent carried the languid certainty of old money. She tilted her head slightly, as if finding this crude questioning amusing. “You may call London now, if you don’t mind offending the Hart family’s last independent buyer in Hollywood over a small system error before the charity gala even begins.”
She pulled a letter sealed with wax, its edges yellowed, from her rented clutch.
The paper was 15th-century handmade cotton paper that Declan had obtained through the black market; the family crest was indistinguishable from the real thing. The elegant script was the result of fifteen days spent hunched over a dim lamp in a dingy basement, practicing incessantly.
The supervisor’s gaze flickered between the wax seal and Camille’s calm face, which was a canvas of privilege and arrogance. In Hollywood, no one wanted to offend a “fallen aristocrat” who might bring in independent European capital.
“...My apologies, Ms. Hart. The PR department’s system has been quite chaotic lately.” The coldness on the supervisor’s face melted into sycophancy. He stepped aside and personally pushed open the doors leading to paradise. “Enjoy your evening.”
Camille signaled her elegant acknowledgment and stepped into the banquet hall, where glasses clinked in harmony.
The second her feet sank into the expensive, hand-woven carpet, she could hear the faint, straining sound of the safety pins in her back as they pulled against her skin. The pain was sharp—a potent stimulant that kept her clear-headed in this man-eating Vanity Fair.
Inside the hall, the crystal chandelier refracted the champagne tower into a dazzling, golden hue. The most powerful producers, fashion moguls, and Wall Street sharks in America stood in small groups, whispering secrets about multi-million dollar deals and contracts amidst the soft jazz.
Camille, like a wild white swan lurking in the dark, retracted her wildness and greed, perfectly hiding behind an elegant mask.
She didn’t rush to the inner circle. Instead, she took a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray and, like a true observer, stayed on the edge of a long table, quietly watching the micro-expressions of every prey.
Two minutes later, she locked eyes with Harvey, a plump independent producer standing by the fireplace. The old fox was currently hunting for niche European buyers for an arthouse film stalled by a broken capital chain, and according to Hollywood rumors, Harvey was obsessed with the detached elegance of European old money.
“Mr. Harvey,” Camille walked over slowly, stopping at the absolute social distance of two paces. She stared at a copy of an oil painting above the fireplace and spoke naturally, “If I were you, I would cut a third of the cold-toned long shot in the second act before the Sundance Film Festival next month. After all, the fragmented narrative of the New Wave doesn’t sell well in London these days.”
Harvey turned, startled. The young woman before him possessed an intellectually striking face, her eyes sincere and elegant, and the scent of English pear on her skin perfectly displayed a certain antiquated taste. More importantly, she had hit the exact pain point that had been causing Harvey to lose hair in the editing room.
“You are...?” Harvey set down his cigar, his eyes filled with scrutiny and desire.
“Camille Hart.” She held out her pale, unadorned fingers for a light handshake. “A... fallen lady, trying to find a glimmer of classical European heritage amidst the stench of money in Hollywood.”
The next ten minutes became a display of Camille’s precise psychological magic.
She skillfully tossed out art history theories she had spent a whole week memorizing in the library, insider preferences from major European independent film festivals, and jargon known only to the inner circle. Her rhetoric was so precise that she perfectly packaged herself as an arrogant young heiress who, despite family heritage disputes and a dwindling fortune, still held resources for independent European cinema chains.
Harvey was completely hoodwinked by her pure London accent and haughty demeanor. Stimulated by alcohol and vanity, the old fox even took the initiative to introduce her to several fashion buyers who were struggling to find a face for their high-end PR.
“This is my private business card, Ms. Hart. I think we will have many topics to discuss at next week’s closed-door script reading.” Harvey handed over a gold-stamped black business card, his eyes filled with admiration.
“Of course, my pleasure.”
Camille smiled as she took it, then used the same elegant wrist to intercept entry tickets to the Hollywood core circle from the other two fashion buyers.
In just half an hour, she had transformed from an edge-dweller who couldn’t even pay her $30 rent into the most eye-catching mysterious European lady in the Vanity Fair.
The heavy business cards in her clutch were the spoils of her dance on the razor’s edge tonight.
However, the illusory climax of the vanity fair did not last long.
Just as Camille turned to find her next target, the banquet hall’s crystal chandelier, previously bright as day, dimmed without warning. It was replaced by a cold, high-end, dark golden hue with immense dramatic tension.
The noisy crowd was instantly silenced, as if choked by an invisible hand. The chatter died away. Harvey and the buyers who had been surrounding Camille turned in unison—as if by a primordial class instinct—and fixed their gaze on the top of the marble spiral staircase in the center of the mansion.
The true center of the storm had arrived.
Camille stood in the remote shadows, clutching the business cards she had just acquired. Her fingernails turned white with force; the edges of the cards pressed deep into her palm, but she felt nothing.
She lifted her head slightly, meeting the suppressed and frantic gaze of the entire room, and looked toward the top of the stairs.
Standing there was the supreme privileged ruler of the old-money class in Hollywood, the absolute god who held the fate of countless people in their hands. That sense of top-down class oppression descended like the torrential rain in Los Angeles tonight, hitting Camille—who stood at the very bottom of the mire—with a suffocating, overwhelming weight.
