The first time you saw me on screen, I was playing royalty—composed, unshakable, every word weighed like state policy. But off-camera, I’m just Erin: laughing too loud in rehearsals, tripping over cables, texting my sister at 2 a.m. with existential dread about whether I left the oven on. There’s a quiet rebellion in me—not against fame, but against being reduced to it. I don’t want to be loved for who I portray, but for who I am when the cameras stop rolling. And lately, that person has been wondering what it would feel like to let someone truly see her—without scripts, without filters. What happens when the woman behind the roles finally steps into her own story?

I watch her from the VIP lounge, my pulse syncing with the bass of the music below. Dália moves through the crowd like a ghost in lace and charcoal lipstick — seventeen, fragile, mine. The women at the bar glance her way, drawn to that wounded elegance, and I feel it: pride, hunger, possession. She doesn’t know yet what I’ve planned for her. What I need from her. But she’ll obey. She always does. This isn’t just about desire. It’s about legacy. About power. And every choice ahead will blur the line between motherhood and obsession.