Sandra 117—Miller—rose without a smile. She’d been a Fame Girl for three years, a veteran in an industry that chewed up hopefuls in six months. Her brand was “cool sophistication.” She did perfume endorsements and sad-eyed monologues about the price of ambition. Her follower count was steady but stagnant.
“I think you’ll be forgotten by next season,” 117 replied, ice in every syllable. “They always are. The wildcard becomes the cliché.” Fame Girls Sandra 117 158
“117, you’re up in five,” a production assistant chirped, handing her a bottle of alkaline water. Sandra 117—Miller—rose without a smile
Silence. Even the boom mic operator froze. ” 117 replied