The hearing room looks like every other hearing room I’ve ever seen, which is impressive, considering I’ve only ever been in them through screens.
Beige walls, too-bright fluorescents that flatten everyone into the same shade of tired, microphones jutting from the table like chrome weeds. On my TV, the Silverline logo sits in the corner of the network’s lower-third graphic, an accidental confession.
“Senator,” the studio’s Chief Safety Officer says, “I want to be very clear that safety has always been our top priority.”
I snort, alone in my glass box on the hill.
“You recognize that phrase?” I mutter to the empty room.
The central air hums in answer, conditioner air sliding cold along the back of my neck. On the coffee table, a sweating bottle of pressed celery and lemon leans against a folded stack of newspapers, damp ring bleeding into a headline about the fire.
I do recognize the phrase. It appeared in at least three editions of the talking points binders Marcus used to send me, printed in bold above bullet lists of things to say when someone got hurt.
On-screen, a committee member leans toward her mic. “If safety is your top priority,” she says, “can you explain why your internal memo, dated six months before Ms. Ortiz’s death, refers to ‘planned tolerance for minor injuries’ as a tradeoff for tighter schedules?”
The Chief Safety Officer shifts in his seat. His jaw flexes. I can’t hear his thoughts, but I know the script he’s reaching for.
“Those words were taken out of context,” he says.
A second executive—Vice President of Production, I remember her from holiday parties—sits beside him in a dark blazer, her expression carefully neutral. I recognize that face from red carpets, from my own bathroom mirror. Somewhere in a drawer, I probably still own the same shade of lipstick.
The camera cuts to the audience. I pick out a row of people in union jackets, stunt coordinators I’ve worked with on three shows, grips I only know by first name. One woman in a worn black hoodie has tears streaked clean through the makeup under her eyes, leaving muddy tracks. For a second, I’m sure it’s Rhea’s partner and my lungs forget how to work.
It’s not. Different jawline, different hair. My body doesn’t care; my fingers dig into the couch cushion anyway.
“Let’s talk about NDAs,” another senator says. “We have signed statements from at least four crew members who were presented with nondisclosure agreements following on-set injuries. They were told the documents were ‘standard HR paperwork.’ Did your office approve those?”
The Production VP’s hand twitches toward the water glass in front of her. Her nails are bare now, not the pretty chrome she used to compliment mine.
“Legal handles all settlement language,” she replies. “I’m not a lawyer.”
I chew the inside of my cheek until I taste iron. Legal handles all settlement language. I’ve said a version of that into microphones for years.
The lower-third graphic shifts: BREAKING – SILVERLINE COO RESIGNS AHEAD OF HEARING. A thumbnail headshot fills the corner, a man who once shook my hand and told me I was “too talented to waste on serious roles.”
My phone buzzes in my lap, jumping against the soft cotton of my sweatpants. I glance down.
Quinn: They’re using the mill footage as B-roll.
I thumb a reply with one eye on the screen. Of course they are.
The broadcast cuts to a shot I know better than my reflection: the rusted skeleton of the Pennsylvania mill, river fog coiled around its base, broken windows staring out over water. The camera pans to the diner up the road, neon COFFEE sign flickering in the gray morning. A caption reads: “Nora Hayes’s Hometown.”
Somewhere in that diner, I know people are passing their phones around, rumors sliding across cracked vinyl seats between bites of pie. Bottomless coffee and bottomless gossip, feeding each other.
Back on the witness table, the Safety Officer dabs sweat from his upper lip.
“We are cooperating fully with all investigations,” he says.
My laughter comes out thin and airless. I watch his mouth shape the words, and I hear Marcus’s voice behind them, hear my own from old interviews.
Cooperation. Transparency. Lessons learned.
The committee chair clears his throat.
“For the record,” he says, “this panel has issued a subpoena to Ms. Elena Ortiz, Senior Vice President for Business Affairs at Silverline, regarding internal correspondence around nondisclosure agreements. We expect her presence at the next session.”
I blink.
Elena. The lawyer who sat across from me at seventeen and explained, in soothing tones, how the NDA about Lila would “protect everyone’s privacy through this difficult time.” The woman whose black fountain pen signed the papers that turned my shove into an accident and Lila’s body into collateral.
On my TV, a line of text scrolls under his words about Elena’s subpoena, bullet points of potential regulatory changes: independent safety auditors, mandatory stunt coordination sign-off, stricter reporting requirements.
I pause the stream.
The screen freezes on a shot of the hearing room, a rectangle of synthetic clarity floating in the reflection of my own living room. My face hovers ghostly over the paused image; glass inside of glass.
“Okay,” I tell my flickered twin. “You started this. Now you don’t get to look away.”
I hit play again.
Two days later, the air in my lawyer’s office tastes recycled and faintly burnt.
The AC rattles overhead like it belongs in a motel, not in a downtown high-rise with marble in the lobby. Every time the vent coughs, the blinds shiver and send stripes of light across the glass conference table.
“Thank you for coming in, Nora,” my lawyer says. His name is Daniel. He’s younger than I expected, with a buzz cut and tired eyes that make him look like a public defender accidentally teleported into a white-shoe firm.
A manila folder sits in front of him, closed but radiating weight. A ceramic mug leaves a brown ring on a coaster beside it; the coffee smell is bitter, too long on the burner.
“You said you didn’t want to hear this over Zoom,” he adds.
“Zoom glitches,” I say. “Paper doesn’t.”
I press my palms flat against my thighs to keep them from drumming. The polyester of my black pants whispers under my fingers. I left the sweatpants at home; this meeting feels like one step above a funeral, one step below a sentencing.
Daniel opens the folder.
“This is the civil complaint,” he says. “Filed by counsel on behalf of Rhea Ortega’s partner, Andrea Morales.”
Hearing her full name cracks something behind my ribs. Rhea was always just Rhea on set, one name like she was already a brand. Andrea was “her girlfriend” in whispered crew gossip, a silhouette at the edge of memorial photos.
“Can you summarize?” I ask. Words swim on the page from here; I don’t trust my eyes.
“Wrongful death,” he says. “Negligence. Negligent infliction of emotional distress. They’re naming Silverline, the production company, several executives, the stunt vendor, and you, individually, as defendants.”
I nod once. The polished glass table throws my movement back at me.
“Do they claim I tampered with the rig?” I ask.
“No.” He flips to a page and taps it lightly with his finger. “They’re very specific. They lay out your knowledge of previous safety issues, your continued participation in stunts despite concerns, your role as an executive producer. Your confession and the documents Lila Park released are cited as evidence of a pattern.”
The AC kicks into a higher gear. My throat feels like Stage 14 on fire.
“And your recommendation?” I ask.
“From a strictly legal standpoint?” he says. “We could challenge the scope of your duty, argue that responsibility lies primarily with technical supervisors and corporate policy-makers. We could try to get you dismissed as a defendant, or at least minimize your share of liability. You’ve already done serious reputational damage; there’s an argument for protecting what’s left.”
I stare at him.
The words sound like Elena’s, like Marcus’s, like every comment section that says I’ve already paid enough.
“From a not-strictly-legal standpoint?” I say.
Daniel hesitates. His pen rolls under his fingers, plastic clicking softly against the tabletop.
“You told me when we took you on,” he says slowly, “that you weren’t interested in pretending nothing happened. That you wanted to own what you could. I don’t think you can do that and then deny the facts in this complaint.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. It fogs a tiny patch of the glass before disappearing.
“So we don’t fight the facts,” I say.
“We can still negotiate terms,” he says. “Damages. Public statements. Non-monetary relief. If you want part of the settlement earmarked for safety initiatives, that’s possible, but it has to be in addition to direct compensation, not instead. Otherwise it looks like you’re laundering liability through charity.”
I wince. The word charity lands like a prop sandbag.
“I don’t want to buy forgiveness,” I say. “Or turn Rhea into a foundation logo. I just… the idea of writing a check and walking away makes me want to crawl out of my skin.”
Daniel nods.
“We can propose a structured settlement,” he replies. “Lump sum to Andrea. Separate fund in Rhea’s name, managed by a third-party safety org, with you committing ongoing contributions tied to your future earnings, if you have them. And you could agree to certain non-financial terms. Mandatory testimony in future safety hearings, no NDAs attached to this case, that kind of thing.”
No NDAs. The phrase buzzes like a blown lightbulb.
“And the filings?” I ask. “How do we write them?”
“Carefully,” he says. “But that’s my job.”
“Can you promise me one thing?” I ask.
His eyebrows tilt. “Depends what it is.”
“Don’t turn me into the victim in any of them,” I say. “I know there are ways to talk about my career losses, my mental state, whatever, to make a jury feel sorry for me. Don’t. If you need to humanize me, talk about what I did after. Not about how hard this has been on my brand.”
He studies me in silence for a beat.
“That strategy might cost you money,” he says.
“I already cost Rhea her life,” I say. “Let’s not make the scoreboard cute.”
His mouth tightens into something that isn’t quite a smile.
“Okay,” he says. “We’ll file an answer that admits the factual allegations we can’t dispute, reserves legal arguments where we must, and proposes a settlement framework that centers Andrea and safety reform. I can’t promise they’ll accept it. I can promise we won’t pretend you’re the wounded party.”
My shoulders drop a fraction. I didn’t know how high they were until they start to ache from lowering.
“One more thing,” Daniel says, flipping to the last page. “There’s a clause here we’ll want struck. Their draft demands that Andrea sign a nondisclosure about settlement terms. Given everything you’ve said publicly, that’s… inconsistent.”
I bark out a humorless laugh.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s not add another NDA to the body count.”
He clicks his pen.
“I’ll call opposing counsel,” he says. “We’ll see how willing they are to meet us in this middle ground. In the meantime, you should expect deposition notices, document requests, maybe more headlines.”
“Headlines I probably deserve,” I say.
“Deserving and surviving aren’t the same thing,” he replies. “We’re trying to find a path that lets you do both.”
The AC rattles again. Outside the window, downtown LA glints in the heat, glass towers reflecting each other into infinity.
I sign his retainer renewal anyway.
The think pieces arrive before the deposition notices.
At home, my dining table disappears under glossy magazines and printed articles. The house smells like paper ink and the bitter edge of the espresso I keep reheating until it tastes like burnt toast.
“NORA HAYES, BRAVE TRUTH-TELLER OR CYNICAL CALCULATOR?” one headline asks. The layout splits my face down the middle, half from an old rom-com premiere, half from the night of the fire, soot streaks and all.
I read three paragraphs before my stomach tightens.
Hayes’s confession raises an uncomfortable question: do we reward late honesty from those who benefited from a lie, or does applause risk encouraging performative contrition?
I fold the magazine closed and shove it under another.
On my tablet, a long-read from a serious outlet opens with an image of the mill, all rust and river fog. I scroll.
In a Pennsylvania town where rumors still circulate over bottomless coffee, an abandoned textile mill once hosted the filming of a teen drama. Today, that mill stands as a monument to what the entertainment industry tried to bury…
My fingers freeze halfway down the screen. I can taste the diner’s thin coffee, the metallic tang of the mill’s wet stair rails on the back of my tongue. The article quotes locals, old crew, unnamed “sources close to Hayes.” My life, dissected between banner ads for streaming bundles.
Another think piece takes the opposite tack, a glossy profile with soft-focus photos from years ago.
At twenty-nine, Nora Hayes has lived nine lives: working-class kid, breakout star, rom-com darling, Netflix recluse, prestige phoenix. Her recent confession recasts her not as monster or martyr but as something rarer in Hollywood—a woman willing to torch her own narrative for the chance at real accountability.
I set the tablet down before I test how far a glass of water can fly.
Because in that paragraph, accountability reads like a character trait, not a process. A trait you can edit onto a woman like contour.
My phone vibrates with notifications.
Quinn: They quoted the episode correctly in this one, but they still made you the center. I’m sorry. Link if you want it.
Jazz: Reminder that you can stop doom-scrolling and come over for pasta. No phones allowed at the table.
Unknown number: Ms. Hayes, this is the clerk’s office regarding upcoming hearings on proposed stunt safety regulations. You’re on the list to testify, if you accept. We can provide counsel info.
Another call flashes in—Daniel.
I answer.
“Deposition date?” I ask, without hello.
“Not yet,” he says. “But opposing counsel is open to talking about a safety fund. Also, the DA’s office reached out. They want to coordinate your testimony in the regulatory hearings with their investigation timeline.”
I picture the hearing room again, executives sweating under fluorescent lights, safety bullet points marching across the screen like a minimalist apology tour. I imagine myself at that table, microphone angled toward a mouth that spent years selling comfort through scripted remorse.
“So I keep showing up,” I say.
“That’s the job, yeah,” Daniel says. “The unsexy version of accountability.”
“Story of my life now,” I reply.
We hang up, and the house settles around me. The hum of the AC, the faint chlorine tang drifting in from the pool, the distant whine of a motorcycle climbing the canyon road.
On the kitchen counter, my old awards gleam in their glass-fronted cabinet, catching sunset in their facets. Little trophies to my ability to cry on cue, to make audiences feel things in ninety-minute arcs with clean resolutions.
None of them cover what I’m about to do.
I pick up a pen and, on the corner of one of the magazines, start a list in cramped handwriting: Deposition prep. Hearing testimony. Call Andrea’s lawyer. Draft statement about settlement with no hero language. Check with safety org about governance.
The list looks small on the page, but each line carries more weight than any talk-show couch.
Outside, the hills darken; LA flickers on, a grid of lights beneath my glass house. Somewhere in a damp river town back east, the mill leans over the water, waiting for whatever version of justice the future brings.
I tuck the list into the front of a legal pad and slide it into my bag.
The headlines will move on to something else. The hearings will end, the regulations will either bite or politely gum the problem.
I’m the one who has to decide whether I keep showing up when no one is streaming it live.
For the first time in my career, the most important scenes might be the ones no camera will ever shoot.