"Ayla Griffin—"
The host's voice cut through the lights. I stood, forced a smile, and walked to the stage.
"Thank you, thank you—" I started, the microphone heavy in my hand.
"Slow down, Ayla," someone offstage shouted. Cameras closed in like hungry mouths.
"—to everyone who believed in me," I said. My jaw tightened. Nausea hit like a wall.
"Is she okay?" a voice in the audience called out.
I blinked. My throat closed. I swallowed and tasted metal.
"You're white," the host said, awkward laugh. "You want water?"
"No," I lied. The lights were hot, the cameras relentless. I took another breath and thanked the director, the crew, the fans.
Then my stomach convulsed. I gagged.
The first throw was a soft sound, caught by a microphone that magnified failure to the size of a headline.
The stream chat exploded in the lower corner of the broadcast, crawling with live reactions.
"[Chat] omg"
"[Chat] she puked"
"[Chat] is she sick or pregnant?"
"[Chat] liar actress"
I couldn't stop it. My knees buckled. Someone caught me. I was aware of a hiss from the crowd like steam escaping.
"Security—" the host's voice frayed. He tried to help and then recoiled when it became clear the mess wouldn't be neat.
Cameras didn't cut. There were rules, orders, ratings to protect. The director yelled into an earpiece, and the wide shot stayed live.
"This is real," a commentator said. "This is unscripted."
Onstage hands, dress fabric
