A thousand reasons, p.1
A Thousand Reasons, page 1
A
Thousand Reasons
TITANIA
TEMPEST
somewhere
between the masks we wear
and the scars we bare
lies the truth of us
Copyright © 2025 Titania Tempest
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, without written permission from the author. Do not copy this book, use it for AI training, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
First edition
ISBN 978-2-9595187-3-7
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
Screw the rules. Find your courage. Rowan Hart whispered the mantra again and again as she sat in her Volvo in the far corner of Blackwood Studios’ car park, staring out at the icy dawn that pressed grey and heavy against the windscreen. They weren’t her words, but she let them seep into the edges of her existence and settle there.
She’d heard them in a recent interview, a nugget of advice for up-and-coming actresses from the iconic Vivienne Vale. They’d struck a chord – and though Rowan was well past the point of ‘up-and-coming’, she’d committed them to heart anyway, because they came from Vivienne.
Find your courage.
She hoped that innocuous phrase might help her keep her head in the game for the fifth and final season of The Crystal Throne. Her hands tightened around the steering wheel as she thought about the looming end of this part of her life, and everything the afterward promised. It was… exhilarating.
And terrifying. She hoped this ending would be cleaner than her last one – no paparazzi stakeouts, no promises broken by media storms.
Maybe this time, she’d be brave enough to face the music.
She was so close. One more season – just that. If she closed strong, she’d have her pick of any future project
she liked. And she could. She had put in the work, accumulated the skill. The past four seasons playing Lyric – knight, rebel, unwilling heir – had skyrocketed her reputation and cemented her status as an actress worth her salt.
But… she was about to face the biggest challenge of her career so far. Because this season, when their antagonist characters finally clashed on screen for the first time, she’d be acting across from Vivienne herself – and she was going to need all the inspired fortitude she could get. On paper, she could stand up beside the legendary actress, but to be actually sitting outside Stage 9, minutes away from the first table read, she wasn’t quite sure reality would hold up. Viv was the kind of impossible standard Rowan would give anything to achieve, and although she had a score of accolades of her own, she felt pale by comparison. She’d been on Viv’s periphery long enough – watching her dominate The Crystal Throne as the magnificent Queen Selandra – to know that she might as well be a firefly, daring to challenge the sun.
Still, if she could steady her nerves and trust in her own talent, she could learn a lot from Viv before the series wrap, and she fully intended to. Every scene opposite her would be a masterclass, and there was no better way to fine-tune skill than by fencing with somebody better. She could almost picture herself rising to the challenge; the verbal sparring, the thrill of matching wits—
Her phone pinged, pulling her from her reverie. She glanced down at an arbitrary notification, swiped to ignore it, and then suddenly noticed the time.
“Oh, shit,” she exclaimed, snatching up her bag and leaping from the car.
Being late for the table read was a great start. Cursing her penchant for getting lost in her own thoughts, she sprinted across the carpark and slipped into the building through the side entrance. She threw her coat onto the rack by the door, nodded warmly to a passing grip and tossed a smiling greeting to the receptionist before keeping up her cracking pace down the hallway. Her friendliness wasn’t posturing; it was a habit. She’d spent her twenties trying to memorise everyone’s names on set, and her thirties learning to smile when she said good morning. Now, at forty-two, she’d mastered the art of seeming warm and approachable, no matter how harried she might sometimes feel.
As she passed a glass wall, she caught sight of her reflection and skidded to a halt to give herself a quick once-over. She looked all right, she reckoned: tailored jeans, boots, a crimson tank under a crisp black leather jacket. Understated, yet stylish. Carefully, she brushed a crease out of her top, adjusted her jacket collar, tucked a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear – and admitted to herself, even as she did it, that it was nothing more than a delay tactic, fuelled by nerves.
“Get your shit together,” she chided her reflection. “You’ll be fine. She isn’t the first big name you’ve worked with.”
Which was completely true. But… none of those big names had been Vivienne Vale – a woman not exactly known for her patience, who was probably already at the table read, waiting for her.
With a grimace, Rowan forced her feet to move. Along the way, she loosened her stride and relaxed her shoulders, and by the time she arrived in the buzzing conference room, she had control of herself again. Her chest might be a riot of nerves, but her smile offered the smooth, practised ease of professionalism, and no one would guess at the storm inside. The familiar hustle was comforting, too; writers and cast milled about with coffees and bits of paper, catching up after the hiatus. Someone had brought pastries. A few familiar faces glanced up and called greetings, and she was unreasonably pleased to see that Viv hadn’t, in fact, arrived yet. Feeling like she’d been granted a stay of execution, she grabbed a coffee of her own and then slid into a seat nearly halfway down the long oak table to lounge as if she’d been there for aeons.
“Morning,” she murmured to the actor beside her.
Nick, who played her onscreen brother, mumbled something with a sleepy grin and handed her a muffin. She took a bite and settled down to flick through her script, and then the energy in the room turned suddenly brittle. There was no announcement. No fanfare. Just a charged hush and the soft click of stiletto heels drawing closer across polished tiles. Rowan didn’t look round at first. She didn’t quite have the courage to, because she knew exactly who made the room go quiet like that.
Heads swivelled, excited greetings were murmured, and Rowan at last managed to glance towards the doorway. She sat stiller than she meant to, swallowing hard as she caught her first sight of Viv since last year. The sovereign wore slate-grey trousers and a cream silk blouse, her blonde hair pinned in a loose chignon that looked both effortless and impossible to replicate. Rowan’s chest seized somewhere between awe and anxiety, her heartbeat a staccato that made breathing suddenly impossible.
Viv’s gaze swept the room above a cordial smile, and Rowan managed to give a polite, unaffected nod when it was her turn to be noticed. After Viv had made brief eye contact with every person present, she took her seat at the head of the table, and then everyone else rapidly slid into their own chairs. Rowan glanced sideways without moving her head. Viv’s posture was impeccable, her expression unreadable as she perused her copy of the script. She didn’t perform off camera. She just… was.
Effortless. Untouchable.
The way Rowan should be. Giving herself a mental shake, Rowan looked back down at her own paperwork and skimmed the first few lines. She hardly heard the showrunner’s short welcome speech – that part was always the same, anyway. All that mattered now was the script, and she let her mind settle, slipping into the comforting reality of her own hard-earned proficiency. She was more than prepared, after all, to throw herself into the first table read of the season.
The first few scenes passed in familiar rhythm. Nick read his lines with easy charm, and Rowan matched him, slipping into Lyric’s character with simple grace. The dialogue was fluid and colourful, brought to life by Rowan’s smooth, poetic voice in counterpoint to Nick’s deeper tones, and there were scattered chuckles around the table at a jibe, appreciative murmurs at a new turn of phrase.
Then, the script turned to Queen Selandra and Lyric’s long-awaited initial encounter, and something shifted.
Silence fell. All eyes turned to Viv, and, Rowan caught her breath against the palpable anticipation coiled through the room. After a perfectly timed pause – as if she had all the time in the world – Viv finally spoke her first line.
“Well, well,” she said, her voice soft, yet steady as steel. “Lyric… My wayward little protégé. You r eturn at last – not in loyalty, but to seize the crown you once swore to protect.”
Subtle as smoke, the accusation hung in the air, and Rowan felt the hair rise on her arms. For a long heartbeat, the heavy quiet persisted, but then Rowan exhaled and found her place.
“I swore to protect the truth, Selandra,” she replied. Her lip curled, and she leaned into Lyric’s rebelliousness to challenge the queen. “Not the throne. The long night of your reign thins, and I will be as the sun, rising upon the shadow you’ve cast.”
Rowan lifted her gaze – as calm and impassive as she could manage – and met Viv’s across the oak table. Viv regarded her coolly for a long second, and Rowan inexplicably felt like she’d found herself on trial. But she didn’t blink, and, at last, Viv inclined her head the barest fraction, as if in approval.
Rowan thought her chest might burst.
She held onto that feeling through the scenes that followed, matching Viv’s delivery line for line without ever breaking stride, and by the time the showrunner called for
a break, the room was practically electric with enthusiasm for the new script.
Viv rose to attend to a summons from her manager, Elaine, and excused herself from the room. Nick clapped Rowan on the back – pulling her attention away from Viv as she disappeared out the door – and someone thrust a coffee into her hand.
“That was epic, Ro!” Nick beamed. “This season’s ratings are going to be off the charts if you and Vivienne keep up the way you’ve started.”
“Hey!” Rowan returned with a grin. “You weren’t too shabby yourself.”
“Maybe so,” he laughed, “but I’m not the main character.”
With a wink, he sauntered off to find something to snack on and Rowan shook her head affectionately as she watched him go. She pushed to her feet and retreated to
a quiet corner to sip at her coffee, mulling pleasantly over how well the read was going so far. No one seemed to require her immediate attention – thankfully – and Rowan leaned against the wall, tuning in and out of conversations, until a younger actress paused to say hello.
“Rowan!” the girl beamed. “Did you see Selandra and Lyric trending after the end of season four? The fans are convinced you two are endgame.”
Rowan rolled her eyes and huffed a laugh. “What
a ridiculous notion. We haven’t even been in the same scene, yet. Besides, Viv’s the villain – she’ll probably kill me before the finale.”
“Right,” the girl laughed. “But like… with yearning.”
Rowan snorted, shook her head, and took another sip of coffee as the youngster skipped off.
Fans and their wild theories. There was no way in hell she was going to let that gain any traction. Speculation had cost her too much, last time – one headline and a love song later, and everything had gone up in flames beneath the spotlight.
After the read, with the sun setting somewhere behind London’s foggy skyline, Rowan stepped back out into the crisp air. She adjusted her bag, thrust her hands deep into her coat pockets, and walked briskly towards the Volvo, energised by a sense of achievement. Despite her initial nerves this morning, the day had run unreasonably well, and she felt she was off to a great start in matching Viv line for line. She had a firm foothold on the base of Viv’s towering pedestal, and now there was nothing left to do but climb.
Halfway across the carpark, Rowan suddenly caught sight of Viv herself, standing near the exit talking with one of the producers. She hesitated, debating whether to swing closer and say goodbye, but before she’d quite decided if it would be appropriate, Viv looked in her direction and offered a brisk nod.
Rowan returned it and continued on, her stride lighter than before. A nod was better than no recognition at all – and coming from Vivienne Vale, it was practically an endorsement.
She drove home with the heating turned way up and the music blaring, not minding the slow crawl of rush hour traffic. Her thoughts circled the script – until a song she knew well pulled her out of her musings. It tugged at memories, coaxing a familiar ache from beneath the day’s bright success, and for a long moment, she simply listened. The lyrics were fitting, even now – pretty, and poignant – and the singer’s soft, smoky voice seemed to sing straight to her soul.
As it had in person, once.
With a quiet sigh, she switched to something upbeat and turned her mind to Vivienne Vale instead. Replaying the morning in careful detail, she let analysis drown out emotion. She lingered on the moment she’d caught Viv’s gaze across the table after their first exchange, and that was enough to properly distract her from the past.
There had been something loaded in that – something thoughtful in the tilt of Viv’s head, deliberate in the cool fire of her gaze. As if she’d evaluated her. And decided she might become a worthy opponent after all. The thought made Rowan smile, because Viv had pushed her harder after that – every line delivered with more bite – and the thrill of meeting her head-on had steadied Rowan’s nerves. She’d never been able to resist a challenge, and pressure always brought her best. Perhaps, tomorrow, she would push Viv.
The irony amused her.
Find her courage, indeed.
Buoyed by an easy optimism, she hummed along to ‘Bittersweet Symphony’ as she turned into the underground carpark beneath her building. It might be the end of the series, but she’d make damned sure it was only the beginning of everything else.
CHAPTER TWO
The sleek black limo eased to a stop outside Vivienne’s building, and Viv opened her door before her chauffeur, Stanley, could come around and do it for her. She stepped out without pausing for his umbrella, took two quick strides over a large puddle, and ducked under the shelter of the entrance’s large, ornate awning. The corner of her lip twitched with a wry smile as she overheard Stanley’s long-suffering sigh behind her. She was supposed to wait for his assistance. She never did.
Pausing long enough to offer him a thank-you-and-good-night, she retreated into the lobby and was grateful to leave the snap of night air behind her.
George, the night concierge, straightened as she crossed the polished marble floor. “Evening, Miss Vale,” he said, tipping his hat.
“Evening, George,” she returned. She offered a faint smile, the one that conveyed polite warmth without invitation, and did not linger to chat.
Upstairs, the private lift released her into a penthouse as pristine and polished as the photographs in glossy design magazines. Pale oak floors, cream walls, splashes of muted teal in the soft furnishings, and not a thing out of place. Viv hung her coat, set her handbag on the dresser, and placed her script neatly on the kitchen island before slipping off her heels. The relief was instant, tendons sighing, spine loosening by a fraction, and she padded barefoot across the thick rug.
The silence settled over her shoulders like a familiar shawl, and she sighed into it, relishing the moment’s peace. Out there, she was Vivienne Vale, legend of stage and screen. In here, she was simply Viv, a woman who liked her flat uncluttered, her evenings quiet, and her feet comfortable.
She poured herself a glass of Sancerre and carried it to the floor-to-ceiling windows to admire the view, something she never forgot to do. With a slow, indulgent sip of her wine, she loosened her thoughts and let her attention be drawn out to the shape of London below.
The city was slick with rain, streetlamps haloed in the mist, and a black cab slid through an intersection far beneath Viv’s vantage. Its taillights sketched a long, blurred line as it pulled away, and as she watched it out of sight she mused about its possible inhabitants. Maybe they were young lovers, crossing the city under shelter of night, sharing whispered promises as they left the world of judgment and disapproval behind them…
Her tablet chimed on the counter behind her, pulling her out of her reverie, and with a sigh, she closed the curtains and turned to pick it up. Idly, she sipped her wine and swiped past notifications. A flood of headlines had already bloomed online:
FINAL TABLE READ BEGINS
VIVIENNE VALE RETURNS TO HER THRONE
LYRIC & SELANDRA ENDGAME? FANS THINK SO
The last one made her purse her lips. Lyric and Selandra? How preposterous. Was anyone even watching this show? The two characters were enemies, through and through, and it was only ever going to end badly. She knew Elaine would disapprove of the fan theory, too, would already be drafting lines for Viv to laugh it off in interviews. Viv didn’t need to think too deeply about it; her manager had been fielding this kind of nonsense for years.
