Gaze - Short Film (Beta)

You think you know what power looks like. You think it’s the person on the billboard, the face that launches a thousand campaigns, the body that sells dreams wrapped in designer labels. But you’re wrong. Power is me, sitting in this casting studio at 2 AM, deciding who gets to exist in the public eye and who disappears into the void of anonymity.

My name is Clara, and I am twenty-four years old. I am also the reason your favorite model got their break, and I am the reason you’ve never heard of a dozen others who should have been stars. In this city that never sleeps, I am the dream-maker and the dream-killer, often in the same breath.

The call came at 1:47 AM. Chase’s voice, usually smooth as aged whiskey, cracked like a teenager’s.

“Clara, something’s wrong. Really wrong.”

I was already reaching for my coat. In this business, when someone like Chase Morrison calls you in the middle of the night, you listen. Chase isn’t just another pretty face—though God knows he is pretty, with those storm-gray eyes and that jawline that could cut glass. He’s my discovery, my masterpiece, the boy I plucked from obscurity and molded into Manhattan’s most sought-after male model.

“Where are you?” I asked, my heels already clicking against the marble floor of my Tribeca loft.

“My place. Clara, I think someone’s trying to destroy me.”

The thing about this industry is that paranoia comes with the territory. Everyone thinks someone’s out to get them, and usually, they’re right. But Chase isn’t the paranoid type. He’s golden boy confident, the kind of person who assumes the world will always bend to accommodate his beauty. If Chase Morrison is scared, then there’s something genuinely terrifying happening.

I found him in his penthouse, pacing like a caged animal. His usually perfect hair was disheveled, and there were shadows under those famous eyes that no amount of concealer could hide.

“Tell me everything,” I said, settling into his Italian leather sofa like I owned the place. In many ways, I did. I’d chosen this apartment, negotiated the lease, even selected the furniture. When you create someone from nothing, you control everything.

“It started three weeks ago,” Chase began, his voice steadier now that I was there. “Little things at first. Bookings getting mysteriously canceled. Photographers suddenly unavailable. Then yesterday, someone leaked those photos.”

I knew about the photos. Everyone in the industry knew about the photos. Candid shots of Chase at his most vulnerable—coming out of therapy, crying in his car, looking human instead of godlike. In our world, humanity is a liability.

“Who has access to your schedule?” I asked, though I was already running through possibilities in my mind. This wasn’t random. This was personal, calculated, and intimate.

“Just you, my agent, and…” He paused, something flickering across his face.

“And?”

“Jackson.”

Jackson Rivera. Chase’s best friend since childhood, the one person who knew him before the transformation, before I made him into something extraordinary. I’d always found Jackson interesting—not beautiful enough for my world, but possessing a sharp intelligence that could be dangerous in the right circumstances.

“When did you last see Jackson?” I asked.

“Two nights ago. At that party in SoHo.” Chase’s jaw tightened. “He was acting strange. Angry. He said some things…”

I leaned forward. In my experience, the most important revelations always came after someone said “he said some things.”

“What kind of things?”

“He said I’d changed. That I wasn’t the same person he grew up with. He said I’d forgotten where I came from, forgotten who my real friends were.” Chase ran his hands through his hair. “Clara, he attacked me. Physically attacked me. My friends had to pull him off.”

Interesting. Very interesting. I filed this information away, adding it to the growing picture in my mind. Jackson Rivera: childhood friend, presumably middle-class background, watching his best friend ascend to heights he could never reach. Classic case of envy disguised as moral superiority.

“Have you considered that Jackson might be involved in this campaign against you?” I asked gently.

Chase’s laugh was bitter. “Jackson? No way. He’s my oldest friend. He wouldn’t—” He stopped, doubt creeping into his voice. “Would he?”

The beautiful thing about my job is that I see people clearly. Strip away the makeup, the lighting, the carefully constructed personas, and you see the truth underneath. Chase, for all his success, was still that small-town boy who trusted too easily. He couldn’t fathom that his oldest friend might be his greatest enemy.

But I could.

Over the next few days, I began my investigation. I called it research—after all, protecting my investments is part of my job description. I started with Jackson’s social media, his employment history, his financial records. What I found painted a picture of a man drowning in mediocrity while watching his best friend soar.

Jackson worked at a mid-tier marketing firm, made decent but unremarkable money, and had recently been passed over for a promotion. His Instagram was a study in barely concealed resentment—photos of Chase’s success accompanied by captions that seemed supportive but carried an undertone of bitterness.

Then I found the connection I was looking for.

Jackson had recently been “dating” someone new. I put “dating” in quotes because, in their world, it wasn’t serious or romantic. It was the kind of bro-straight slang they use when two guys are close, hanging out, maybe even scheming together—but both had girlfriends, and it was understood. No one was confused about that. No photos, no public acknowledgment, just vague references to “messing around” or “seeing where things go,” which was their way of saying they were metaphorically dating—partners in manipulation rather than romance.

But I have resources that go beyond Instagram stalking. I have contacts, favors owed, and a network of information that spans the entire fashion industry.

The someone special was Ethan Cole, a failed model turned photographer who’d been blacklisted from major agencies after a series of inappropriate incidents with clients. Ethan had tried to break into the industry for years, had been rejected by every major agency—including mine. He was talented but unstable, beautiful but unmarketable, ambitious but ultimately forgettable.

Except he hadn’t forgotten. And now he had found the perfect weapon in Jackson Rivera.

I could see the whole picture now. Ethan, bitter about his own failures, pulling Jackson deeper into his orbit, feeding his resentment and jealousy. Jackson, already envious of Chase’s success, being manipulated into becoming the inside man in a campaign of destruction. It was elegant in its simplicity and devastating in its effectiveness.

But Ethan had made one crucial mistake. He’d underestimated me.

The fashion industry might seem frivolous to outsiders, but it’s actually a battlefield where fortunes are made and destroyed with surgical precision. I didn’t get to where I am by being nice or playing fair. I got here by being smarter, more ruthless, and infinitely more creative than my competition.

I began my counterattack immediately.

First, I leaked information about Ethan’s past indiscretions to key industry publications. Not enough to seem vindictive, just enough to remind people why he’d been blacklisted in the first place. Then I arranged for Jackson to be offered a lucrative marketing contract with one of my client companies—contingent, of course, on his complete discretion regarding Chase’s personal life.

But the masterstroke came when I orchestrated a meeting between Ethan and Chase at a gallery opening in Chelsea. I made sure Chase looked absolutely stunning that night—custom Tom Ford, perfect lighting, surrounded by admirers. I wanted Ethan to see exactly what he could never be, what he could never have.

Ethan took the bait. Unable to resist the opportunity to confront his obsession face-to-face, he approached Chase with Jackson in tow. What he didn’t know was that I’d arranged for several photographers to be present, and that the entire conversation was being recorded.

“You think you’re so special,” Ethan hissed at Chase, his composure finally cracking. “You think you deserve all of this because you won the genetic lottery?”

Chase, to his credit, remained calm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about the fact that you’re nothing without her,” Ethan jerked his head toward me. “You’re just another pretty face she molded into her perfect little puppet.”

Jackson looked uncomfortable, finally seeing his metaphorical “dating” partner’s obsession for what it truly was. But Ethan wasn’t finished.

“I could have been you,” he continued, his voice rising. “I should have been you. But she decided I wasn’t good enough, wasn’t marketable enough. So she threw me away like garbage.”

That’s when I stepped forward, my voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

“Ethan Cole,” I said pleasantly. “I remember you. You auditioned for me three years ago. You were talented, I’ll give you that. But you were also unstable, unreliable, and ultimately unmarketable. I didn’t throw you away—you threw yourself away with your behavior.”

Ethan’s face contorted with rage. “You destroyed my career!”

“No,” I replied calmly. “I simply chose not to enable your delusions. There’s a difference.”

The confrontation ended with security escorting Ethan from the gallery, but not before he’d revealed enough to confirm everything I’d suspected. Jackson, horrified by what he’d been manipulated into doing, immediately confessed his role in the campaign against Chase.

The resolution was swift and decisive. Ethan was banned from industry events and his remaining contacts dried up overnight. Jackson, genuinely remorseful, provided evidence of Ethan’s manipulation and harassment. The leaked photos were traced back to Ethan’s devices, and legal action was swift and merciless.

But the most satisfying part came three weeks later, when I called Chase with news that would change everything.

“Valentinoire wants you for their global campaign,” I told him, unable to keep the triumph out of my voice. “Exclusive contract, two years, eight figures.”

Chase’s silence stretched so long I thought the call had dropped.

“Clara,” he finally said, his voice thick with emotion. “How did you—”

“I did what I always do,” I replied. “I saw what others couldn’t see. I protected what needed protecting. And I made sure that talent triumphed over mediocrity.”

The Valentinoire campaign launched six months later, featuring Chase in a series of stunning black-and-white photographs that redefined masculine beauty for a generation. The tagline was simple but perfect: “See the Extraordinary.”

Ethan Cole disappeared from the industry entirely, last seen working at a chain photography studio in Queens. Jackson Rivera, chastened by his experience, rebuilt his friendship with Chase on more honest ground and eventually started his own successful marketing firm.

And me? I continued doing what I do best—seeing the potential in others and making it reality. Because in a world obsessed with surface beauty, someone has to look deeper. Someone has to see not just what is, but what could be.

Someone has to control the gaze.

The fashion industry will tell you that beauty is everything, that the right face can sell dreams and change lives. But they’re wrong. Beauty is just the raw material. The real power lies in knowing how to shape it, how to present it, and most importantly, how to protect it.

I am Clara, and I am the one who decides what the world sees. In a culture built on visibility, I am the ultimate arbiter of who gets to exist in the light and who disappears into the shadows.

And I’m very, very good at my job.

The End

About GAZE: This psychological mystery explores the dark underbelly of the fashion industry through the eyes of Clara, a young casting director who wields unprecedented power over who gets to be seen. When her star discovery Chase becomes the target of a mysterious campaign of destruction, Clara must use all her skills and connections to uncover the truth and protect her investment. Part thriller, part social commentary, GAZE examines themes of power, visibility, and the price of beauty in contemporary culture.