Urban System in America
Chapter 225 - 224: A Chance To Rise On… Merit, Not On Knees

Rex glanced at her, reading the exhaustion etched between her words. His casual smirk faded for a heartbeat, replaced by something gentler, something real. He didn’t say anything grand or clichéd—just stood beside her in shared silence, letting her disappointment settle without judgment.

’Of course it does, he thought bitterly. No one’s out here tossing golden tickets like it’s some kind of talent-based lottery. You want in? You crawl—on broken glass if needed—into the belly of the beast, smile at the devils, play their dirty games, satisfy their perverted fantasies. These parties weren’t talent showcases—they were auditions for who could stomach the filth the longest without flinching. Getting discovered in a crowd like this? That wasn’t just rare—it was damn near delusional.

Of course, the world isn’t all darkness—there are still people out there with morals, with boundaries, with lines they won’t cross. If not, Hollywood would’ve collapsed under its own filth a thousand times over. And yet, sometimes it felt like those few good ones were just flickering candles in a storm—brave, but fighting a system built to snuff them out.’

But he didn’t say that. Instead, he leaned casually on the railing beside her, letting the thump of bass and shallow laughter fill the pause. Sometimes, silence said more than any pep talk. And this moment? It didn’t need fixing—it just needed company.

But outwardly, he kept his tone light.

"Oh? From the way you said that, sounds like you’re pretty confident you’ve got what it takes."

She looked at him, eyes lingering for a moment.

"Of course, even though I’m like this here," she said, her voice quieter now but brimming with a deep, confident pride, "back in my country—the United Kingdom—I graduated from the Royal Academy of Art. It’s the top drama academy in the whole of the UK—hell, maybe even the world.

I’ve performed in dozens of stage productions, taken on lead roles in complex plays, lived and breathed characters most people can’t even pronounce. I even landed third and fourth lead roles in several indie films back home. I wasn’t just some extra on the set—I was one of the top rising rookies in all of Britain."

Her posture straightened as she spoke, eyes glinting with the fire of someone who knew their worth—who had worked tooth and nail for every shred of recognition. But the pride that filled her voice cracked at the edges, and slowly, her shoulders sank, her tone softening into something heavy and bitter.

"But without connections or money, that’s where it all stalled. No matter how many hours I trained, how many times I rewrote my lines, every breath, rehearsed until I lost my voice—it didn’t matter.

In the end, people with powerful last names, fat checkbooks, or open legs got the spotlight. I’ve seen girls who couldn’t deliver a line without ten retakes land lead roles, all because their family owns a chain of cinemas, because their daddy owned a few studios—or because they’re willing to get down on their knees and sleep with the right people."

She scoffed, her jaw clenched now. Her expression darkened, eyes narrowing with simmering hatred. "Those sluts... they’re not even qualified to be called actresses," she spat. As if memorizing three lines and looking pretty in lingerie makes them worthy of the stage.

They’re not actresses—they’re just whores dressed in satin, and the only script they follow is who to please next. They’ve slept their way through every crevice of the industry. And they think sleeping their way through every rung of the ladder—from the janitor to the cameraman to the producers would make them an actor? No, it will only make them better whore.

But people applaud them like they’re stars instead of what they really are—opportunistic parasites in heels."

"They’ve really screwed their way into the spotlight while the rest of us grind until we’re hollow."

Her hands clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palm as if to anchor herself. Her voice was shaking, not from fear, but from barely restrained rage. Years of frustration, rejection, and injustice poured through every word. "I spent nights perfecting monologues, training my voice, learning to cry on cue and laugh on demand—and still, all I could get was those insignificant roles and they always get the top roles. They smile, flirt, open their legs, and the world calls them ’talent.’ It’s disgusting."

Her laugh was dry, empty. "You think talent counts for anything? Sometimes I think it’s the curse. Talent makes you stubborn, gives you pride, stops you from bending—and in this business, if you won’t kneel, you don’t exist."

Rex didn’t interrupt. He just let her speak, absorbing the venom and pain she’d clearly held in for far too long. Her bitterness wasn’t unwarranted—it was earned. And right now, it was raw, real, and roaring to be heard.

After a few moments, she composed herself a bit and continued, her voice more level, though her eyes still held the weight of everything she’d just shared, then shook her head with a humorless chuckle. "But I wasn’t going to rot there and become one of them. I didn’t want to wake up one day and look in the mirror and not recognize the person staring back.

I didn’t want to end up just another story of compromise and quiet regret. Didn’t want to eventually break like the others who caved for fame and fortune. I want to make it—but I want to make it on my terms. Without selling out. Without losing myself."

Her fingers played with the edge of her clutch, almost absentmindedly, as her gaze lifted again toward the party’s glittering skyline. "My dream was to become a top superstar—not a top slut. That’s why I left. I left everything. My family, my friends, my comfort.

I came to LA—to Hollywood, the heart of this damn industry—for better opportunities. I came here to start over, to rebuild—not just my career, but my hope. I thought maybe, just maybe, Hollywood would offer a real shot. Not an easy one, but a real one. Something earned. Something that actually matters."

"For a chance to rise on... merit, not on my knees."

(End of Chapter)