My Life in Hollywood C45 Noticed (Patreon)

For her first real project—one where she actually mattered, where she was part of the main cast—Lana couldn't help but obsess over the reception.

She'd been glued to her laptop for the past few days, refreshing forums and scrolling through comment sections. At first, there was barely anything. A few scattered mentions here and there. But then she found Television Without Pity, and her heart nearly stopped.

Modern Family was on the popular list. People were actually talking about it.

"Hehe, am I famous now?" She caught herself grinning at the screen like an idiot. She shook her head. "Don't be stupid. It's one episode. No one's gonna notice—"

Her voice trailed off as she read a comment:

TVivorce_Attorney: Can anyone tell me who plays Haley? Damn, she's a good actress. Easy on the eyes too. Hope we see more of her in future episodes.

Lana's heart thumped.

"No way." She leaned closer to the screen, rereading the words. "People actually noticed me? From just the pilot?"

It shouldn't have surprised her this much. She knew audiences latched onto characters quickly—first impressions mattered in television. But after everything she'd been through, after being blacklisted and written off, seeing a stranger on the internet praise her performance felt like validation she didn't know she needed.

This was why actors obsessively checked reviews and forums. It wasn't vanity. It was confirmation that the work meant something. That someone out there watched and felt something.

"Lana, your turn for the bathroom!"

Hana's voice made her jump. Her step-sister poked her head through the door, then paused when she saw Lana hunched over her laptop with a goofy smile.

"Oh." Hana's lips curled into a knowing grin. "Reading forum reactions about your show?"

Lana slammed the laptop shut, face flushing. "What? No. I was just—"

"Uh-huh." Hana walked over, completely unconvinced. "You don't have to be embarrassed. I'd be doing the same thing."

Lana groaned, burying her face in her hands. "Is it that obvious?"

"Very." Hana sat on the edge of the bed. "But hey, you should be excited. It's your first big role."

Lana peeked through her fingers. "Did you watch it?"

Hana rolled her eyes. "I work for Netflicks. Of course I watched it. I'm subscribed too." She smiled. "And honestly? You were great. Like, genuinely great. Same with your co-stars."

Lana's embarrassment melted into genuine happiness. "Yeah. Mr. Timothy and Ms. Julia were amazing to work with. Really patient too." She thought back to the shoot—how the older actors had helped her through scenes she struggled with, offering tips without making her feel stupid. "They're pros. Made the whole thing way less intimidating."

Hana nodded. "Sounds like a good set."

"It was." Lana hugged her knees to her chest. "I just... I really hope this show does well, you know? Not just for me. For everyone. Timothy's been grinding for years without a big break. Julia too. They deserve something that sticks."

A show like Modern Family could change careers. Stable work, steady paychecks, actual recognition. For actors who'd spent years bouncing between bit parts and unemployment, that meant everything.

Lana wanted it to succeed. Not just for herself—but for all of them.

---ʕ⁠´⁠•⁠ᴥ⁠•⁠`⁠ʔ---

By the third week of April, the third episode of Modern Family dropped on Monday—and unlike the quiet launch of the pilot, people were actually paying attention.

The billboards had done their work. NoHo and L.A. were saturated with Netflicks branding, and now the marketing push was expanding—San Diego, San Francisco, a few spots in Arizona and Nevada. Nothing massive, but enough to plant seeds in new markets.

The subscriber count reflected it. Every day, the numbers climbed higher. Between the buzz around Modern Family and the steady pull of licensed content—anime, Asian dramas, indie films—Netflicks was fast approaching $1 million in estimated monthly revenue.

One million dollars a month.

For a company barely two years old, that was remarkable. Most tech startups hemorrhaged cash for years before seeing a dime of profit. They burned through investor money praying for growth that might never come. But Netflicks had content people wanted, a subscription model that locked in recurring revenue, and now an original show generating real heat.

The momentum was building.

Still, for all its growth, Netflicks remained a mystery to most Americans. On forums across the internet, confused users kept posting variations of the same questions:

"What the heck is Netflicks! I've been searching my cable guide for hours but can't find it!"

"Fuck! I thought cable had everything? Every channel? Why can't I see this Netflicks anywhere! Someone help."

"I keep hearing about Modern Family. What channel is Netflicks on?"

The assumption that Netflicks was some obscure cable network persisted. Fortunately, there were enough good Samaritans on these forums willing to explain that no, it wasn't a channel—it was a website where you streamed shows on your computer.

Slowly but surely, word spread.

And as Netflicks grew more visible, it started catching the attention of bigger players.

The networks.

While most major broadcast networks kept their corporate headquarters in New York City, the real creative engine lived on the West Coast. Los Angeles and Burbank housed the entertainment production divisions—the people who actually made the shows.

UBA was no exception.

As one of the Big Three networks, UBA had built its reputation on entertainment programming. Sitcoms, dramas, variety shows—they'd dominated the landscape for decades. Their Burbank facility was a sprawling campus where pilots got greenlit, scripts got rewritten, and careers got made or broken.

This season, their crown jewel was a new sitcom that had premiered back in early March. Big budget. Star-studded cast. Heavy promotion. The kind of show networks bet millions on.

For the first few weeks, everything looked fine. Ratings held steady, advertisers were happy, and the executives congratulated themselves on another hit.

Then April came.

Week five, the numbers dipped. Week six, they dipped again. By week seven, the slide was undeniable.

Standard procedure kicked in. The research department pulled demographic breakdowns, analyzed competing timeslots, and combed through social media chatter. They needed to understand where the audience was going—because viewers didn't just vanish. They went somewhere.

The answer came from the forums.

On sites like Television Without Pity, users were openly comparing UBA's sitcom to something called Modern Family. Comments like "Why am I still watching this when Modern Family exists?" and "UBA's show feels so dated compared to that Netflicks sitcom" kept popping up. The research team noticed a pattern—viewers weren't just dropping off. They were switching to something else.

Something on a streaming website called Netflicks.

The timing lined up perfectly. Their ratings started bleeding right around when Modern Family began gaining traction online.

Hence, this meeting.

The conference room was tense.

Howard Ames sat at the head of the table, jaw clenched. As Senior Vice President of Comedy Development, underperforming shows landed on his desk. And right now, UBA's flagship comedy was hemorrhaging viewers with no clear explanation.

"What the hell is Netflicks?" Howard's voice cut through the room. "And how is some show from that channel affecting our ratings?"

A junior developer shifted nervously. "It's, uh, not a channel, sir. It's a streaming website. People pay monthly and watch shows on their—"

Howard slammed his palm on the table.

"I don't care if it's a channel, a website, or a goddamn carrier pigeon." He pointed at the man. "I'm asking why their show is stealing our audience."

Silence. No one wanted to be the one to state the obvious.

"We've been tracking forum discussions, sir," another researcher offered carefully. "There's significant chatter comparing our show unfavorably to theirs. The sentiment shift started in early April—right when their show launched."

"I've seen their billboards everywhere recently," an executive added. "Netflicks, Modern Family—they're plastered all over the 101, Sunset Boulevard, even down in Santa Monica. A month ago, nobody knew what Netflicks was. Now it's everywhere."

Howard's eye twitched. "A website is buying billboards."

"Yes, sir. And it's working. Brand recognition is growing fast."

Howard leaned back, trying to process this absurdity. A website. Billboards. A sitcom that wasn't even on television.

"Fine," he said tightly. "So their show is getting buzz. What makes it so damn special?"

The woman from research spoke up. "Their format is different, sir. They use something called mockumentary style—characters talk directly to camera, interview cutaways, no laugh track." She hesitated. "I watched it myself. It's actually quite good."

"So fucking great." Howard's voice dripped with contempt. "Besides the gimmick, are there any big names attached? Anyone pulling viewers?"

The team exchanged glances.

"Anyone?" Howard pressed, irritation rising.

"No," a man near the end answered. "Mostly unknowns. A few working actors, but no real star power."

Howard couldn't wrap his head around it. A no-name cast on some random website was beating his star-studded, multi-million-dollar production?

Then someone cleared their throat. "Actually, boss... you might recognize one of their actresses."

Howard's eyes narrowed. "Oh? So there is someone?"

The room grew uncomfortable. A few people shifted in their seats.

"Who?" Howard demanded.

A researcher slid a photo across the table—a promotional still from the pilot. A young blonde woman playing the older daughter.

Howard snatched it up.

Pretty. Young. Familiar.

He squinted at the face. "Wait... who is this?"

Then it clicked.

His mouth went dry.

'Isn't this the girl I sent to Chairman Christopher?'

He remembered now. The actress who'd been up for a role on their own sitcom. The one he'd personally offered to Christopher Doyle at that hotel. The one who'd fled before anything happened—and gotten blacklisted for it.

'What the hell is she doing here? I made sure no one would touch her!'

His grip tightened. The photo crumpled in his fist.

He tossed it aside with a dark expression. "Call this bitch's manager. I made it very clear—no one was supposed to hire her."

The researcher hesitated. "Sir... she doesn't have a manager anymore. She represented herself for this project. Her old management had no idea about it."

Howard went still.

No manager. No agent. She'd slipped through every barrier he'd put up—found a project outside the network system and negotiated her own deal.

His anger burned hotter.

---…⁠ᘛ⁠⁐̤⁠ᕐ⁠ᐷ---

Marcus had been in a good mood lately.

Netflicks was thriving. Subscriber counts climbing, revenue growing, Modern Family generating buzz that money couldn't buy. The million-dollar monthly target wasn't some distant fantasy anymore—it was within reach.

Picking Modern Family as their first major original had been the right call. Compared to something like Breaking Bad, the production costs were modest. No sprawling desert locations, no expensive action sequences. Just a house, a few sets, and a talented cast who weren't demanding A-list salaries. Cheap to make, easy to produce—and pulling numbers that exceeded his projections.

The extra revenue meant expansion. More staff, better infrastructure, bigger plans.

And beyond business, things were good on other fronts too. He'd managed to take Lana out for dinner a couple times. Nothing too serious—just nice evenings where they could talk without cameras or scripts involved.

Life was looking up.

Just then, as he walked down the school hallway, someone stepped into his path.

"Marcus."

He stopped.

The girl in front of him was striking—high cheekbones, flawless skin, the kind of face that could've been pulled straight from a K-drama. But she wasn't from Korea. She was American-born, Korean heritage. The type of girl who turned heads without trying.

"The prom's coming up soon," she said, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Do you have a partner yet?"

Marcus blinked.

'Prom?'

He'd been so absorbed in Netflicks lately that he'd completely forgotten. Junior prom was right around the corner, and he hadn't given it a single thought.

The girl's name was Alisha. They'd been classmates since he moved up to junior year, though they hadn't interacted much—hard to build friendships when you only showed up to class half the time. Still, they'd talked here and there. She seemed nice enough.

And she was definitely easy on the eyes.

'Having her as a partner wouldn't be bad at all.'

Marcus smiled faintly, about to respond—

"Marcus."

Another voice cut in.

He turned.

Arya stood a few feet away, arms crossed. She was dressed casually—fitted jeans, a simple top—but somehow made it look like she'd stepped off a magazine cover.

The girl had changed a lot since freshman year. Filled out, grown into her features, started carrying herself with a confidence she hadn't had before.

She looked more like Diana every day. Same sharp cheekbones, same knowing eyes. Puberty had hit her like a freight train over the past year, the way it did with some girls—one semester they looked like kids, the next they could pass for college students.

If Marcus squinted, she almost reminded him of a young Emma Stone from his previous life. That same blend of cute and striking.

"Do you already have an idea for a partner for prom?" Arya asked, her tone casual but her eyes flickering briefly toward Alisha.