The text from her agent came at 3:07 a.m., lighting up Carmen’s tiny Madrid apartment: “Emilia Pérez: 13 nominations. Call me ASAP.”

Carmen stared at the glowing screen, her heart pounding. Thirteen. Thirteen nominations. For the film everyone had called a long shot.

She sat up, swinging her legs off the couch. The script had come to her during the slowest year of her career—her inbox empty, auditions few and fruitless. Then came Jacques Audiard, the French auteur, casting for his first Spanish-language film. Carmen had nearly skipped the audition, convinced she’d never land the lead role.

But Jacques saw something in her that even she hadn’t.

On set, he’d pushed her, breaking her down and rebuilding her into Emilia Pérez, the gutsy, larger-than-life fugitive who faked her death to live openly as a woman. It was a role she didn’t think she could carry until the cameras rolled and she realized—this story, this truth, had always been waiting inside her.

Now, half a year after the premiere, the world was noticing.

Her phone buzzed again. “Carmen, did you see? Best Actress! This is huge!”

She swallowed hard, her eyes darting to the old mirror across the room. The face staring back looked tired, disbelieving. Best Actress. She’d never even dared to dream it.

Carmen rose, pacing to the window. Outside, the city was asleep, unaware of how her world had just tilted on its axis.

Memories of the film’s journey flooded her. The financiers who’d pulled out, the critics who’d called it “too niche,” the endless days spent perfecting scenes in blistering heat. And yet, against all odds, they had made something extraordinary.

She thought of Jacques—his quiet conviction, his insistence that cinema should challenge, provoke, and celebrate humanity in all its forms. She thought of her co-stars, the crew, the long nights of doubt.

Her phone buzzed again, this time with notifications: headlines, congratulatory texts, fans flooding her social media with love.

For a moment, she felt overwhelmed, the weight of expectation pressing against her chest. But then she thought of Emilia Pérez—the character who refused to let the world define her.

Carmen smiled, wiping a tear from her cheek. Thirteen nominations wasn’t just a number. It was a vindication of every risk they’d taken, every barrier they’d broken.

Steeling herself, she grabbed her phone, typing out a message to Jacques.

“Thirteen. We did it.”

The reply came instantly. “No. You did.”

And for the first time, she believed it.