The world didn't just admire Anna—they worshipped her.
She wasn't merely famous. She was everywhere.
Billboards lit up Times Square with her face. Paparazzi chased her shadow across continents. Magazine covers speculated endlessly about the meaning behind her lyrics, her expressions, her silences.
Her voice, a haunting mix of velvet and ache, dominated the airwaves, and her albums shattered streaming records week after week.
The public called her The Phoenix.
A woman with no past, only a rise.
Her mystery was half her magnetism.
Every time she performed, there was something deeper in her eyes that no one could name.
A pain she never spoke of.
A grace she never had to fake.
And when she smiled, that small, quiet kind of smile, it broke hearts.
She didn't do interviews.
She didn't need to.
Anna Smith was the name on every tongue, the muse of every fashion house, and the subject of every industry whisper.
And through it all, Thomas remained invisible.
He arranged her world from behind the curtain—studio sessions, security clearances, stylists, schedules.
And Anna, calm but driven, rose higher and higher—but never far from Bryce.
Her son traveled with her everywhere.
Even when she was on stage, her eyes often drifted to where he sat in the wings, his tiny legs swinging from a tall director's chair, watching her with a shy smile and headphones too big for his head.
But fame, for all its glory, is a light too bright to stay hidden forever.
—
It happened at a luxury gala in LA.
Anna was there as the headliner, the night's closing act. The crowd was elite: actors, CEOs, royalty in borrowed diamonds. Cameras flashed with every step she took down the champagne carpet, her custom black gown a whisper against the marble floor.
Backstage, moments before her performance, a soft voice called her name.
"Jade?"
She turned slowly.
A man stood near the refreshments table. Late forties. Salt-and-pepper beard. Shock etched deep into his features.
"I… I'm sorry," he stammered. "You just— You look exactly like someone I knew. A Canadian actress. Jade Carter."
Her heart skipped.
She smiled politely. "I'm afraid you must be mistaken."
But the man didn't laugh or brush it off.
"I worked with her once. On that indie series—Winter Drift. She quit acting when she got married. There were rumors she died…"
Anna's blood roared in her ears.
"I'm sorry," she said again, more firmly. "That's not me."
She walked away before he could say anything else, heels echoing down the corridor, breath tight in her throat.
She barely made it to her dressing room before locking the door.
Her hands trembled.
The name Jade Carter hadn't been spoken aloud in years.
Not by her.
Not by anyone around her.
But it had been her name.
And slowly—quietly—pieces of that forgotten world were beginning to surface.
A voice.
A wedding dress.
A hospital room.
She didn't remember everything.
But she remembered enough to know she'd left behind something… or someone.
It scared her.
She had built her new life stone by stone.
She had found purpose, a son, a voice.
She had become Anna because Jade was too broken to return to.
And she had never told anyone.
Not even Thomas.
He had found her when she was nothing but a ghost on a beach, pregnant and unconscious.
He gave her a name.
Gave her a life.
Gave her freedom.
And she had promised herself she would never look back.
But now…
The past was creeping in.
It didn't knock.
It whispered.
It watched.
And part of her feared that the closer she came to remembering,
The faster it would all come undone.
There was a knock at the door.
Thomas's voice came gently through.
"It's time."
Anna closed her eyes.
Steadied her breath.
She stood.
Straightened her shoulders.
And walked onto that stage like she had never been anyone else.
But deep inside…
A thread had been pulled.
And somewhere, beneath the lights and applause,
The truth waited to be remembered.