# Chapter 77
The moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind Lucas, the temperature in the room seemed to drop by several degrees. Naomi's friendly mask didn't slip into hostility—that would have been almost a relief. Instead, it shifted into something far more unsettling: the cool, calculating demeanor of a CEO about to negotiate a hostile takeover.
She remained standing near the window, backlit by the morning sun in a way that made her look almost ethereal. Anton had moved to examine Mira's closet with audible sounds of disgust, while Chloe continued tapping away on her phone like her life depended on it.
"Now, before we dive into the schedule," Naomi said, her voice taking on a tone of false sweetness, like artificial sugar that left a bitter aftertaste. "There's one more thing about my wedding I forgot to mention."
Mira looked up warily, already bracing herself for whatever fresh hell was coming.
Naomi's smile widened, showing too many teeth. "You'll be my Maid of Honor."
The words hung in the air for a long moment. Mira was certain she'd misheard. "Your… what?"
"My Maid of Honor," Naomi repeated, enunciating each word clearly like she was speaking to someone hard of hearing. "It's absolutely perfect when you think about it. That's how we'll announce our new professional relationship to the world. You've chosen the humble route, we've become friends despite our past differences—the press will go into an absolute frenzy. The narrative practically writes itself."
Mira barked out a laugh—harsh, disbelieving. "We're not friends, Naomi. Isn't that position supposed to be for your best friend? A sister? Someone who actually likes you?"
For a split second, something dangerous flashed in Naomi's eyes. Then her face performed a perfect pantomime of grief. Her expression crumpled, her eyes actually glistened with unshed tears, and when she spoke again, her voice trembled with what sounded like genuine emotion.
"I know that," she said softly, one hand pressed to her chest. "Trust me, I know. My best friend… her name was Mira. We were like sisters. Inseparable since college." She paused, dabbing at the corner of her eye with one perfectly manicured finger. "But she's gone. She… took her own life last year. It was so tragic. So sudden. I still can't believe she's really gone."
The air left Mira's lungs in a rush. Time seemed to slow down, the room tilting slightly on its axis. She was staring directly into the face of her own murderer—the woman who had pushed her off that building—who was now using her death as an emotional prop. A manipulation tool.
The lie was so audacious, so monumentally vile, it stole every word from Mira's throat.
"I can't replace her," Naomi continued, her voice thick with manufactured grief. "I'll never have another friend like that. But you…" She looked at Mira with what was meant to be a meaningful gaze. "You could honor her memory by standing with me. By being the friend she would have wanted me to have."
Mira's hands were shaking. Her entire body was trembling with a fury so intense she could barely see straight. She wanted to scream, to grab Naomi by the shoulders and shake her, to shout I'm right here, you psychotic bitch. You killed me and now you're using my death for sympathy points?
But she couldn't. She could never say those words. Because if she did, she'd sound insane. Or worse—Aurelian would make good on his silent threat.
"No." The word came out as barely more than a whisper, her voice trembling with rage she couldn't fully express. "I won't do it."
Naomi's sorrowful expression evaporated like morning mist, replaced by something harder. "It's for your own good, Lorena. Don't you see? It shows you're humble. That you're willing to support others instead of always being the center of attention. It proves you have modest, loyal people in your corner."
"Hire an actress," Mira spat out, her voice gaining strength. "My answer is no. I'm not doing it."
Naomi's eyes flashed with cold anger. She took a step closer, leaning in until her face was mere inches from Mira's. When she spoke, her voice was a venomous whisper. "You are an actress, darling. Or have you forgotten?"
She straightened up, smoothing down her cashmere top with deliberate movements. "We shall see how firm that 'no' is after our first few sessions together."
The threat was clear. This wasn't over.
"Fine," Naomi said, snapping back to business mode with whiplash-inducing speed. "First things first. Your social media. We need to assess the damage and start damage control immediately." She held out her hand, palm up, in a gesture of expectation. "Give me your phone. What's your Instagram password?"
Mira's blood ran cold. She didn't know it. How could she? This wasn't her account, wasn't her life. "I… I don't remember," she said, scrambling for a plausible excuse. "My old management team handled all of that. They had access to everything."
"You don't remember your own password?" Naomi's voice was dripping with condescending disbelief. She looked at Mira like she'd just claimed not to know her own name. "How is that even possible? These are your accounts. Your image. How can you not know the most basic—" She cut herself off with an exasperated sigh. "Just try. Use your birthday, your anniversary, something obvious."
Mira's mind raced, scrambling through the scattered fragments of Lorena's memories. She thought back to the driver's license she'd seen in Lorena's wallet, the birthday listed there. With trembling fingers, she pulled out her phone and entered the date.
The screen unlocked immediately.
Oh wow. Mira was genuinely shocked. That was it? A simple birthday? No one had even tried to hack this account with such an obvious password? Weren't celebrities supposed to have complex, impossible-to-guess passwords? Multiple layers of security?
"Finally," Naomi muttered, plucking the phone from Mira's hands before she could protest. "Let's see the damage."
The Instagram app opened directly to Lorena's profile. The handle @LorenaSanders sat at the top in elegant font. The bio was a relic from a past life: Actress. Dreamer. Living my best life. ✨
And the follower count: 3.2 Million.
Mira felt the number hit her like a physical force. Even fallen from grace, even after the scandal and public destruction, the woman still had a massive platform. Three million people who either still believed in her or were watching and waiting for her next spectacular failure.
The number was a tangible, shocking reminder of the life she'd been thrust into. This wasn't just some random person's existence she'd taken over. This was a public figure with millions of eyes watching every move.
"Pathetic," Naomi muttered, scrolling through the profile. "You lost over two million followers. Do you understand that? Two million people who decided you weren't worth their time anymore."
She tapped on a recent post—a professional headshot from what must have been months ago, back when Lorena's career was still intact. The comment section was a warzone.
"Why do you look so shocked?" Naomi's voice had taken on a sneering quality. "Consider the ones who stayed a gift. They're either die-hard fans who'll support you through anything, or people waiting for you to self-destruct again so they can watch the show. Both are useful for what we're doing."
The notification icon in the corner of the screen was a blazing red circle with a number that made Mira's stomach turn: 47,293 unread notifications.
Naomi tapped it without hesitation, and a waterfall of comments cascaded down the screen. Mira watched in horrified fascination as vile message after vile message scrolled past:
Golddigger whore!
You destroyed yourself and blamed everyone else
We still love you! Come back!
Hope you choke on Lucas's money
Praying for your healing journey
Homewrecker trash
The messages were a sickening mix of hatred and parasocial affection, people who felt entitled to judge every aspect of her life based on tabloid headlines and Instagram posts.
"This ends now," Naomi declared, scrolling through the filth with a detached, clinical air. "Your first official act as my client is a live stream. A public apology. We'll schedule it for tomorrow evening—gives us just enough time to prepare."
On cue, like she'd been waiting for her moment, Chloe chirped up from across the room. "I've already drafted the initial script! It's all about growth and accountability and taking responsibility!" She practically bounced over, thrusting a tablet into Mira's hands with the enthusiasm of a puppy presenting a stick.
The document was titled in bold letters: LORENA SANDERS - REDEMPTION ARC: PHASE 1 (LIVE APOLOGY)
Mira's eyes scanned the bullet points with growing horror:
"A period of darkness and poor choices…" "Grateful for my husband Lucas's unwavering support during my lowest moments…" "Embarking on a new, humble chapter of growth and service…" "Understanding the pain I've caused to those who believed in me…"
Her eyes snagged on a specific line, highlighted in yellow for emphasis. Her blood turned to ice in her veins.
"I must directly address the painful rumors regarding my friend, Alie Johnson. She was a sister to me, and the idea that I would ever harm her is a malicious lie that has kept me awake at night. I mourn the loss of our friendship every single day, and I pray she knows how much she meant to me."
"I am not saying this." Mira's voice came out hollow, dead. She looked up from the tablet, meeting Naomi's gaze. "I won't read this script. Find another way."
"It's not a suggestion, Lorena. It's the narrative." Naomi's tone left absolutely no room for argument. "It's the story that will save what's left of your career. You will say it. You'll say it with conviction, with emotion, and you'll make every person watching believe you mean every word."
"I won't lie about—" Mira started, but Naomi cut her off.
"Anton!" Naomi called out sharply. "Show her the look."
The stylist, who'd been making disapproving sounds from inside Mira's walk-in closet, swept back into the room holding a pristine white garment bag. He unzipped it with theatrical flourish, revealing a high-necked, long-sleeved dress in a washed-out shade of grey that looked like all the color had been deliberately drained from it.
"The 'Penitent Muse,'" Anton announced, holding it up like it was a piece of fine art. "The color of ashes and regret. The cut is forgiving yet restrictive—it suggests modesty, humility. It whispers, 'I am sorry, and I have been humbled by my mistakes.' You will wear this for the live stream. With minimal jewelry. Perhaps a simple cross necklace."
Mira felt the walls closing in around her. The script, the dress, the carefully choreographed performance—it was all a perfectly constructed cage disguised as a second chance.
"The delivery is absolutely key," Naomi instructed, beginning to circle Mira like a predator studying prey. "You'll speak softly. Slowly. Your voice should waver occasionally, but never break completely. You're fragile, but not broken. Wounded, but healing. Do you understand the distinction?"
"We need a single tear," Chloe added, consulting her own extensive notes. "I'm thinking around the one-minute-twenty-second mark, right after you mention your gratitude to Lucas. It has to look completely authentic. Can you cry on command?"
"Do not look directly into the camera lens for more than three seconds at a time," Naomi continued, her instructions piling up. "Look just below it instead. It reads as vulnerable and ashamed, not confrontational or defiant. We're going for broken and apologetic, not defensive."
"The lighting will be soft and warm," Chloe said, still typing notes into her phone. "We'll use a slight filter to minimize pores and blemishes but maintain a 'no-makeup' authenticity. Maybe some strategic ring lights to make your eyes look more expressive."
Mira stood silent, absorbing the horrifying level of detail that had gone into planning this manipulation. Every single element was calculated, designed to engineer a specific emotional response from the audience. This wasn't an apology—it was a performance piece, a carefully scripted play designed to rehabilitate Lorena's image whether she wanted it or not.
"We'll do a full rehearsal in two hours," Naomi declared, checking her watch. "That gives you time to memorize the script. I want it delivered from the heart, not read from a teleprompter. The audience needs to believe every word is coming from genuine emotion."
She handed the phone back to Mira, her perfectly manicured fingers pressing it into Mira's palm. "Use your notes app. Practice the lines. Get comfortable with the rhythm and flow. We need this to be absolutely perfect. Your entire future depends on it."
Defeated and numb, Mira took the phone. Her fingers felt like ice, barely able to maintain their grip on the device.
As her thumb brushed across the screen to close out of Instagram, the phone suddenly vibrated in her hand.
A new notification banner dropped from the top of the screen.
It was a Direct Message on Instagram.
And the username made Mira's blood freeze solid in her veins:
Alie?