Isla's POV
The champagne glass broke against the floor, and everyone turned to stare at me.
"I'm so sorry!" I dropped to my knees, picking up the sharp pieces with shaking hands. My boss would take this out of my paycheck. Again.
"It's fine," the woman said, moving her hand like I was a fly. She didn't even look at my face.
But I looked at hers. And my stomach dropped.
Melissa Hart. The actress who beat me for the part in Sunset Dreams five years ago. The role that was meant to be mine. The part that would have changed everything.
I finished cleaning up the glass and stood. "Can I get you another drink?"
Melissa's eyes finally met mine. For a second, I waited. Waited for her to remember. We'd sat in the same audition room. We'd practiced lines together in the hallway. She'd borrowed my lipstick and never gave it back.
"Vodka martini," she said. "Extra olives."
She didn't remember me at all.
I walked back to the bar, my face hot. Ten years ago, I was supposed to be sitting at that table. I was supposed to be the one in the designer dress, getting drinks, being important.
Now I was the one serving them.
"You okay?" Marco, the other bartender, asked.
"Perfect," I lied.
The rest of my shift crawled by like a dead animal. Every fake smile hurt. Every "right away, sir" felt like eating glass. When midnight finally came, I grabbed my tips—sixty-three dollars—and ran out the back door before anyone could ask me to stay late.
The bus ride home took forty minutes. Forty minutes of sitting next to people who smelled like cigarettes and desperation. Forty minutes of staring at my cracked phone screen, avoiding my image in the dark window.
My apartment building looked tired. Peeling paint. Broken lift. Stairs that creaked like they might give up any second. I climbed to the third floor and opened three different locks on my door.
Inside, the flat was dark and cold. I couldn't afford to run the heater much. I flipped on the light and saw them instantly.
Bills. Everywhere.
They covered my kitchen table like snow. White papers with red stamps. FINAL NOTICE. PAST DUE. PAYMENT REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY.
I dropped my bag and stared at them. Electric bill. Water bill. Rent—three months behind. And underneath all of those, the ones that really mattered: Diana's hospital bills.
My little sister. Twenty-two years old and spending more time in hospitals than anywhere else.
I picked up one of the hospital bills. Twelve thousand dollars. For one week. And that was just the beginning.
My phone buzzed. Diana's name flashed on the screen, and my heart started pounding. She never called this late.
"Di? What's wrong?"
"Isla." Her voice sounded small and far away. "Don't freak out, okay?"
"I'm already freaking out. What happened?"
"I'm at the hospital. I had to come to the emergency room tonight."
My legs went weak. I sat down hard on my only chair. "What happened? Are you okay?" "The pain came back. Really bad this time. They did some tests and..." She stopped. I heard her take a shaky breath. "They want to try a new treatment. An trial one. It's my best chance, Isla. Maybe my only chance."
"Okay." My voice didn't sound like mine. "Okay, we'll do it. Whatever it costs."
Diana was quiet for too long.
"Di?"
"It's expensive. Really expensive. The insurance won't cover experimental therapy. We'd have to pay everything ourselves."
"How much?"
"Eighty thousand dollars."
The number hit me like a truck. Eighty thousand dollars. I made maybe two thousand a month between bartending and the tiny residuals from my old acting jobs. I'd need to work for three years without eating or paying rent to save that much. "Isla? Say something."
"We'll figure it out," I said. My voice was shaking now. "I promise. We'll figure it out."
"The doctor says I need to start soon. Like, really soon. Within the next month, or..." She didn't finish. She didn't have to.
We talked for a few more minutes. I lied and told her everything would be fine. I made jokes until she laughed. I stayed strong until she hung up.
Then I put my phone down and stared at the bills on my table.
Eighty thousand dollars. In one month.
I pulled out my laptop—a six-year-old thing that took forever to start up—and opened my email. Maybe there was an audition. Maybe someone wanted to hire me. Maybe there was a miracle.
The first email: "Thank you for auditioning, but we've decided to go in a different direction."
The second: "The role has been filled."
The third: "We're looking for someone with a better reputation."
Twenty-three refusal emails. Not one single offer.
I put my head down on the table, right on top of the bills, and tried not to cry. I was so tired. Tired of losing. Tired of being unseen. Tired of working three times as hard for one-tenth of the results.
My phone buzzed again.
I almost didn't look. It was possibly another bill collector.
But I looked anyway.
Unknown number. A text message.
"Isla Chen? This is Derek from Spotlight Productions. We have a chance that pays $100,000 for six weeks of work. Call me quickly. This offer ends in 24 hours."
I read it again. Then again.
One hundred thousand dollars.
My hands started shaking. This had to be a scam. It had to be. Nobody offered that much money, especially not to me.
But what if it wasn't?
I looked at the phone number. My finger hovered over the call button.
Diana needed eighty thousand dollars in one month. I had sixty-three dollars in cash and a pile of bills I couldn't pay.
This was either a miracle or a trick.
And I was desperate enough that I didn't care which one it was.
I pressed call.
The phone rang once. Twice.
On the third ring, a man answered. "Isla Chen. I was hoping you'd call."
His voice was smooth. Too smooth.
"Who is this?" I asked. "How did you get my number?"
"I'm a producer for Love in the Spotlight. You've heard of it?"
Everyone had heard of it. The reality dating show where celebrities embarrassed themselves on national television for numbers and money.
"We need someone for a very specific role," the man continued. "Someone who isn't afraid of bad news. Someone who needs money badly enough to play the monster."
My stomach dropped. "The villain?"
"You'd be paid one hundred thousand dollars to appear on the show for six weeks. All costs paid. All you have to do is follow the plan we give you."
"What script?"
The man laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh. "The one where you ruin everyone else's love story. The one where America learns to hate you."
I should have hung up. I should have thrown the phone across the room.
Instead, I thought about Diana in that hospital bed. I thought about the bills on my table. I thought about Melissa Hart, who didn't even remember my name.
"When do I start?" I asked.
"Tomorrow. A car will pick you up at noon. Pack for six weeks. And Isla?" He paused. "Don't get too comfortable. This show wrecks people."
He hung up.
I sat in my dark, cold apartment, looking at my phone.
Tomorrow, my life would change.
I just
didn't know if it would be for better or worse.
And I was too desperate to care.