Chapter 1

Everyone thought I was dead.

A perfectly timed car crash, a funeral live-streamed across every platform.

My supposed best friend, Serena Thorne, stood before my memorial photo, wearing my favorite black dress, her face streaming with tears.

She choked out that she would carry on my legacy, completing the screenplay we had co-written.

Flashbulbs, like a galaxy of stars, twinkled for her from the audience.

Later, that screenplay won an Oscar for Best Screenplay.

She became a celebrated genius writer, showered with fame and fortune.

She moved into my house, drove my car, and even my usually aloof cat seemed to adore her.

She had stolen almost everything from me.

Almost.

I stood in a quiet corner of the funeral, masked, watching the grand spectacle with a cold gaze.

I wasn’t dead.

I just wanted to see how ugly a person’s greed could become when unbound.

Now, the performance was over.

It was time for the “dead woman” to make her entrance.

At my memorial service, Serena cried so hard she nearly fainted.

She wore the custom-made black velvet gown I’d designed, its hem trailing on the floor like a dark, blooming rose.

I hadn't even had the chance to wear it once.

“Ava, how could you just leave like this…?”

She clung to my memorial photo, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

Her voice, amplified by the microphone, filled the hall, broken and heart-wrenching.

Cameras zoomed in on her face.

Every angle, every tear perfectly timed. You’d think *her* mother had died, not me.

I stood in the least conspicuous corner, hidden behind a baseball cap and a mask, watching her perfectly made-up, sorrowful face on the big screen. I almost burst out laughing.

A entertainment reporter, Maya, whispered to her colleague, Chloe:

“Serena is truly devoted. Ava Hayes was lucky to have a friend like her.”

Chloe sighed, “Absolutely. I heard Serena painstakingly organized every word of Ava’s posthumous screenplay. She’s even going to star in it herself, to fulfill her best friend’s last wish. It’s incredibly touching.”

As I listened, I pulled a mint from my pocket, peeled back the wrapper, and popped it into my mouth. The cool sweetness melted on my tongue.

Touching?

I thought it was pretty “touching” too.

Using my life, my script, to secure her fame, fortune, and a stellar performance of grief?

What a profitable deal for her.

The somber music continued to play in the hall, and guests wore expressions of profound sorrow.

My agent, the company CEO, directors I’d worked with.

Even a few so-called “friends” from the industry took turns giving eulogies.

Each one echoed the same sentiments of regret and remembrance.

I was almost falling asleep.

Until Julian Maxwell stepped up to the podium.

The room suddenly fell silent.

He was the industry’s top investor, and the biggest financier behind my “posthumous work.”

A man who rarely appeared even for high-profile business interviews was here in person today.

He didn't use notes, just stood there. His dark suit accentuated his broad shoulders and long, lean frame, a towering presence.

His gaze swept across the room, finally resting on my enormous black and white memorial photo.

“Ava Hayes was a genius.”

He spoke, his voice deep.

It resonated through the speakers with a compelling authority.

“Her passing is a loss for the entire industry.”

He didn’t say much else, just those two sentences, then bowed slightly to my photo.

Serena immediately rushed to meet him, her eyes red as she looked up, a picture of utter vulnerability and dependence.

“Mr. Maxwell, thank you for coming. Ava, wherever she is, would certainly be grateful.”

Julian’s gaze skimmed over her, utterly devoid of emotion.

“How are the preparations for the script coming along?”

“You needn’t worry,”

Serena immediately assured him,

“I will certainly fulfill Ava’s last wish and make ‘The Cage’ a masterpiece.”

Julian nodded, said nothing more, and turned to step down from the stage.

He passed the corner where I stood.

For a fleeting second, as he walked by, his footsteps faltered, and his gaze seemed to drift towards me.

My heart pounded, and I pulled the brim of my cap lower.

He couldn't have recognized me.

My current appearance was starkly different from my public image.

Short hair, thick-rimmed glasses, a faded tracksuit.

And a few strategically placed freckles.

Not just him, even my own mother would probably hesitate.

He paused for only a second before continuing on his way, long strides eating up the distance.

I exhaled slowly.

The most poignant part of the service was over; what remained were just formalities.

I wasn’t interested in staying any longer and turned to slip away.

Just as I reached the exit, I heard Serena’s voice behind me.

“Miss, please wait.”

My steps faltered, but I didn't turn around.

A hand rested on my shoulder.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Are you a friend of Ava’s?”

Her voice, just behind me, was perfectly modulated—a touch hoarse and polite.

I slowly turned.

When she saw my face, a flicker of something almost imperceptible—disappointment—crossed her eyes.

As if she was surprised by how ordinary I looked.

“No, I’m not,”

I mumbled, my voice deliberately muffled,

“I’m just a fan of hers, came to pay my respects.”

“Oh, I see,”

Serena instantly adopted an emotional expression, gripping my hand.

“Thank you. Ava would be so happy to know she had fans like you.”

Her hand was cold, her nails adorned with sparkling rhinestones.

“She was a great actress,” I said.

“Yes,”

Serena sighed, tears welling up again.

“She always said her biggest dream was to win the Golden Lion for Best Screenplay, but… it’s okay. I’ll fulfill it for her.”

As she spoke, she squeezed my hand, as if trying to convey some profound connection.

A truly stellar performance.

Well, she did learn from the best – me.

I pulled my hand away, nodded at her, and walked out.

Another second, and I swear I would have ripped her hair extensions right out.

Stepping out of the funeral home, the sunlight stung my eyes.

I hailed a taxi and gave an address.

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror:

“Heading to the cemetery, miss?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that where the big star Ava Hayes’ memorial was held today? It’s all over the internet.”

“It is.”

“What a shame, so young.”

The taxi driver was quite chatty.

“I heard her best friend, Serena, is going to finish her legacy project. What a good person.”

I leaned against the window, watching the city blur by.

“Yes,” I echoed.

“Quite the… wonderful person.”