Chapter 2

I didn’t go home.

That “home” was now Serena’s.

I rented a small apartment in the suburbs, old but clean.

My landlady, a woman in her fifties, didn’t follow celebrity news and had no idea who I was.

My new identity was Lynn Miller, a freelance writer.

Back in the apartment, the first thing I did was open my laptop.

Out of the top ten trending topics on social media, five were about Serena and me.

* Serena Vows to Honor Ava's Legacy Project

* Ava Hayes Memorial Service

* Julian Maxwell Makes Surprise Appearance at Ava Hayes Memorial

* Serena and Ava: A Heartfelt Friendship

* #PitySerena

I clicked on the #PitySerena hashtag.

The comments section was flooded with her fans and an army of paid trolls.

“Don’t cry, Serena! You have to live well for Ava!”

“OMG, what an epic friendship, I’m ugly-crying right now!”

“Am I the only one who noticed the way Mr. Maxwell looked at Serena? I’m sensing some serious chemistry.”

“Hold up, no baseless rumors! Our Serena is focused on her career and honoring Ava’s memory. Don’t spread false gossip!”

I scrolled through the comments, eating an entire bucket of instant noodles, my face devoid of emotion.

My stomach burned, a sensation far more potent than any chili ever could be.

My phone vibrated. It was a message from my private detective.

[That Serena woman moved the last few things out of your house today, including your Ragdoll cat, Mochi.]

Attached was a photo of Serena, holding Mochi, smiling gently at the camera.

The background was my familiar living room.

Below the photo, there was a video clip.

In the video, Serena shoved Mochi into a cat carrier. Her assistant, Jessica, asked,

“Serena, are you really taking the cat? Aren’t you allergic to cat fur?”

Serena waved her hand dismissively.

“Allergic or not, I have to take it. Ava’s fans all know how much she doted on this cat. If I don’t take it, how will I maintain my ‘devoted friend’ image? Just a few days on allergy meds, it’ll be fine.”

I closed the video and tossed my phone aside.

Mochi was a rescue cat I’d adopted, severely injured and almost dead.

I’d nursed her back to health, feeding her spoonful by spoonful.

She was only affectionate with me.

Serena was severely allergic to cat fur; even a touch would bring out a rash.

She was willing to endure that for an image.

She truly was ruthless.

I stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, apartment buildings stretched endlessly, a sea of twinkling lights, none of them mine.

On the day of the crash, I was driving home from my studio.

A large truck suddenly swerved into my lane from the side.

I instinctively swerved the steering wheel hard to the right.

My car hit the guardrail and flipped over.

Before losing consciousness, I saw the truck driver jump out and glance in my direction.

Then he ran off without looking back.

His eyes held no panic, only the cold satisfaction of a completed mission.

When I woke up, I was in a remote private clinic.

My rescuer was my college mentor, now a doctor at this clinic.

He said I was brought in covered in blood, with no identification.

Meanwhile, the news was already plastered everywhere, screaming “Award-Winning Actress Ava Hayes Dies in Car Crash.”

The police announced that the "victim" was a woman roughly my height, but whose face was tragically mangled.

Where did this poor body double come from?

I didn’t need to think to know whose doing it was.

Serena.

She probably thought I was a goner, so she decided to finish the job, making sure I was “dead” beyond any doubt.

That way, no one could ever compete with her for that screenplay.

The script I’d poured three years into, the one destined for the Golden Lion Award: ‘The Cage’.

I sneered.

Did she really think that if I died, all those things would become hers?

Naive.

I opened my laptop and logged into an encrypted email account.

There was one unread email, one I’d scheduled to send to myself a few minutes before my “car crash.”

The email contained only one attachment.

It was the complete screenplay of ‘The Cage’, from the first draft to the final version.

Every revision record, my creative process, photos of my handwritten notes, everything was there.

The file’s timestamp was the best evidence.

I backed up the file again, saving it to an even more secure hard drive.

Serena, you want my things?

Fine.

I’ll give them to you.

I’ll even be the one to lift you up, place you in the brightest spotlight, and let you bask in everyone’s praise and adoration.

And then…

I’ll let you experience what it’s like to fall from the highest pedestal, straight into the dirt.

The real show was just beginning.