The red carpet glittered like a lie told too beautifully to question.
Flashbulbs exploded in rhythmic bursts, white light slicing through the Los Angeles night, washing the Dolby Theatre in gold. Stars laughed, waved, cried on cue. Dresses worth more than my entire life swept across the carpet like silk promises. Somewhere, an orchestra played a triumphant score.
And I stood outside the barricade, crushed between elbows, sweat, and cheap lenses—another fly buzzing around Hollywood’s feast.
“Move back!” a security guard barked, shoving me hard enough that my shoulder slammed into a metal railing.
My camera nearly slipped from my hands. Nearly.
I tightened my grip instead.
I’d learned long ago not to drop things that were keeping me alive.
“Watch it,” I muttered, my voice swallowed by the noise. To them, I wasn’t Ella Cole. I wasn’t the girl who’d once had a trailer with her name printed neatly on the door. I was Layla now. Bottom-feeding paparazzi. Disposable. Invisible.
Or so they thought.
On the carpet, Sofia Ryan stepped into the spotlight, radiant in a silver gown that clung to her like liquid moonlight. The crowd erupted. Cameras pivoted. Reporters leaned forward like predators scenting blood.
“Tonight feels surreal,” Sofia said into a microphone, eyes shining. “I owe everything to Mr. Victor King. He believed in me when no one else did.”
Right on cue, Victor appeared beside her, tall, immaculate, smiling like a benevolent god surveying his creation.
Victor King. The man who had destroyed my life with a single press release.
His gaze swept the crowd—and stopped.
For half a second, his eyes locked onto mine.
The smile on his lips didn’t falter, but something cold flickered behind it. Recognition? No. Dismissal.
He leaned closer to Sofia, speaking softly, confidently—loud enough for the nearest microphones.
“Talent is fragile,” he said. “Some girls don’t know how to behave. Tragic, really. If that little drug addict from three years ago had stayed in line, maybe she’d be standing here instead.”
Laughter rippled around them. Polite. Cruel.
My fingers dug into my palm until my nails hurt.
Breathe, Ella.
I shifted my stance, calculating angles, timing. My camera looked old, cracked casing taped together, but inside it held sharper teeth than any of theirs. As Sofia turned, her assistant bumped into me deliberately, shoulder first.
Perfect.
I stumbled forward, letting the chaos carry me.
“Oh—sorry!” I gasped, pitching into the assistant. My camera slipped from my grip, clattering loudly against the ground.
Security surged instantly.
“Get her out of here!”
Hands grabbed my arms. Rough. Impatient.
But in the split second before they dragged me away, my thumb pressed the hidden shutter.
Click.
The screen flashed just long enough for me to see it.
Sofia’s wrist.
Bare.
Exposed.
And marked.
A pale scar, thin and deliberate, half-hidden beneath the diamond bracelet she’d been nervously adjusting all night.
The same symbol my father had drawn in the margins of his notebook.
Victim mark.
Victor’s face changed.
Not much. Just enough.
“Throw her out,” he snapped. “Now.”
I was hauled backward, my boots scraping against the pavement. My camera was ripped from my hands and tossed aside like trash.
“You people are parasites,” a guard sneered. “You don’t deserve to breathe the same air as them.”
I tasted blood where I’d bitten my lip too hard.
As they dragged me toward the edge of the chaos, I saw Sofia clutch her wrist instinctively, eyes wide with something dangerously close to fear.
Good.
Then I saw him.
Jake Taylor stood just beyond the lights, notebook tucked under his arm, eyes sharp despite the years and the demotion they’d buried him under. He looked older than I remembered. More tired. Still watching everything.
I twisted in the guard’s grip and shouted, my voice tearing through the noise like a blade.
“Mr. Taylor!”
He froze.
“Do you remember the Night Hawk photos?” I yelled. “From three years ago?”
His pen slipped from his fingers.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
“Let her go,” Jake said suddenly, stepping forward. “She’s with me.”
The guards hesitated.
Victor’s head snapped around. His gaze burned into Jake with quiet fury.
“Excuse me?” Victor said smoothly.
Jake met his eyes without flinching. “She’s press.”
A lie.
A necessary one.
The guards released me reluctantly. My arms burned where they’d grabbed me. I straightened slowly, smoothing my jacket, bending to retrieve my camera like it was the most precious thing in the world.
Because it was.
Jake’s eyes flicked to my face, then to my camera, then back again.
“Ella?” he murmured.
I smiled for the first time that night.
Just a little.
“Long time no see,” I said. “My father always wondered who’d remember his name.”
Behind us, Victor King watched, his smile gone now, replaced by something far more dangerous.
Fear.
And for the first time since Hollywood buried me alive, I felt it—
The thorn breaking through the concrete.
Sharp.
Alive.
And ready to draw blood.