Chapter 1

The old screenplay felt heavy in my mind, its ink bleeding into my reality.

Years ago, I found it tucked away in the Ashworths' library, an unpublished tragedy where I, Ava, the adopted daughter, was the villainess.

Destined for sacrifice so my "perfect" sister, Chloe, could shine.

I'd spent years trying to rewrite my fate, helping people, hoping kindness would be a shield.

Today, on the set of Ethan Crawford' s biggest film, that hope felt thin.

Ethan, the studio executive I' d pulled from bankruptcy with insights from that cursed script, was all business.

Chloe, my adoptive sister, the script' s "heroine," was the star.

She was charming, a master of the victim narrative, and now, the golden child of David and Eleanor Ashworth, my adoptive parents.

The script said a stunt would go wrong. I' d tried to warn them, subtly suggesting extra checks, different angles.

They called me overly cautious.

The scene was a high-speed chase, ending in a controlled explosion.

Chloe was supposed to emerge, smudged but heroic.

I watched from the edge of the set, a knot in my stomach.

The explosion went off a fraction too soon, a bit too large.

Screams erupted.

Chloe was down, a photogenic scratch on her cheek, her pristine white costume artfully torn.

Cameras flashed.

A piece of debris, unseen in the chaos, had slammed into my side.

Pain, sharp and deep, stole my breath. I pressed a hand to my ribs, feeling a sickening warmth.

No one noticed me. All eyes were on Chloe, the fallen star.

Eleanor Ashworth, my adoptive mother, rushed past me, her face a mask of fury.

"Ava! What were you doing so close? You distracted her!"

Her voice, usually dripping with Hollywood poise, was shrill.

The accusation hung in the air, heavy and unfair. I hadn't been near Chloe.

I tried to speak, to say I was hurt, but the words wouldn't come.

Ethan was by Chloe' s side instantly, his expression a mixture of concern for her and fury for the disruption.

"Is she okay? Get a medic for Chloe!"

He barked orders, his eyes scanning Chloe' s minor injuries with an intensity he never showed me.

I stumbled, leaning against a lighting rig, the world tilting.

"Ethan," I managed, my voice weak. "I think… I' m hurt."

He glanced at me, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features.

"You' re fine, Ava. Stop trying to make this about you. Chloe' s the one who could have been seriously injured."

His words were a dismissal, cold and absolute. The script' s narrative was playing out, and I was already being cast aside.

He turned to Marcus Vance, his stoic Head of Security.

Marcus, the troubled kid I' d found on the streets and steered towards Ethan, giving him a new life.

My one hope for loyalty.

"Marcus," Ethan snapped, his voice tight with anger. "Take Ava to the guesthouse on the old backlot. Keep her out of trouble until this blows over. I don' t want her talking to the press."

The old guesthouse. Isolated. Forgotten. Just like the script detailed for my final scenes.

"Ethan, please," I begged, the pain intensifying. "I need a doctor."

He didn't even look at me. "She' s just being dramatic. Go."