Chapter 7

Morning sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Malibu villa, glinting off the surface of the Pacific Ocean. Arely stood on the balcony, a silk robe wrapped around her, a cup of freshly brewed coffee in her hand. The sound of crashing waves had replaced the constant scream of sirens.

She opened her tablet. The internet was on fire.

KOLE BOWMAN: Hollywood's Dirtiest Cheater.

BRITTNY GREENE: The Other Woman's Ugly Past Exposed.

The story had taken on a life of its own. Anonymous sources were leaking everything-Brittny's history of backstabbing friends for roles, Kole's habit of borrowing money from girlfriends and never paying it back. Arely had planted the seed; the internet's outrage was doing the rest.

Her phone rang. It was her agent, a man who hadn't called her in six months unless it was to tell her she'd been dropped from a project. His voice was shrill with panic.

"Arely! What is going on? The studio is furious! Did you know about Kole and Brittny?"

"I'm as shocked as everyone else," Arely said, her voice a perfect imitation of a heartbroken victim. "I think... I think I need some time."

She hung up before he could reply, then immediately blocked his number. She was done with him, done with the agency that had treated her like a commodity.

Across town, in a sterile high-rise apartment, Kole Bowman was throwing things. A half-empty bottle of bourbon shattered against the wall, leaving a dark stain. Brittny cowered on the sofa, her face puffy from crying.

"This is your fault!" he screamed at her, his handsome face twisted into an ugly mask. "Your cheap ambition ruined me!"

"It was Arely!" Brittny sobbed. "I'm telling you, she's different! She did this!"

"Arely?" Kole scoffed. "That pathetic, empty-headed doll? She doesn't have the brains to order a pizza, let alone orchestrate this."

He started pacing, his mind racing. "I'll fix this. A press conference. I'll tell them she was crazy, unstable. That she drove me to it. I'll be the victim."

In her Malibu villa, Arelly opened a highly encrypted program on her new laptop. She typed in a long-forgotten string of code, accessing Cole's abandoned old email account, which held too many secrets. The microphone icon flashed green. She listened as his entire plan unfolded. A cold smile crept onto her lips.

You want to play the victim, Kole? Let's play.

She opened a secure cloud drive, a digital tomb filled with the original Arely's pain. It was all there. Audio recordings of Kole's verbal abuse, his manipulative gaslighting. Voicemails from him begging a wealthy older actress for a role in exchange for... services.

She began to edit, weaving together the most damning clips into a single, devastating audio file.

The doorbell chimed. It was a delivery team with the first shipment of medical equipment she had ordered-a high-frequency ultrasound, a centrifuge, a gas chromatograph. She was building a private lab. Her sanctuary.

As she signed for the delivery, her thoughts drifted back to New York. To Eleanor Hall. The old woman would need a second, more delicate procedure to be fully cured. And Isadora, stewing in her humiliation, would undoubtedly try to interfere.

Arely needed an ally. A witness whose credibility was unimpeachable.

She sent an encrypted email to Elsworth Hall. The message was short.

For the second procedure, I require Dr. Alistair Finch as my surgical assistant. And a list of highly specific, custom-made tools.

The reply came back in less than a minute. Two words.

Done.

Arely put her phone down and walked to her new, expansive closet. She selected a sharp, tailored pantsuit. It was time to see a lawyer.

On the drive down the Pacific Coast Highway, she passed a massive billboard. It was an ad for Kole's last movie, his smiling face looking down on the city.

Arely rolled down the window, formed her hand into the shape of a gun, and aimed it at the billboard.

"Bang," she whispered.

Her phone buzzed. A news alert.

Kole Bowman's emergency press conference is now live.