Chapter 3

Two weeks later, an invitation arrived. Engraved cardstock.

Sophia Bell's 30th Birthday Bash and Celebration for the success of "Neon Shadows."

"Neon Shadows." The film adapted from my script, "City's Glimmer."

The script that had won her accolades, that had launched her career while I rotted in a cell.

Michael placed it in my hand.

"You should come, Emily. It's time you faced people. Show them you're moving on. It will help stop the gossip."

His eyes were earnest. His concern, a perfect mask.

The party was at a lavish Beverly Hills mansion, rented for the occasion.

Hundreds of people. Hollywood's elite, producers, directors, stars.

I felt like an exhibit, dragged out for display.

Sophia was radiant, dripping in diamonds. She floated through the crowd, Michael by her side, his hand possessively on her waist.

Then I saw it.

The necklace.

An intricate, vintage diamond piece. My grandmother's.

She'd left it to me. It was the 'something old' I wore at my wedding to Michael. He had promised to keep it safe, a family heirloom.

Now, it blazed on Sophia Bell's chest.

Michael saw me looking. He approached, a strained smile on his face.

"Sophia needed something special for tonight. I lent it to her. It's just for the evening, of course."

Just for the evening. My grandmother's legacy. My marital symbol.

Lent. Like a cheap prop.

My father was there. Arthur Holmes, the once-respected director, now clinging to relevance.

He saw me, and his face hardened.

He walked over, not to greet me, but to stand beside Sophia, placing an arm around her shoulder.

"Sophia is like a daughter to me," he announced to a nearby cluster of reporters, his voice loud enough for me to hear clearly. "A true talent. Unlike some others who bring nothing but trouble and shame to the family name."

His eyes flicked to me, cold and dismissive.

Kevin stood with them, nodding in agreement, his arm linked with Sophia's. He beamed at her, then shot me a look that was a mixture of pity and annoyance.

The humiliation was a physical weight, pressing down on me, stealing my breath.

A waiter bumped into me, spilling champagne down the simple dress I wore.

No one noticed. Or no one cared.

I turned and fled, out into the manicured gardens, the sound of laughter and music chasing me.

The sprinklers came on suddenly, drenching me in cold, recycled water.

I stood there, shivering, the borrowed dress clinging to me, mascara running down my face.

A spectacle of ruin.