Chapter 2

The paparazzi surged forward, a chaotic wave of bodies and lenses. "Stella, what's with the new attitude?" "Are you here to fight for the inheritance?" "Is this the real Stella Johns?"

I ignored them and kept my eyes locked on Nicole. Her face was turning a blotchy red under her expensive foundation.

Just then, another car, a sleek black Bentley, pulled up behind her. Ethan Lester, her brother and the supposed heir to the Hughes empire, got out. He was handsome in that soulless, corporate way, his suit perfectly tailored. He was Brian Hughes's son from a previous marriage, passed off as the next in line.

He put a protective arm around Nicole. "That's enough," he said, his voice a low command meant to project authority.

He looked at me, his eyes cold and dismissive. "Nicole is my only sister. I don't know who you are, but you're not a Hughes. Your low-class background is an embarrassment, and you're not welcome here."

My phone buzzed again. My agent, his voice frantic. "Stella, they're doing it. Hughes-affiliated companies. The tour's main sponsor just pulled out. The beverage company, the truck line... they're all gone. They're trying to ruin you."

Ethan must have timed it perfectly. A smug smile touched his lips. He and Nicole exchanged a look of triumph. They thought they had me. They thought threatening my career, the one thing I had built for myself, would be enough to make me run.

It was the same move they pulled in my last life. Back then, it worked. I had panicked, begged, and ultimately, lost everything.

This time, I just smiled.

"You think taking away some sponsors is going to stop me?" I asked, my voice dangerously calm. "You think my career is all I have?"

I looked directly into the nearest TMZ camera. "Ethan Lester is pulling my tour sponsorships because he's afraid. He's afraid because he knows my father's blood runs in my veins, and not in his. He's trying to silence me because he's a fraud, living off a name he has no right to."

Ethan's face darkened with rage. "You're delusional."

"Am I?" I shot back. "You talk about my 'low-class' background. I built a career from nothing, with my own talent. You were handed everything and have done nothing but spend my father's money. Who's the real embarrassment here?"

The reporters were eating it up, scribbling furiously, their cameras capturing every second of the confrontation. This wasn't the narrative the Lesters had planned. I was writing my own.