Chapter One
ONE
HAILEY’S DAILY RULE FOR SUCCESS:
Start your day on purpose and with purpose.
Four weeks earlier...
If you read enough daily horoscopes, you’ll eventually find one you like.
Sixteen astrology sites, three online tarot card readings and a Magic 8 Ball TikTok filter later, I find the prediction I’m sticking with for today.
With the lunar eclipse in your sign, shake up the day by embracing your bold and passionate side, but be prepared for some introspection late this evening when planetary shifts create opportunities for future growth.
Seems generic enough to relate to anything that happens today, and I like the reassurance that gives me—manifestations of success are predestined by fate.
I position my ring light and tripod next to my desk in front of the window of my home office. Dressed in casual chic, I’m polished to near perfection, but not too perfect—no filters here. My followers respond to “real” and I do my best to convey the fakest version of real I can muster this early in the morning.
Behind me on the walls are framed magazine covers featuring my smiling, confident face. The taglines boast “Top 30 Under Thirty,” “Best Influencer of the Year,” “Motivator to the Stars.”
It’s all true.
At twenty-nine, I have become a successful life coach with over ten million followers on my daily app, which doles out words of wisdom to get one’s day underway.
I check the time on my computer and wait...4:59...5:00 a.m. Forcing a wide-eyed smile, I go live.
“Hey, Hustlers! It’s Monday! New week, new goals. Get up. Get moving. Remember, if you’re not up early, someone else is. Monday is the perfect day to try something new—so get out there and be adventurous. Set your intentions for the week and remember setbacks are just another test of your dedication and commitment. Keep hustling! Love to all!”
I post the inspirational Monday morning message to my devotees and views immediately come in, positive comments and heart emojis light up the screen. I genuinely enjoy all the love and the feedback. Over the years I’ve built a solid, authentic reputation by caring about my followers—from the early days when I was working to build my platform and I’d call out each viewer individually. Something I obviously can’t do anymore as my business has blown up, but I still take the time to hear about Marsha from Utah, whose kids have gone off to college and she’s trying to find herself again, and Kimberly from Texas, who just started a new health regime and is struggling with the early morning workouts.
Human connections are what this industry—this life —is all about. Unfortunately, my circumstances make getting too connected a little complicated.
Approachable but distant. Friendly but cautious. Open but not vulnerable.
The three guiding principles that have helped me reach this level of undreamable success without landing me in some research facility for the “gifted.”
I log off and make sure the camera isn’t still recording so no one sees my vintage She-Ra pajama pants and fluffy slippers as I shuffle my way out of the office.
In my bedroom, I remove the wrinkle-free button-down I’m wearing over my matching Masters of the Universe tank top, hang it in the closet, then climb back into bed. I set my cell phone alarm for 9:00 a.m., a reasonable hour to be awake, then hit a button on the wall. Blackout blinds close automatically and once again I realize how grateful I am to be living this life.
And that I’m just one slip away from losing it all.
My eyes fly open as the room shakes around me and I’m tossed brutally from bed, as though that solitary thought has shaken my entire foundation. As if I’ve opened Pandora’s box and allowed chaos to finally track me down.
Face down on the floor, I hear crumbling above me and roll underneath the four poster, covering the back of my head with my hands. It feels as though my house has been swept out to sea as I ride out the nausea-inducing trembling and swaying of an earthquake that has to be a magnitude of six or higher. Cracking echoes all around me and I envision the whole house collapsing, the entire Malibu coast getting swallowed in a crevasse.
California is on a fault line and it’s only a matter of time.
Luckily, today isn’t that day. As fast as it came on, what will likely be deemed a “tremor” to prevent doomsday fanatics from freaking out, stops.
Today’s horoscope was a tad too on the nose—won’t be visiting that site again.
I roll out from under the bed, shakily get to my feet, and wait to see if there are any aftershocks. With one arm braced against the wall, I breathe deeply to steady my thundering heart rate. The health tracker on my wrist has gone offline—vitals unavailable. That can’t be good.
Once everything seems settled, I survey the room. A few items on the dresser have fallen and the drawers are open, but otherwise no real damage.
I leave the room and move slowly through the rest of the house. Thankfully the previous owners had been paranoid enough to have the house earthquake proofed. Larger appliances are attached to the walls with safety cables, the ceiling lights and fans are secured. Safety film covers the windows and glass doors.
There’s very little damage throughout.
Until I enter my office and see all the framed magazine covers have crashed to the floor.
With a shaking hand, I carefully sort through shards of broken glass to pick one up. The tagline boasting my success blurs as I once again feel faint—the lingering emotional aftermath of a natural disaster.
It was just a tremor...but all it takes is one small crack.
Hours later, I shake off that morning’s excitement as I sit at my desk, wearing a Golden Bears jersey sporting number 18—“Laywood”—on the back. Matching baseball hat over a cute, sporty ponytail, foam finger and I’m ready to go. I take a deep breath and wait for the online chat to connect.
And wait...
I confirm the date on my calendar. This is decision day.
Maybe they forgot or lost track of time. Maybe I was supposed to call them. If so, I’d hate to keep them waiting. I hit the call button on the screen and resume my excited, confident pose as it rings.
And rings... No answer.
I slump back in the chair as an email notification pops up—an announcement about a life coaching event next month at the West Beverly Hotel, where I’ll be one of the guest speakers.
Only the biggest life coaching event of the year. No pressure.
I click on the notification and see that Spencer Stanley, a charming, slick new coach dominating in the sports division, has been added to the list of panelists. His smug smile grates on my last nerve. The guy has only been in the business six months and already he’s got over a million followers and was deemed influential enough to be featured at the event. I’m not jealous of his success; I’m annoyed by it. Building a brand takes time and I’m not sure what horseshoe this guy has lodged up his ass to have reached the top so quickly.
Don’t look. You don’t want to know.
Opening his social media page, I immediately regret it as I see his latest post from... 4:30 a.m.!? There’s no way he actually gets up that early.
Nothing better than waking up on a gorgeous Monday to a new client deal! That’s right, I can now officially confirm the rumors that I am partnering with Kirk Laywood—pro basketball’s hottest new rookie.
Damn it. I thought I had that guy.
The least Coach Riley could have done was give me a heads-up. I represent clients from all walks of life—actors, politicians, professionals, but I’ve yet to break into the pro-athlete market. Psychological research shows that motivators are a valuable part of an athlete’s team and yet so many of them are reluctant to accept that type of assistance with their careers.
At least from me.
Four meetings with Kirk and his coach. Four expensive steak dinners. Four long, polished presentations on the benefits of life coaching...and I teed it up for Spencer Stanley to swoop in and seal the deal. I should have insisted on a signed contract at our last meeting when it seemed as though I had him on the hook.
Didn’t I learn anything from watching Jerry Maguire a dozen times as sports research?
A minute of wallowing then onward and upward.
I pull the foam finger off, close my eyes, take a deep breath, and namaste Spencer right out of my mind.
“Checking out the competitor, smart.”
My eyes spring open and my health tracker warns of a pending heart attack. At least it’s registering this time.
“Alice? What the hell?” More professionally, “I mean, how did you get in here?”
Alice Kline, a former client and adorably neurotic bestselling author, simply shrugs as she stands in front of me. “Climbed in through the window.” She gestures at the one open behind me.
I’ll be repositioning my desk to face the window ASAP, feng shui be damned.
“I rang the front gate, but power’s still out along your street. Manuel let me in,” she says.
So much for my gardener’s Christmas bonus this year.
I shouldn’t be surprised by this unexpected, outside-the-box entrance. Alice is a low-grade stalker who solicited my services by following me to Whole Foods for my daily grocery pickup for a solid three months before finally approaching me about coaching at my semiannual gyno appointment. Sounds creepy, but anyone who subjects themselves to a Pap smear to get my attention is worthy of fifteen minutes of my time. That kind of dedication is admirable—the single-minded determination I look for in potential clients.
Still. “Alice, we’ve talked about boundaries.”
“I know, but I need more time,” she says with a hint of desperation, rearranging the objects that the tremor knocked from my desk.
Now that my pulse has returned to a less worrisome rate, I notice she’s wearing old sweats with what I assume are coffee stains on the front. Her hair is piled high in a messy bun and the undeniable scent of a cheap dry shampoo auras around her. The vein in her forehead is pronounced and dark circles under her eyes suggest she hasn’t been sleeping.
She’s spiraling and I’d like to help, but... “I’ve explained how my services work. Six-month contract. No extensions.”
Messing with fate is a delicate balancing act. I can set my clients on the right path or help them avoid the wrong one, but then it’s up to them. Thinking about the ripple effects just one small suggestion has on the universe is anxiety attack inducing.
Alice sits across from me, undeterred. She takes out a copy of Murder by the Dozen from a deep sweatpants pocket and places it on the desk. I pick it up and reluctantly give in to the temptation to smile. This book and the previous bestsellers almost didn’t happen, but they are truly addictive and imaginative.
“Thanks for bringing me an advanced copy. Signed?”
Alice nods, but her knees bounce as she scans the office.
“Are you all prepped for the launch?” I ask as I get up and place the book next to the others on my “client pride” shelf. This collection is my joy—I cherish it more than the one showcasing my own awards and achievements. The client shelf actually exemplifies hard work, grit, determination, and perseverance.
“Yeah, I guess...” Alice mumbles, biting her nails.
Against my better judgment I ask, “What’s going on?” I sit down and give her my full attention, though waiving my own rules makes me more than a little uneasy.
Never let anyone get too close or stay too long.
“I want to write something different. Something a little out there...” she says.
“Out there?”
“A sci-fi Western romance.”
I nod slowly, try to wrap my mind around it. “In addition to the bestselling mystery series? Under a pen name?”
Alice shakes her head. “I don’t want to write the Cookbook Murder series anymore. After ten books, I’m tapped out. There’s only so many ways to murder a person with a spatula.”
I’m failing to come up with even one.
Alice deserves all the credit her books have garnered from readers and critics alike. Her creativity in coming up with new, fresh ways to kill people in the kitchen is actually terrifying. Alice doesn’t host many dinner parties.
“But the books are fan favorites and your publisher is supporting them. You’ve reached every goal we— you —set for yourself since we launched the career plan.” Not an easy feat. When I first started working with Alice, her originality needed to be reined in a little to secure that first six-figure deal.
“But I wasn’t sold on the idea back then either. It was your suggestion to try the mystery genre.”
I remember that glimpse well. Alice had pitched her sci-fi Western romance at our first meeting in the gyno office waiting room. Taking her hand in mine that day, I really wanted to see that the outside-the-box series would be wildly popular, but my glimpse into her future wasn’t so promising...
Inside a busy, popular bookstore, a banner announced Author Meet & Greets. A nervous-looking Alice sat at a table, a stack of sci-fi Western romance books in front of her. No one approached.
A few feet away, a mystery author sat with a long line of customers eager to get their signed copy of the latest Murder by Recipe book.
I smile gently at Alice now. “And it worked.”
Though maybe not so well for the other author I borrowed the idea from.
Ripple effects = anxiety attacks.
I pause for a breath before delivering advice I know she’s not going to like. “Alice, I know you want to write the book of your heart, but the Cookbook Murder series are the books people want to read...and—” perhaps more importantly “—your editor wants to contract.”
Alice sighs, her shoulders slump, deflated.
Offering advice contrary to what people want to hear has a soul-sucking effect that I try to avoid at all costs. That, along with the nagging voice in my mind that says, What if I’m wrong? Will I have dashed their dreams for no reason?
“I don’t think I have passion for it anymore,” Alice says, standing. Approaching my bookshelf, she rearranges the books by alphabetical order. She would make a fantastic organizer if she ever considers a career change.
“Passion is a big part in creating, but to be successful long-term...”
“I need to treat it as a business. I know.” She stops organizing and sighs. “I should be grateful to be doing what I love.”
Nope. We are not going to slip into that territory. Alice is an incredible writer, subject to imposter syndrome. If she gets sucked into this self-confidence quicksand, it could be weeks before she resurfaces, and her publicist has a full launch schedule planned.
“No. You should be proud. You did the work and now you’re reaping the rewards. And I’m not saying don’t write the sci-fi, I’m just saying do it for yourself. Maybe self-pub it under a pen name and see if it sells...” Safe enough not to destroy the career she’s worked so hard to build.
Alice looks disheartened. “Good idea. That’s what I’ll do.”
Soul. Sucking.
I stand and move around the desk toward her. I hesitate, but she needs this. More so, I need this reassurance that I’m still sending her down the right path. Under the pretense of a friendly gesture, I extend my hands and Alice reaches out to take them. I rotate our palms so that our lifelines touch and connect. Energy flows between us and, breaking my own rules, I sneak another glimpse into Alice’s future.
A book publishing event is in full swing in a beautifully decorated hotel ballroom. Elegantly dressed guests are in attendance. Champagne flows freely and a dessert bar features offerings too pretty to eat.
Alice, dressed in a beautiful black gown, stands on the stage and accepts a Golden Novel Award for Best Mystery Series. The award is dated 2025.
I snap back to the present and gently release Alice’s hands, confident again. “Just trust me, okay. It will all work out.”
“You’ve never steered me wrong,” Alice says as she moves away and starts to climb back out the window.
“You can use the front door,” I say with a laugh. Alice is great at cheering me up...when she’s not giving me an existential crisis. Under different circumstances we might even be friends. But I’ve yet to figure out how to have female friendships without complications. My psychic glimpses give insight into whatever a person is emotionally invested in in the moment, but I’m not sure how that would look on a personal level. Heart-to-heart conversations could be far too revealing.
“All good,” she says as she slings her legs over the window ledge and hops down.
I stand at the open window and watch her go.
Success sometimes looks different than what we’ve envisioned. Sometimes the opportunities we think we want are just distractions to the ones fate is trying to provide for us.
Today, the soothing words of affirmation don’t hit the same way.
Once I see Alice wave to Manuel and exit through the gate I sigh, then get to work. This weekend I’m hosting another epic VIP influencer party in the hope of connecting with more professional athletes. In my brief experience with that clientele, they prefer more casual settings to formal meetings and I’m hoping mob mentality could help give some of them a push to commit.
The to-do list is long, but there’s no party without guests, so I yank off the sports jersey and baseball cap, fix my blouse and hair, then open my social media app. Sitting straighter, excited expression in place, I go live to my VIP Only group.
“Hey, Exclusive Hustlers! I want to personally invite you all to an event this weekend at my place in Malibu. Open bar, food, live DJ, networking opportunities. And of course, a five-minute one-on-one with me! I’ll even give your business a boost with a personalized social media shout-out at the event. Details below. Remember, this is an exclusive VIP event so bring your member code for access at the gate.”
I log off and my cell phone chimes with a calendar reminder for the following day that reads: “Maple High Career Week.”
And then there’s that.
I’ve been turning down the invite to speak for years, but they keep asking because I’m a bit of an urban legend at my old high school since a pep rally junior year...
Jocks and cheerleaders were strutting around the hallways wearing the school’s colors, while in a bathroom stall I fought with the mascot costume. Finally free of the stuffed Teen Shark outfit, I discovered I’d finally started my period. At sixteen, I was a bit of a late bloomer. A mix of anxiety and excitement washed over me as I’d finally reached this milestone.
Entering the gym, where the cheerleaders were practicing for the pep rally, I approached Angela—a perky, popular senior who had been complaining about cramps earlier that day—and whispered in her ear. She looked annoyed but handed me a tampon from her shorts pocket. When our hands touched, our lifelines connected and that’s when I had my first glimpse...
...of a stunt gone wrong during the rally and Angela crashing hard onto the gymnasium floor.
I was freaked-out, unsure what had just happened or what to do about it. Obviously warning Angela would have committed me to social outcast status for the rest of my high school career and well, I was a mascot, so my popularity wasn’t exactly stellar already. But as the pep rally played out in real time, the glimpse replayed in my mind inside the overstuffed Teen Shark head, the nagging twisting in my gut gripping tighter and tighter.
Angela performed the stunt for real, and I ran onto the floor as she was tossed into the air and dived...
The mascot costume providing a soft crash mat for her fall.
The crowd cheered and Angela was grateful—though not as grateful as one would have suspected—for me saving her life.
After that, everything changed. I don’t know why or how I have this power, and I can’t see my own future, but I learned to use it to increase my own popularity by helping others achieve their goals. Now it’s turned into a lucrative career...as long as no one discovers my secret.
On a billboard promoting some life coaching conference at the ritziest hotel this side of California, Hailey Harris’s face is as big as her ego. Gridlocked traffic means I’ve been staring at it for a full four minutes. My hands grip the steering wheel and I rotate my neck, trying to ease the tension from seeing her too-bright smile. Those perfectly straight, white teeth have to be photoshopped.
“You know, if you took the last exit instead you would’ve shaved five minutes off the drive and wouldn’t have to see that billboard you love so much.” My football team’s star quarterback, Marcus Kent, is sitting in the passenger seat of my Jeep as we drive to practice, and he’s full of helpful advice.
“This way avoids the bottleneck on Main, where that tremor caused a crater in the middle of the street.” The morning’s earthquake had registered a six point seven on the Richter scale and wreaked havoc all over the coast. Local news has been about nothing else and scientists are saying it came out of nowhere. No warning. Which in my opinion should warrant some defunding to their research, but whatever.
“If you avoid Main altogether and take 3rd, that’s not a problem,” Marcus says.
“Didn’t you fail your road test last month?” The kid’s right, but he’s already too much of a smartass for me to admit it. “Let me do the driving, please.”
A loud crunch sounds and our bodies are jerked forward.
“What the...?” I glare into the rearview mirror to see some Beemer on my bumper. “You good?” I ask Marcus.
“Yeah.” He’s giving the guy the finger and I slap it down, then climb out of the Jeep. Heat waves drift up from the pavement as I walk to the back of the vehicle to inspect the damage.
The other driver, wearing an expensive suit, Rolex on one wrist climbs out. Great—a douchebag who’ll try to blame this collision on me.
Instead, he holds his hands up in defeat. “My bad. Sorry. That billboard.” He nods toward it. “Talk about distracted driving, amirite?”
Hailey Harris strikes again.
I notice that his car has taken the brunt of the damage with a dented bumper and army-green paint scratched into the sleek white finish. “We’re good,” I say.
“Holy shit, you’re Warren Mitchell,” the guy says, reaching into his pocket for his cell phone. “You used to be a big deal.”
Used to be. I can feel Hailey smirking down at me from the billboard. “Nah, man, you got me confused with someone else,” I say then walk away and climb back into the Jeep. “That fucking billboard,” I mutter as I slam the door shut.
Marcus grins, lowering himself back through the sunroof. “You know, me and my boys could climb up the tower some night and give her a mustache or something,” he says, sliding lower in the seat.
Tempting.
I turn to him. “After that last stunt you and your boys pulled at that corner store, what did I say?”
“Head down. Nose clean.” He sighs. I hate that Marcus is hanging with the older boys in his neighborhood. All dropouts with zero ambition. All trouble. He has a bright future ahead of him if he can focus on football and not get distracted.
“Look those guys don’t have going for them what you do and they don’t want to see you succeed either.”
“They’re my bros. They’re cool.”
They are the complete opposite of cool, but the last thing I need is Marcus feeling like I’m against the friends he thinks have his back. I don’t want him to stop confiding in me. As much as I hate being interrupted on a date to go prevent my player from getting charged with a misdemeanor, he needs to trust he can call me.
“All I’m saying is it’s easy to be found guilty by association.”
Marcus nods and his light blue eyes cloud over as he stares out the window at the billboard as traffic moves an inch. “I don’t even know why they waste these advertisements out here anyway. Not like anyone from this neighborhood can afford to go to some bougie conference.”
It’s called aspirational marketing. With their heads so far up their asses, the event organizers can’t fathom that some people would rather have groceries than pay a hundred dollars a ticket to attend a seminar that encourages them to work harder, dream bigger, invest in themselves—not acknowledging that not everyone has that luxury. “Not exactly great marketing,” I say.
Marcus studies me. “Who is this Hailey chick, anyway?”
“Just someone I went to high school with.”
“Ex-girlfriend?”
I shudder. “Come on, you think my standards are that low?”
“Dude, you’d be punching up.”
I reach across and punch his shoulder.
Marcus laughs, then I hear his stomach growl. Loud.
“When was the last time you ate?”
“Breakfast.” He avoids my gaze.
Most likely not today’s. Marcus’s dad is serving time for armed robbery and his mother works three jobs to try to support the two of them, but the family’s struggling. Hand-me-down football gear and the love of the game is the only reason Marcus keeps coming to practice. For now. “Top of my bag, there’s a sandwich.”
Marcus shakes his head, but his stomach rumbles louder. “Nah, Coach, I’m already getting a ride from you. I’m not taking your food too.”
“The lady at the deli made it wrong. She put olives on it. Top of the bag.”
Marcus sighs as he reaches into the back for my duffle bag. “You gotta start telling her when she messes up your order. You eat there like every day.”
“She’s eighty years old,” I say as I shoulder check and switch lanes. It isn’t the best deli around and about half the time my sandwich order is wrong, but the woman lost her husband the year before and I think she likes having someone to talk to. “And besides, I have a dinner date tonight—gotta save my carbs.”
“That chick from the game last week?” he asks.
The multilevel marketing guru who tried to recruit me to sell energy drinks? “No.”
Marcus sits back in the seat and unzips the bag. “The redhead at practice the other day?”
Miss forty-dollar steak and didn’t eat it? Definitely not. “No.”
Marcus eyes me. “Shit, Coach, you get around.”
“Shut up and eat the sandwich.” It’s not that I get around. It’s that I can’t stick. Casual dating is more than enough of a commitment. Besides, the women I tend to attract are lured by the championship rings and my faltering six-pack, not my dazzling personality.
Marcus takes the sandwich from the bag, then a course book. “What’s this?”
I glance over. “Put that back.”
He doesn’t. Instead, he flips through the pages. “You studying to be a shrink?”
“No. It’s just a course I’m taking. Put it back.” I started the online sports psychology program on a late-night whim after too much whiskey and a trip down memory lane on the anniversary of my brother’s death. I have no plans of actually becoming a certified sports psychologist—I just want to be the best possible coach to these kids.
“You know, I was thinking maybe I should be looking into some sort of online course after graduation—school guidance counselor says a backup plan for athletes is smart.”
I nod carefully. “It is smart...but for now, let’s focus on plan A—football, okay?” He’s talented enough not to need a plan B, he just needs to believe it and keep pushing hard.
I take the exit off the freeway and drive toward the football field. Cars up on blocks in driveways and run-down homes line the streets where kids play ball and neighbors try to cool off in small inflatable pools on overgrown lawns. I didn’t grow up in a neighborhood like this one. Money-wise, I had everything handed to me. Giving back by choosing to coach a local team instead of accepting offers from elite high schools obviously reveals something about my psyche, but I haven’t gotten that far into the course yet.
A block later, I pull to the side of the road. “Out you go.”
Marcus belches and sends me an annoyed look. “Seriously, man? You’re really gonna make me walk from here?”
“Don’t want the others to think I’m playing favorites,” I say, picking up his bag and giving it to him.
“Even though you are?”
“Even though I absolutely fucking am,” I say. “Out.”
Marcus grins as he opens the Jeep door and climbs out with his gear into the sweltering heat.
“See ya at the field.” He closes the door and I drive away. My gaze drifts into the rearview mirror. Marcus, bag slung over his shoulder, scuffs his feet as he walks down the street. His broad shoulders are slumped forward and his head is down.
He’s my star player, and he has every reason to think he can make it to the big leagues as long as he stays focused on what matters. But his lack of confidence is his biggest enemy. My help can only go so far, but I’m determined to do everything I can to make sure that kid survives the season, gets scouted, and gets the future he more than deserves.