Chapter 2
JANE
I stare at my phone like it might explode.
In a way, it already has.
Eighty-seven missed calls. One hundred thirty-three messages. And a notification from X informing me I’m trending at number one.
For all the wrong reasons.
“Jane, sweetheart, pick up! This is a disaster, but we can fix it!” Max’s voice practically shouts through my voicemail.
I grimace and take a long sip of red wine. I hate red wine—but someone gifted me this absurdly expensive bottle when I signed my first contract, and honestly? It feels like the perfect way to toast the death of my career.
Through the window of my tiny Los Angeles apartment, I can see the Hollywood sign glowing in the distance.
Mocking me.
“Disaster is putting it mildly, Max,” I mutter, pouring myself another glass.
I set my phone down and turn on the TV.
BuzzTV blasts my face across the screen—eyes blazing, cheeks flushed with anger—paired with a charming headline:
“Jane Carter: The Diva Who Lost It.”
Of course.
Morbid curiosity wins. I turn up the volume.
“The viral video shows actress Jane Carter, best known for her supporting roles in Million Dollar Love and Tropical Love, lashing out at director Michael Peterson on the set of his latest film. Sources close to the production confirm Carter has been removed from the project following the incident…”
I roll my eyes so hard it physically hurts.
Best known for supporting roles.
Wow. Twist the knife, why don’t you?
“He cut all my lines in the final edit!” I shout at the TV. “That’s not being a diva—that’s professional self-defense!”
But no one’s listening.
The clip plays again.
Me—Jane Carter—yelling at Michael Peterson, the so-called “visionary” director of Desperately Seeking Love. My big break.
Or what was supposed to be.
What the video doesn’t show? Six months of subtle digs. Condescending comments. And a script slowly gutted of my dialogue until my character barely existed.
“No, no, Carter, calm down. You’re just a pretty face. It’s my film. I decide. And I’ve decided your character is more interesting when she doesn’t talk.”
His voice still echoes in my head.
That was the moment I snapped.
Funny how that part didn’t make it into the viral clip.
My phone buzzes again.
Savannah.
My best friend since high school—and the only person who hasn’t abandoned me yet.
“Tell me you didn’t drown yourself in a bathtub full of wine,” she says the second I answer.
“I don’t have a bathtub. Just a shower with the pressure of a sad garden hose. And no—I’m drowning in a glass like a responsible adult.”
Her laugh softens something tight in my chest.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes with ice cream, nachos, and more wine. Don’t do anything stupid until I get there.”
“Like what? Calling Peterson and telling him exactly what I think? Too late. He blocked me.”
“Like posting something online, Jane. Seriously. Do. Not. Do. That.”
I shrug, even though she can’t see me.
“I’ve got nothing left to lose, Sav.”
“That’s exactly what people say before they lose everything. Put the phone down. I’m on my way.”
She hangs up.
I stare at the black screen.
My last Instagram post is still up—me beaming on set.
Dreams do come true.
Yeah. Hilarious.
The doorbell rings what feels like five minutes later.
Savannah must have broken a speed record—or I’ve had more wine than I thought.
“It’s open!” I call out.
The door swings open.
And instead of Savannah…
Ryan Fowler walks in.
My ex.
The one who conveniently vanished eight months ago after we broke up.
A bitter smile tugs at my lips.
“Jane, baby, I came as soon as I saw the news.”
I blink at him.
“Really? You rushed over from… where was it again? Vancouver? That was fast.”
He tilts his head, flashing that charming smile that used to ruin me.
“I was already in town for auditions. I was actually thinking about calling you, and then I saw the video…”
“What a coincidence,” I shoot back. “Let me guess—your agent suggested you show up and publicly support me? Great optics, right? ‘Devoted ex stands by fallen star.’ Very noble.”
His expression flickers—just for a second—before he laughs it off.
“You’re still funny. I just came to check on you.”
“After eight months of radio silence? I’m great. Thanks. You can go.”
He ignores me and steps further inside, eyeing my wine bottle with a grimace.
“You deserve better than that, Jane.”
“Apparently not. In wine or men.”
He smiles, unfazed.
“Listen, I know people who could help fix your image. This is just a minor setback. We all go through ups and downs.”
I stare at him.
“A minor setback? Ryan, I lost my role. My agent is probably about to drop me. Three casting directors have already politely told me I’m ‘not what they’re looking for.’ I’m officially labeled difficult. That’s career death in Hollywood—and you know it.”
He shrugs, all fake sympathy.
“All the more reason to take my help. I can talk to a few directors, mention that you’re…”
“That I’m what, Ryan?”
“That you’re going through a rough patch—but you’re easy to direct.”
I let out a hollow laugh.
“Is that why you dumped me? Because I wasn’t ‘easy’? Not quiet enough? Not willing to sit there and take disrespect?”
His jaw tightens.
“Jane, don’t start. This attitude is exactly why you’re in this situation.”
“What attitude? Expecting basic respect?”
“The one where everything becomes a drama!” he snaps. “You could’ve smiled, nodded, and dealt with it privately. But no—you had to make a scene in front of the whole crew.”
Anger surges hot and sharp.
“After six months of ‘private conversations’ that led nowhere? I was supposed to just keep letting him walk all over me?”
He exhales, regaining that polished calm.
“Sometimes that’s what it takes to succeed in this business. Look at me—I play the game. And now? I just landed a role in Spielberg’s next film.”
That hits.
Hard.
Ryan. In a Spielberg.
And me? Drinking wine straight from the bottle in my shoebox apartment.
“Congratulations,” I whisper. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a scheduled existential breakdown at eight, and I hate being late.”
“Jane—”
The door swings open again.
Savannah storms in, arms full of bags.
“I brought three kinds of ice cream because I didn’t know if you were in a chocolate-drowning mood or—oh.”
Her eyes flick from Ryan to me… then back to Ryan.
Uh-oh.
That expression means even Usain Bolt couldn’t outrun what’s coming.
“Well, look who it is,” she says sweetly. “The ghost of bad decisions past.”
“Savannah. Still charming,” Ryan replies tightly.
“And you’re still opportunistic. Are you here for a photo op or to offer Jane a role in your next blockbuster?”
“I was just checking on her.”
“After tipping off the paparazzi, I assume?”
“He actually came to tell me he’s Spielberg’s new favorite,” I cut in. “Meanwhile, I couldn’t even get cast as the third victim in a CSI episode.”
Savannah ignores me.
The silence that follows says everything.
Ryan has always been calculated.
“Well,” I say finally, “thanks for stopping by. But as you can see, I’m very busy supporting California winemakers.”
I take a swig straight from the bottle for emphasis.
He hesitates… then nods.
“Fine. But my offer stands. Call me if you change your mind.”
The door shuts behind him.
Savannah drops her bags and turns to me, concern replacing the fire in her eyes.
“You okay?”
“Fantastic. My ex just flexed his success while my career burns to the ground. Living the dream.”
“Ignore him. He’s a walking PR stunt. And I didn’t know Spielberg had lowered his standards to actors who overact ordering coffee.”
I sigh.
“He’s in a Spielberg, Sav. And I’m the crazy diva of Hollywood.”
She pops open a tub of chocolate ice cream and hands me a spoon.
“Correction: you’re the actress who had the guts to stand up to a misogynistic jerk. If Hollywood can’t see that, that’s their problem—not yours.”
“Unfortunately, courage doesn’t pay rent,” I mutter, shoving a spoonful into my mouth.
My phone rings again.
Max.
Still calling.
Maybe not for long.
“You should answer,” Savannah says. “He might have a solution.”
I sigh, swallow my ice cream, and pick up—putting him on speaker.
“Max, I don’t need a lecture on anger management.”
“Jane! Finally! I’ve been trying to reach you for hours!” His voice fills the apartment. “This is a disaster—but I think I have a solution!”
Savannah shoots me a smug told you so look.
“What kind of solution? A villain role? I’d be perfect in Hollywood Meltdown: The Diva Strikes Back.”
“Very funny. But no. I got an… unusual offer. Are you free tomorrow? We need to talk in person.”
I frown.
“Unusual how?”
“The kind that could save your career. Or at least get you out of the spotlight until this blows over.”
“I’m listening.”
“Not over the phone. Too sensitive. My office. Tomorrow. Ten a.m. And Jane?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t say no right away. It’s a little crazy—but sometimes that’s exactly what works.”
He hangs up.
I stare at the phone.
“What was that?” Savannah asks.
“No idea. Either he found me the role of a lifetime… or he’s about to pitch reality TV. Hollywood Housewives might need a certified diva.”
She shakes her head.
“Max is weird, but he cares about you. If he says he has a solution, he probably does.”
“Yeah. We’ll see.”
We spend the rest of the night eating ice cream and watching movies where everything works out in the end.
Where the heroine struggles… but wins. Finds love. Gets her happy ending.
If only real life worked like that.
Because in real life?
She yells at a director…
And gets blacklisted.