Trending Hearts

CHAPTER ONE

Plastic Platforms

In the Hollywood Hills, even the sunsets wait for their cue. They drip gold on command, soft with smog, just like our practiced smiles. Always ready to shine for the camera. If they falter, someone can fix it with a filter.

Perfection isn’t just expected in our world; it’s practically a job requirement. Not everyone can handle it, but I’ve made it my life.

I raise my champagne flute, phone poised to capture the moment, while my two partners-in-glam take their places beside me.

Sierra Darling, the beauty guru with a million-dollar grin (and a Lustre following to match) and Lyla Monroe, fitness queen known for her green juice recipes and luxury retreats.

Me? I’m somewhere in between. The girl who went viral after a makeup tutorial disaster.

Twenty-seven million views, one set of ruined lashes, and I was an overnight sensation.

Together, we’re a polished, camera-ready trio: the beauty, the fitness guru, and the accident-turned-icon.

We clink our glasses, champagne spilling over the edges, laughter bubbling up with the blinding light of a camera flash.

The giggles feel real enough, but the truth?

We’re not friends. Not really. We’re more like…

frenemies. It’s an arrangement we’ve all silently agreed on.

We need each other, but do we like each other? That’s not part of the deal.

Which sometimes makes me wonder if anyone at this event even remembers how to laugh without checking the angle first. I used to think I could balance the girl I was before with the persona I’ve built now. But somewhere along the way I stopped knowing which version of me was real.

Maybe that’s the trick.

We don’t sell ourselves; we sell the idea of ourselves. And the more perfect the idea, the more invisible the girl behind it becomes.

Sierra leans into me, her fake blond locks brushing my shoulder, while Lyla snakes an arm around my waist. We press together like a jigsaw puzzle, perfect for the millions watching on their phones.

"Can you believe our next event is in Bali?" Lyla sighs dreamily, her jade eyes sparkling as she adjusts her sequined strap. Sierra’s already touching up her lipstick, barely paying attention.

"I’ve never been," I admit, guilt tugging at me. I didn’t make the last brand deal. Who knows if I’ll make this one. And with an agoraphobic mother halfway across the country dealing with OCD, the thought of not being a flight away makes me uneasy. "But it sounds incredible."

Sierra shrugs, sweeping something shimmery across my cheeks in the fading light. "It’s fine," she says, though there’s an unmistakable edge in her voice. "Paris was so much better last year. Shame you missed it. Everyone’s still talking about it."

Heat floods my cheeks, but I force one of those practiced smiles.

I’d missed Paris after a food poisoning nightmare left me glued to the toilet instead of boarding a plane.

I almost lost my biggest brand deal because of it.

Sierra and Lyla started to distance themselves after that, after one commentator called me problematic.

I couldn’t tell anyone the truth. That the restaurant—the one that gave me food poisoning—had me under contract.

I had to play it off as a social media break.

It’s taken months to claw my way back into their world.

And I’m not about to mess it up again.

"Five minutes, ladies!" someone calls from across the room. "Then we’re live!"

If there’s one part of this influencer life that I dread, it’s going live.

Our whole world is carefully edited, filtered, and framed to perfection.

When you’re live, there are no second takes, no cuts.

And when you’re sharing the screen with a bunch of girls who’ll battle for the spotlight like wolves over a carcass?

Anything—and I mean anything—can happen.

"Ugh," Sierra groans, rolling her eyes. "Big Belle is heading our way."

I glance up just as Belle—the southern icon herself—waves, regal as ever in her bright red dress. She’s all warm smiles and glossy curls, heading straight for us.

"Be nice," Lyla whispers, though I catch the hint of amusement in her tone. Lyla loves a bit of drama. Just not too much. A touch of controversy keeps us relevant. But too much? We’re disposable.

"Good evenin’, ladies!" Belle pulls us into a big group hug, her signature charm on full display. Her hug is solid, grounding, and nothing like the feather-light embraces staged for cameras. It’s jarring, the way her warmth penetrates through the lacquered surface of the evening.

"Y’all are looking adorable!" Belle tells us before leaning in. "Listen, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about a collab."

"We’re not interested," Sierra cuts her off without hesitation. Her gaze flickers over Belle’s curvy figure and hand-sewn red dress, the disdain dripping from every pore in her body. "We’re busy."

Lyla forces a polite smile, but I don’t miss the way Belle’s expression falters for a split second. My two so-called friends are already making their exit, heels clicking as they head toward the bar.

I glance back at Belle. "What’s the collaboration?" I ask, curious.

Belle’s face brightens instantly. "You’re interested?"

"Of course," I say, offering a genuine smile.

She tucks a loose curl behind her ear, her excitement palpable. "I’ll have my manager send you the details. You’re gonna love it."

The crowd migrates over to the glass platform.

Everyone is adjusting designer outfits, fixing hair, and swiping last-minute touch-ups.

Someone centers the massive ring light, another starts the countdown.

I could push to the front, but being on the edge is enough.

I'm visible, taggable, and definitely not absent.

Online, absence is blood in the water.

"Three!" an influencer at the front calls just as the platform shifts under our weight. "Two!... One!"

As if on cue, everyone stands a little straighter, smiles just a bit wider. Thirty influencers balanced on a surface that feels flimsier than a Highlight trend. I raise a hand, signaling I’m here. Not hiding, not spiraling, not canceled. Yet.

"Introducing Glimmer and Glow’s newest brand ambassadors!" booms from the front.

Elbows fly as people jockey for the best angle.

Belle leans in, whispering, "Do you think this thing’s actually gonna hold all of us?"

My heart skips. I bend and tap the platform with a manicured nail. It flexes under the pressure. Dread pools in my stomach. This isn’t glass, it’s plastic.

"It’s not going to hold," I murmur, straightening.

"Should we make a run for it?" Belle looks at me helplessly.

"Unless you want a free dip," I say, stepping off the flimsy cover onto solid ground. Belle follows. Smart.

I scan for someone to warn, but before I can shout, there’s a scream, then gasps, then chaos. The platform caves, plunging half the crowd—designer gowns, extensions, and egos—straight into the pool. A Glimmer and Glow employee rushes over, phone in hand.

"You have got to be kidding me," Belle mutters, arms crossed beside me.

Before I can even process it, another Glimmer and Glow rep jumps into the frame, grinning at the camera. "Our new line is one hundred percent waterproof!" they announce, gesturing to the drenched crowd clawing out of the pool.

They planned this.

I’m not even sure why I’m surprised.

Belle tugs at my sleeve, and I hear a small tear. She holds up a scrap of fabric, my carefully constructed image unraveling one stitch at a time.

"Trust me," she says.

Then, she whips out a tiny sewing kit and stitches in exaggerated strokes.

"Wardrobe malfunction!" she exclaims just as a camera light swings our way. Of course. When Belle’s not cooking, she’s sewing. Making a scene is second nature to her.

I catch sight of the lens, knowing we’re live to hundreds of thousands of viewers from their couches, beds, and probably even a few toilets.

"Wardrobe malfunction," I echo, cheeks hot. I’ve just been drafted into her act.

"All done!" Belle sings, patting my shoulder with a wink. "Did we miss anything?"

"Only the best publicity stunt ever!" Lyla appears, dripping wet, hair plastered to her shoulders. "Glimmer and Glow’s waterproof mascara is absolutely flawless!"

"And my lips!" Sierra squeals, stepping up beside her to address the camera. "I’ve been eating, drinking, and now swimming. The color hasn’t budged!"

Belle and I exchange a look, neither of us amused by the surprising stunt. Then, we’re elbowed to the back of the crowd once more as influencers swarm the camera.

"Thanks," I whisper to Belle. "I would’ve never guessed it was all staged."

"You did the right thing," she says gently. "You tried to prevent a disaster by getting off that platform."

"Except it wasn’t a disaster. It was a setup."

She gives me a small smile, one full of empathy. "Not everyone’s chasing the same five seconds of fame, sweetheart. You and me? We’re not like them."

I want to say I am like them, that this life is all I’ve ever wanted. But if I’m honest, keeping up with these girls, this world, is a lot more exhausting than I let on.

"You’ll send me that collab info?" I ask, pulling my phone from my purse.

"Count on it." Belle winks, pushing through the crowd toward the camera, leaving me with a strange, warming thought. Maybe there’s more to all of this than views and filters and likes. Maybe this isn’t exactly what I envisioned an influencer was when I first started out.

Maybe I’m ready to acknowledge that. And maybe, that’s not the worst thing in the world.

I glance down at my phone. Seven missed calls. My stomach drops as I duck into the stairwell and press the phone to my ear.

"Ellie," Jasper’s voice is low, urgent. "It’s me. Call me back as soon as you get this. It’s important."

Panic flares in my chest as I hurry down the stairs. Mom’s been homebound for over a year. What if something happened?

The warm, smoggy air hits me as I push open the side door, heart pounding loud enough to drown everything else. I tap Jasper’s name. One ring. Two. Three.

"Ellie?" His words crackle through, and relief floods me.

"Jasp." I release a breath. "What’s going on?"

"Is that her?" Brooks’ voice echoes in the background, steady.

"Yeah." Jasper’s tense. "Ellie… are you sitting down?"

My palms are slick. "Yeah," I lie, bracing against the wall.

"There’s been an accident." The words hang heavy.

"Mom?"

"It’s… Dad. He was out cutting wood, and he had a stroke. The doctors say it’s serious. Ellie, you need to come home."

My hand flies to my mouth. "I have a brand deal in Bali." Empty words. Wrong words.

"A brand deal?" Jasper’s disgusted tone slices through. "Dad’s in the hospital, and you’re talking about a brand deal?"

Shame scorches me. Who am I if I even hesitated?

"I’ll book the first flight," I whisper. "I’m coming home. I promise."

"Okay," he says, relieved. "Love you, Ellie."

"Love you too."

I lower the phone with shaking hands, shame and panic twisting in my chest. Bali feels like another planet, a world I don’t belong to anymore.

For the first time all evening, the thought of likes, comments, collabs… it all feels unbearably small compared to what waits back home.

My heels hammer against the pavement as I run down Sunset, neon blurring past.

For once, I’m not balancing on plastic pretending to be glass. No spectacle, no ring lights, no hashtags.

Just the pounding of my heart, carrying me away from the collapse I’ve been living in and toward the one place that still feels real.