On the screen, a late-night Hollywood entertainment broadcast was playing. Freddy Stanley, an A-list actor with a perfectly sculpted jaw, sat on a talk show couch. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing out a single, pathetic tear.
"I can't take it anymore," Freddy said to the camera, his voice shaking. "For two years, Aspen has stalked me. She ruined my sets. She ruined my life. I am exhausted."
A sharp, tearing pain ripped through Aspen's temples.
Memories slammed into her brain. They were not her choices, but she had seen them all. For twenty-four months, she had been trapped behind her own eyes, a prisoner in her own skull. She remembered the Pacific Coast Highway. The screech of tires. The crushing impact of the car crash. That was the moment the darkness had swallowed her, pushing her soul into the passenger seat while an invasive, foreign presence took the wheel, using her face to chase a mediocre actor. The sheer violation of it made her stomach churn.
She clenched her fists. Her fingernails dug into her palms. The pain was real. The heavy, grounding sensation of her soul finally locking back into her own flesh sent a shiver down her spine.
She was back.
Aspen looked down at her left hand. A thick IV needle was taped violently into the blue vein on the back of her hand. The plastic tube fed clear liquid into her bloodstream.
She reached over with her right hand. She pinched the plastic base of the needle.
She did not hesitate. With a sharp, upward jerk of her wrist, she ripped the needle out of her flesh.
Blood welled up instantly. Three thick, dark red drops splattered onto the pristine white hospital sheets. She did not even blink at the sting.
She leaned over and grabbed the newest iPhone sitting on the cheap plastic nightstand. The screen lit up. The Face ID scanned her features and unlocked immediately.
The Twitter app was open. A barrage of notification sounds pinged like rapid gunfire. Her direct messages were flooded with death threats. She tapped the trending tab. The hashtag AspenBlairGoToHell sat at the number one spot.
She swiped out of the app. She did not care about the opinions of strangers. She tapped the Bank of America icon.
The screen loaded. She stared at the bold black numbers in the center of the screen.
Available Balance: $0.00.
Her jaw tightened. That parasitic fan had drained her entire liquid fortune to buy movie roles and luxury gifts for a man who was currently crying on national television.
Aspen quickly opened the Safari browser. She navigated to the California public real estate registry. She typed in her social security number.
Her primary residence, a sprawling estate in the heart of Beverly Hills, had a new status tag updated three days ago.
SOLD.
She opened a new tab, typing in the property address. A trashy real estate blog popped up instantly as the top result. The headline glared back at her in bold font: "Mysterious Billionaire Kasey Dominguez Takes Possession of Disgraced Actress Aspen Blair's Foreclosed Mansion Tonight."
A cold, dangerous smile curved the corners of her lips. She had nothing left. No money. No reputation. No home. But she knew exactly where to find the man sleeping in her bed.
Heavy, aggressive footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. The rubber soles squeaked against the linoleum floor, moving fast and stopping right outside her door.
Aspen immediately dropped the phone onto the mattress. She closed her eyes, let her head loll to the side, and slowed her breathing. She forced her muscles to go completely limp, mimicking a deep coma.
She waited in the dark.
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