She Stole My Face But Got My Hell

She was the golden girl of American cinema, with three Academy Awards on her mantel and her face on every billboard from Sunset Boulevard to Times Square. Then she wakes in the body of an uncredited background extra with fewer than five hundred followers, while a message arrives from her own blue-checkmarked account: the stunt falls, shattered ribs and bruises were always someone else's, and now everything she built belongs to the woman wearing her face.

That woman is Nora Powell, and she has taken the star's name, her cream silk dress, her Maybach and her terrified assistant Paige. On set she orders the body she discarded into a ditch of stagnant runoff, calling for take after take in the freezing rain, while the crew looks away. There is one month left on a ten-year contract that demands one hundred and fifty million dollars in net corporate revenue, with unlimited personal liability for any shortfall.

A voice memo from her old number asks whether she wishes she could kill her. Too bad she can't touch her.