Chapter 4She Stole My Face But Got My Hell

She spun on her heels, the silk of the crimson dress snapping around her ankles, and linked her arm through Garrett's.

"Let's go, Garrett. The stench in here is giving me a migraine."

Garrett spared me one last glance—the kind of look an executive gives an obsolete piece of hardware being hauled toward the recycling bin.

"You have seventy-two hours to reconsider, Declan," Garrett said quietly.

They walked out, the click of her heels echoing down the hallway.

Declan kicked the folding chair across the room. It slammed into the baseboard with a metallic clatter.

"Corporate parasites," he spat, his face dark with fury. He turned on me, his eyes bloodshot with adrenaline. "Go home. Keep your phone on. As long as I have blood pumping through my heart, this role belongs to you."

I pushed myself up from the floor, dusting off the knees of my black trousers. "Thank you, Mr. Hayes."

By the time I stepped out of the building, the Los Angeles sky had bruised into a dull, smoggy violet.

My phone began to vibrate uncontrollably in my pocket. Notification alerts flooded the screen like an open hydrant.

TMZ: Desperate Day-Player Escorted from Major Production After Harassing Super-Agent Garrett Shaw.

Page Six: Who is Nora Powell? Inside the Shady Past of the Extra Obsessed with Gwen Bradley.

The accompanying photograph showed me pinned against the corridor wall by Garrett's private security guards. The angle was viciously deliberate—framing me as an unhinged, clawing stalker lunging toward the sleek silhouette of Garrett and "Gwen."

It was her handiwork, no doubt. She didn't just want the role; she wanted to salt the earth beneath my feet so I could never book a day's work in this town again.

I didn't waste energy reading the comments. I took the bus back to the decrepit garden-style apartment complex in North Hollywood.

When I rounded the corner, my stomach dropped.

Three battered cardboard boxes sat on the cracked sidewalk by the curb. My landlady, a woman with leathery, sun-damaged skin and a permanent cigarette between her lips, stood at the top of the concrete stairs with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Load your junk into a cart and get off my property," she yelled down, tossing an envelope of crumpled bills onto the top box. "I got a call from an attorney's office an hour ago. Anyone harboring you gets dragged into a commercial lease dispute with Shaw’s holding company. I don't need that kind of heat. That’s your prorated deposit. Move."

I bent down, picking up a stray sweater that had tumbled into the gutter, and shoved it back into the box.

The quiet purr of a high-end V12 engine drifted down the street.

The black Maybach Sprinter glided to the curb, parking directly beside my boxes. The tinted privacy glass slid down.

She sat back against the diamond-quilted leather seats, wearing oversized Celine sunglasses.

"How does the sidewalk taste?" She pulled the glasses down the bridge of her nose, her eyes gleaming with manic delight. "In this city, crushing an insect like you takes less effort than signing an autograph."

I rested both hands on the edge of the cardboard box, leaning down to meet her gaze through the open window.

"You are deeply pathetic," I said evenly.

Her smile vanished. "What did you say to me?"

I stepped closer to the glass. "I said, the moment you strip away the name and the empire I spent ten years building, you are nothing. You’re an empty vessel playing dress-up in someone else’s skin."

Her eyes flared with rage. She shoved the heavy door open and lunged out of the van, raising her hand to strike me across the face. "You miserable bitch, I'll destroy—"

Before her palm could descend, I caught her wrist in a vice grip.

I didn't just stop the blow; I twisted her arm downward, leveraging her own momentum, and shoved her back. Her balance was terrible in those five-inch heels. She stumbled back two steps, her ankle giving way with a sickening wobble as she crashed against the side of the van.

"Careful, Miss Bradley," I whispered, stepping right into her space. "That skeleton isn't built to take hits anymore. One bad fall, and that right femur will crack like balsa wood."

Just then, a shrill, piercing ring shattered the quiet street.

The executive ringtone.

Paige scrambled out of the front passenger seat, her face pale as parchment, holding out the encrypted agency smartphone with both hands. "Gwen... it’s the direct line from corporate legal. Mr. Shaw’s general counsel."

The woman snatched the phone, scowling. "Garrett? I’m right in the middle of dealing with that little—"

A sterile, digitized voice on speakerphone cut her off without preamble:

"Miss Bradley. This call is being recorded for documentation purposes. Your ten-year comprehensive representation and performance-guarantee agreement expires at midnight on the thirty-first of this month."

A pause. The rustle of paper.

"Per the final forensic audit conducted this morning, your net corporate revenue generation currently sits at one hundred and forty-five million dollars. You remain five million dollars short of the mandatory contractual threshold. In accordance with Section 14, Paragraph B of your unlimited liability rider, you are required to wire the full five million to the agency escrow account within seventy-two hours."

The woman’s hand began to shake violently. The silk of her dress rippled against her thighs.

"What shortfall? What five million dollars? What the hell are you talking about?!" she shrieked into the receiver.