The first thing Naomi Reyes noticed was the blood.

Dark against silver silk.

A crooked stain smeared across the cuff of her designer gown—worth more than she had earned in her first two years in Los Angeles.

For one disorienting second, she thought it belonged to someone else.

Then her stomach dropped.

The bathroom floor tilted beneath her.

Naomi gripped the marble sink until her knuckles went white.

“Fuck,” she whispered.

Then, quieter:

“What the actual fuck happened?”

Outside, the nightclub bass vibrated through the penthouse walls like a second heartbeat. Someone laughed in the hallway. Someone else was crying.

Typical Hollywood.

A city where people snorted lines off marble counters while publicists rehearsed apology statements in advance. Where actresses starved themselves for red carpets and got congratulated for their “discipline.” Where producers screamed behind closed doors and posted mental health graphics the next morning.

Everything glittered.

Everything rotted.

Naomi stared at herself in the mirror.

Perfect eyeliner. Perfect hair. Perfect mouth.

Eyes that looked like they belonged to someone standing five seconds away from a breakdown.

The silver gown hugging her body cost more than three months of rent from when she used to audition for toothpaste commercials and sleep on a mattress on the floor.

Now stylists begged to dress her.

Funny how quickly the industry decides you matter.

Funnier how quickly it decides you don’t.

Her phone buzzed violently against the sink.

27 MISSED CALLS

Unknown Number. Unknown Number. Unknown Number.

Then a text:

WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?

Another:

Naomi call me NOW.

Another:

Don’t leave the hotel.

Her stomach tightened.

The room blurred for half a second—lights stretching thin—then snapped back into focus.

Naomi inhaled sharply.

Not now.

Not tonight.

She turned on the faucet and shoved her shaking hand under cold water.

The blood didn’t wash off completely.

It had already dried.

Meaning whatever happened… had happened hours ago.

A knock hit the bathroom door.

Three quick taps.

“Naomi?” a familiar voice called. “You alive in there or doing cocaine with strangers again?”

Zara Kapoor.

Naomi closed her eyes.

Of course.

The universe always sent Zara when things were about to collapse.

“Go away,” Naomi muttered.

“I swear to God, Zara, if you start psychoanalyzing me right now, I will literally throw myself out the window.”

“That sounds emotionally concerning.”

Another knock.

“Open the damn door.”

Naomi unlocked it reluctantly.

Zara stepped in immediately, smelling like expensive perfume, tequila, and cigarette smoke.

Even half-drunk, she looked unreal—dark curls, smudged eyeliner, gold jewelry catching the neon light.

The internet worshipped her.

Brands worshipped her.

Directors wanted her.

Actresses wanted to be her.

And Naomi knew Zara cried in private dressing rooms more than anyone else in the cast.

Hollywood didn’t create stars.

It manufactured beautiful corpses.

Girls arrived in Los Angeles believing talent mattered.

Six months later, they learned the real currency was obedience.

Smile at the right people. Laugh at the wrong jokes. Pretend not to notice wandering hands. Pretend doors didn’t lock behind you at afterparties. Pretend exhaustion was gratitude.

Naomi had learned quickly.

That was probably why she was still here.

That was probably why she hated herself sometimes.

Zara’s eyes landed on Naomi’s sleeve.

Her expression changed instantly.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered.

Naomi crossed her arms.

“It’s probably nothing.”

“That sentence has never been true in human history.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You look like death in couture.”

“That describes half the women in this hotel.”

“You’re pale as fuck.”

Naomi looked away.

Because she was.

Her entire body felt wrong—static buzzing under her skin.

The numbness in her fingers had started hours ago at the afterparty.

At first she blamed anxiety.

Then exhaustion.

Then caffeine, nicotine, lack of sleep—anything normal enough to ignore.

But then her left leg stopped responding for a second while she crossed the VIP section.

That part didn’t fit anything normal anymore.

“Did someone hurt you?” Zara asked quietly.

Naomi almost laughed.

Nobody in Hollywood asked that unless they already knew the answer.

This city ran on selective blindness.

Everyone saw everything.

No one said anything.

“Naomi.”

“What?”

“Don’t give me that look. Half these people are functioning on cocaine and public validation.”

“You disappeared for almost two hours.”

Naomi’s chest tightened.

“What?”

“After the rooftop party. You vanished. Theo said he saw you leave with—”

Zara stopped.

Too late.

Naomi noticed.

“With who?”

Zara hesitated.

Which meant it was bad.

“Damien.”

Silence.

Damien Vale.

Assistant producer.

Thirty-four.

Smiled like a politician.

Stood too close. Touched too casually. Always made everything feel slightly off.

Naomi remembered arguing with him earlier.

Or thought she did.

Fragments surfaced like broken film.

Rooftop lights. Music vibrating through bone. Champagne on her tongue. Damien leaning in. Whiskey breath. His fingers tightening around her wrist.

Pain.

Her pulling away—

Or trying to.

Then—

Static.

Blank.

Naomi pressed her fingers to her temple.

“I can’t remember.”

Zara stared at her, suddenly fully awake.

“You don’t remember leaving?”

Naomi shook her head.

The silence turned sharp.

Then Naomi’s phone rang again.

MARCUS HALE

Showrunner.

The most powerful man on the project.

The man who could turn her into a star—or erase her before sunrise.

Zara exhaled sharply.

“Oh, that can’t be good.”

Naomi answered.

“Hello?”

No greeting.

No warmth.

Just:

“Where are you?”

Marcus’s voice was controlled.

Worse than yelling.

“In the bathroom.”

“Stay there.”

Naomi frowned.

“Why?”

A pause.

Then:

“Damien is missing.”

Cold spread through her stomach.

“What do you mean missing?”

Marcus exhaled through his teeth.

“Security says you were the last person seen with him.”

The line went silent.

Naomi slowly looked down.

At the dried blood on her sleeve.

And for the first time that night—

she felt truly cold.