The air in the sunroom of the Holder family mansion in Beverly Hills was thick with the suffocating scent of Damascus roses.

Cheryle Weeks sat on a velvet armchair, wearing a pure silk robe. Her face, preserved by millions of dollars and excellent surgeons, held the perfect, serene smile of a veteran Hollywood actress. She slowly lifted a porcelain cup of Earl Grey tea to her lips.

The glass doors of the sunroom were violently shoved open.

Kloe burst into the room. Her hair was a tangled mess, her eyes red and swollen from crying on the private jet all the way from New York.

She collapsed onto the velvet sofa across from her mother and began to sob hysterically.

"He humiliated me!" Kloe shrieked, waving her hands. "That bitch Aubrey seduced Callum Wyatt, and he threatened our family in front of everyone!"

Cheryle's hand paused mid-air. The teacup hovered near her mouth. A sharp, dangerous light flashed in her eyes at the mention of Callum's name.

She calmly set the cup down on the saucer. She pulled a tissue from a silver box and tossed it at Kloe.

"Stop crying," Cheryle snapped, her voice dropping its sweet facade. "Tears are for the cameras, Kloe. In this house, they are useless."

Cheryle stood up. She walked over to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the perfectly manicured lawns of her empire.

"Lillian's little bastard is just like her mother," Cheryle sneered, her voice dripping with venom. "A cheap whore who only knows how to spread her legs for powerful men."

Kloe wiped her nose aggressively. "We can't let her get away with this! She can't step on the Holder name!"

Cheryle spun around. Her eyes were as cold and dead as a snake's.

"Never say the words 'illegitimate daughter' outside this house again," Cheryle warned, her voice a lethal whisper. "If you push her too hard in public, the press will start digging. And if they dig up what really happened twenty years ago, we lose everything."

Kloe shivered, suddenly remembering the terrifying lengths her mother had gone to when forcing Lillian out. She snapped her mouth shut.

Cheryle walked back to the sofa. She gently stroked Kloe's messy hair, her touch terrifyingly soft.

"Don't worry, my sweet girl. Mommy won't let that little bitch take what belongs to you."

Kloe looked up, a vicious hope lighting up her eyes. "What are we going to do?"

Cheryle walked over to her heavy mahogany desk. She opened the top drawer and pulled out a thick, glossy folder. The title read: The Sovereign - Production Pitch.

She tossed the folder onto the glass coffee table.

"Aubrey thinks this show is her big comeback," Cheryle laughed coldly. "So what if Callum Wyatt is protecting her now? I want her to wake up on that set every single day and realize that in Hollywood, we are the ones who pull the strings. I am going to use our capital to crush her so completely in her proudest field that she'll wish she was never born."

Kloe's eyes widened in understanding. "We ruin her on set."

"Exactly," Cheryle said. "Your sister Tatum is an idiot, but she's a useful idiot. We'll use the family fund to buy her a spot in the cast."

Cheryle instructed Kloe to call the PR department immediately. They were going to dump a massive amount of cash on the producers of The Sovereign.

"I want Aubrey to wake up every single day on that set and remember that capital can crush her like a bug," Cheryle smiled, a cruel, twisted expression.

Outside, the California sky suddenly darkened. Heavy raindrops began to smash against the glass roof of the sunroom.

Kloe pulled out her phone, her arrogant smirk returning as she dialed the producer's number.

Cheryle picked up her cold tea. She took a sip, her eyes staring blankly at the wall. The memory of Lillian standing on the Golden Globes stage, holding the trophy that should have been hers, burned in her mind. Her manicured nails scratched violently against the porcelain cup.

I destroyed the mother, Cheryle thought. I will destroy the daughter.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. The head butler stepped in, looking nervous.

"Madam," he bowed. "The police department called. Mr. Johnston is trying to make contact with Aubrey in New York."

Cheryle's face turned a violent shade of purple.

She hurled the teacup at the floor. It shattered into a hundred pieces against the marble, cold tea splashing everywhere.

"Cut the phone lines!" Cheryle screamed, her elegant mask completely destroyed. "Confiscate his cell phone! Do not let my husband speak to that bitch!"

The morning sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Aubrey's Brooklyn apartment, but the light did nothing to warm the cold, empty space.

Aubrey sat on the beige leather sofa, wearing an oversized grey sweatshirt and sweatpants. Her right ankle was propped up on a pillow, wrapped tightly in a thick ice pack.

Her agent, Brenda Garrett, paced back and forth across the hardwood floor, the sharp clicking of her heels echoing in the quiet room.

Brenda stared at her iPad, her brow furrowed in deep frustration.

"The producers just sent an email," Brenda said, her words coming out like rapid fire. "They fired Skylar. The second female lead is gone. Some nepo-baby just bought her way into the cast."

Aubrey closed her eyes and let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Let me guess. Tatum Holder."

Brenda stopped pacing. She stared at Aubrey in shock. "How did you know? Aubrey, this is bad. If the Holders are pumping money into the show, they're going to make your life a living hell on set."

Aubrey opened her eyes. The exhaustion was gone, replaced by a sharp, icy resolve. "Let them try. I'm not running anymore."

Before Brenda could reply, the cell phone sitting on the glass coffee table vibrated violently.

The screen lit up with a text message from an unknown Beverly Hills number: 'Aubrey, it's Johnston Holder. Please, I need to hear your voice.' A second later, the same number began to call. Her stomach plummeted into a bottomless abyss. A cold, sickening sweat broke out across her collarbone.

"Do you want me to handle it?" Brenda asked gently, noticing the sudden lack of color in Aubrey's face. "I can block the spam."

Aubrey shook her head. She reached out and hit the red decline button.

Three seconds later, the phone vibrated again. The same number. Relentless.

Aubrey took a deep, shaky breath. She swiped the green button and brought the phone to her ear.

"Aubrey?"

The voice was older, raspy, and heavy with pathetic guilt. Johnston Holder.

The second she heard his voice, the memory slammed into her brain. Her mother, Lillian, lying on the cheap mattress, coughing up dark red blood, begging for a man who never came.

Aubrey's breathing turned shallow. Her knuckles turned bone-white as she gripped the phone.

"I heard about your foot," Johnston stammered, his voice breaking. "I want to fly to New York. I want to see you."

"Don't." Aubrey's voice was a dead, freezing monotone. "Your daughter Kloe was thrown out of a party last night. Go play the concerned father with her. Not me."

"Aubrey, please," Johnston sobbed through the speaker. "I didn't know what Cheryle was doing back then. I swear to God, I didn't mean to abandon you and your mother."

Aubrey let out a harsh, mocking laugh. It scraped against her throat.

"Late affection is cheaper than dirt, Mr. Holder," Aubrey spat out, her words dripping with pure hatred. "If you actually feel guilty, do me a favor. Take your wife, and go straight to hell."

She didn't wait for his response. She pulled the phone away, hit end, and immediately blocked the number.

The adrenaline crashed. Aubrey slumped back against the sofa cushions, completely drained. Her hands were shaking so badly she had to hide them under her sleeves.

Brenda stood perfectly still. She hadn't heard the other side of the call, but the raw, suffocating despair radiating from Aubrey was terrifying.

Brenda walked into the kitchen, poured a glass of warm water, and placed it in Aubrey's trembling hands.

"I talked to the director," Brenda said softly, changing the subject. "You have a week of paid sick leave. Just rest."

Aubrey gripped the warm glass, the heat grounding her. She forced a pale, exhausted smile. "Thank you, Brenda."

The sharp, sudden chime of the apartment doorbell shattered the heavy silence.

Brenda walked over to the intercom screen by the door. She checked the camera and looked back at Aubrey.

"It's Beatrice Vance," Brenda said.