The heat outside the Hunter Tower was oppressive. It was the kind of dry, smoggy heat that made your skin feel tight. Avery stepped out of the revolving doors, shielding her eyes with her hand.

The doorman, a man named Henry who had once called her a cab when she was drunk and crying, looked at her now with a mixture of pity and judgment. He didn't move to open a car door. He didn't whistle for a taxi.

Avery didn't care. She walked past him to the curb and raised her hand. A yellow cab, battered and smelling of old pine air freshener, screeched to a halt.

She slid into the backseat. "West Hollywood. The Sierra Towers."

She pulled her phone out of her clutch. The screen was cracked-another souvenir from last night. It was blowing up. Thirty missed calls from "Brother Ernest." Fifty text messages from numbers she didn't recognize.

She opened the news app. The headline was right there at the top, bold and condemning: Hall Family Disgrace: Did Avery Leak Cheslie's Private Photos?

Avery let out a short, bitter laugh. Of course. The timeline was moving faster than she remembered. Cheslie Griffin, the family's perfect adopted angel, had leaked her own photos to garner sympathy and had framed Avery to cover her tracks. It was efficient. It was brutal.

The cab driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. His eyes widened as he recognized her.

Avery pulled the hood of her jacket up. She shrank into the seat, watching the palm trees blur past.

The cab pulled up to the Sierra Towers. It was a fortress of glass and steel, a place where people paid a premium to never have to interact with the outside world.

"That'll be forty-five," the driver said.

Avery pulled out her black American Express card. It was the card tied to her trust fund. She swiped it through the reader mounted on the partition.

Beep.

"Declined," the machine read in red letters.

Avery felt a cold drop in her stomach. She swiped it again.

Beep. Declined.

"Miss, I don't have all day," the driver said, his patience thinning.

"One second," Avery said. Her voice was calm, but her pulse was racing. Ernest hadn't just cut her off. He had frozen her.

She dug into her wallet. She had given Cullen three hundred dollars. She had exactly fifty dollars left in her wallet. She handed the cash to the driver.

"Keep the change," she said, though there wasn't much change to keep.

She walked into the lobby. The air conditioning hit her sweat-dampened skin, making her shiver. The concierge, a man who usually greeted her with a smile and a complimentary water, stood behind the marble desk with his arms crossed.

"Ms. Hall," he said. His tone was stiff. "Your key fob has been deactivated. Per the owner's request."

"The owner is my brother," Avery said. "I live here."

"Not anymore," the concierge said. He slid a paper across the desk. It was a legal notice. Eviction. Effective immediately. "Mr. Hall has arranged for movers. They are almost done."

Avery stared at the paper. The letters swam before her eyes. "I need to get my things."

"You have thirty minutes," the concierge said. He signaled to a security guard. "Escort her."

The elevator ride up was silent. The guard stood too close, his presence a physical reminder of her new status. Threat. Trespasser.

Her apartment door was open. Inside, boxes were stacked high. Strangers were touching her things. A man was wrapping her crystal vase in bubble wrap.

Avery ignored them. She walked straight to the bedroom. She ignored the closet full of couture gowns she would never wear again. She went to the wall safe behind the painting.

She punched in the code. 1-9-9-8. Her birth year.

The light turned green. She pulled the handle. Inside was her passport, a stack of cash-emergency money the original Avery had hidden for drugs-and a small, leather-bound journal.

She shoved it all into her oversized tote bag.

Her phone rang again. Brother Ernest.

She stared at the screen for a second, then answered.

"You cut my cards, Ernest? Really?"

"You tried to ruin Cheslie," Ernest's voice was ice. It wasn't the voice of a brother. It was the voice of a judge delivering a death sentence. "You are no sister of mine until you apologize publicly. On your knees."

"Ask Cheslie who actually took those photos," Avery said. She didn't shout. She just stated it.

"Don't you dare," Ernest hissed. "Don't you dare drag her down with you. You're sick, Avery."

The line went dead.

"Time's up, Ms. Hall," the security guard said from the doorway. He tapped his watch.

Avery looked around the room. This had been her home. Now it was just a collection of boxes. She grabbed a single suitcase from the bed, stuffing it with jeans, t-shirts, and comfortable shoes.

She walked out. She didn't look back.

Standing on the curb outside, with one suitcase and a deactivated credit card, Avery felt the weight of the city pressing down on her. She was homeless. She was bankrupt.

She dialed the one number Ernest wouldn't think to block.

"Zoe," she said when the line connected. "I'm at the curb. I need you."

The waiter at Le Petit looked at Avery's suitcase with open disdain. This was a place for ladies who lunched, not for women who looked like they were fleeing the country.

"I'm meeting Preston Vance," Avery said, ignoring his sneer.

She spotted him in the corner. Preston Vance. Her fiancé. He was checking his Rolex, tapping his foot. He looked annoyed. He looked like a man who was inconvenienced by the tragedy of her life.

Avery dragged her suitcase over. She didn't wait for him to stand. She sat down, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.

"You're late," Preston said. He took a sip of his espresso. "And you look like a mess."

"Good morning to you too, Preston," Avery said.

"Look, Avery," Preston started. He had a speech prepared. She could see it in the way he rehearsed his hand gestures. "With the scandal... and Ernest cutting you off... The Vance family can't be associated with this kind of drama."

He was breaking up with her. Just like in the book. He was going to dump her, and then two weeks later, he would be seen dining with Cheslie.

"I agree," Avery interrupted.

Preston blinked. "What?"

"I said, I agree. The script is tired, Preston."

She reached into her purse. She pulled out the ring. Five carats. Cushion cut. It caught the light, throwing rainbows across the white tablecloth.

She slid it across the marble. It made a sharp click as it hit his saucer.

"I'm dissolving the engagement," Avery said. Her voice was clear. It carried to the next table. "You're free."

Preston stared at the ring. His mouth opened and closed like a fish. He had expected begging. He had expected her to make a scene so he could look like the victim.

"You... you're breaking up with me?" His face flushed a patchy red. His ego was bruising right before her eyes.

"You were going to cheat on me with Cheslie anyway," Avery said, leaning back in her chair. "Let's save everyone the time."

"How dare you," Preston hissed. He leaned forward. "How dare you drag her into your filth."

"Keep the ring," Avery said, standing up. "Pawn it. You might need the money for your gambling debts."

The silence that fell over the nearby tables was absolute. Forks froze mid-air.

Preston shot up from his chair. His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. His grip was hard, painful.

"You crazy bitch," he whispered. "Keep your voice down."

Avery looked at his hand on her wrist. A cold calm washed over her.

She didn't pull away. She stepped in. She rotated her wrist against his thumb-a simple leverage point she knew from a life Preston couldn't imagine.

Preston yelped. His grip broke instantly. He stumbled back, knocking into a waiter carrying a tray of water.

"Don't touch me," Avery said. Her eyes were dead. "Ever again."

The manager was rushing over. "Is there a problem here?"

Avery smoothed her shirt. She picked up the handle of her suitcase.

"No problem," she said, smiling politely at the manager. "Mr. Vance is just leaving."

She walked out of the cafe. The sun was brighter now. The air tasted sweeter. The "fiancé" plot armor was gone. She was exposed, but she was free.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from Zoe.

I'm at the Motel 6 on Sunset. Room 204. Get here.

Avery hailed an Uber. She selected "UberX." Economy.

Inside the cafe, Preston Vance stared at the ring sitting in the spilled espresso. He was shaking with rage. He grabbed his phone and dialed Cheslie.

"You won't believe what your crazy sister just did," he spat into the phone.

The Motel 6 was a sad, beige building with peeling paint that curled like dead skin. The Uber driver didn't even pull into the lot; he dropped Avery on the street corner and sped away.

Zoe Xander was waiting by the vending machine. She was smoking a cigarette, her movements jerky and nervous. She looked exhausted. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, but when she saw Avery, her face softened.

"You look like hell, princess," Zoe said, tossing the cigarette onto the asphalt and crushing it with her boot.

"Nice to see you too, Zoe," Avery said. She felt a lump form in her throat. In the original story, Zoe was the only one who visited Avery's grave.

They went into the room. It smelled of stale smoke and lemon cleaner. It was cramped, with two double beds that sagged in the middle.

"I used my savings to scrub some of the blogs," Zoe said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "But the big sites... I can't touch them."

"Thank you," Avery said. She meant it. "But we have work to do. I need to go to the studio lot. I left my portfolio in the agency locker."

Zoe's eyes went wide. "Are you insane? It's suicide. Everyone there hates you right now. Ernest probably has a sniper on the roof."

"I need it for the plan," Avery said. She started unpacking her suitcase. "And I don't care who hates me."

Thirty minutes later, they were walking fast across the Paramount Studio lot. Avery had changed into black jeans and a black t-shirt. She looked less like a socialite and more like a stagehand.

They tried to stick to the shadows of the soundstages, but luck wasn't on their side.

"Well, well. Look who it is."

The voice was nasally and arrogant. Hamlin Ward. The son of a major producer. A man who had peaked in high school and was trying to ride that wave into his thirties.

He stepped out from behind a trailer, flanked by two guys in expensive suits who laughed at everything he said.

"The trash took itself out, but it came back," Hamlin sneered. He blocked their path.

Zoe stepped forward. "Leave us alone, Hamlin. We're just getting her stuff."

Hamlin laughed. He reached out and shoved Zoe. It wasn't a hard shove, but it was dismissive. Zoe stumbled back, hitting the wall of the trailer.

Something snapped in Avery's head. Her vision went red at the edges.

"Don't," Avery said. Her voice was low.

Hamlin turned his attention to her. He stepped into her personal space. He smelled of breath mints and entitlement.

"Or what?" Hamlin smirked. He reached out to grab a lock of her hair, a move he used to do to intimidate girls in prep school. "You going to cry to your daddy? Oh wait, he's dead."

Avery didn't flinch. She watched his hand move in slow motion. A memory, not her own but sharper than any of them, flashed behind her eyes: a humid training hall, the sting of sweat, and an instructor's voice yelling about vulnerable points. It was for a role in her past life, a method actress who had spent six months learning Krav Maga. The muscle memory was still there, dormant and waiting.

She caught his wrist mid-air.

Hamlin tried to pull back, but her grip was iron. She stepped in, pivoting her hips. She drove her elbow into his solar plexus. It wasn't a flailing strike. It was precise. Controlled.

Oof.

The sound of the air leaving his lungs was audible.

Hamlin's eyes bugged out. His knees buckled. He collapsed onto the pavement, gasping like a fish on dry land, curled into a fetal position.

The two sycophants froze. They looked from Hamlin to Avery, terrified.

Avery leaned down. She brought her face close to Hamlin's ear.

"Touch her again," she whispered, "and I break the wrist next time."

She straightened up. She adjusted her jacket.

"Let's go, Zoe."

Zoe was staring at her with her mouth open. She looked like she had seen a ghost. Or a superhero.

"Since when do you know how to do that?" Zoe hissed as they power-walked toward the lockers.

"I've been taking classes," Avery lied. "Kickboxing. For cardio."

They grabbed the portfolio and exited through the side gate before security could arrive.

High up on the corner of Soundstage 4, a security camera blinked red. It had captured the entire sequence. The grab. The strike. The collapse.

Hamlin Ward lay on the ground, clutching his stomach, tears of humiliation stinging his eyes. He wheezed, vowing revenge.