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.

Back in the safety of the motel room, Zoe was pacing. She had worn a track in the cheap carpet.

"Hamlin will sue us," Zoe said, her voice rising in pitch. "His dad owns half the town. We're dead. We're actually dead."

Avery sat on the bed, spreading papers from her portfolio on the orange bedspread. She was calm. Unnaturally calm.

"He won't sue," Avery said, not looking up. "He's too embarrassed. He got dropped by a girl in five seconds. He won't want that story getting out."

She picked up a casting sheet. It was crumpled and stained with coffee. She smoothed it out. Arnoldo Young.

Zoe stopped pacing. She looked at the paper. "The indie director? He's a recluse. He's ghosted all the major studios, dropped out of the industry circuit entirely. Nobody can find him."

"I know where he is," Avery said.

"How?"

"He hangs out at the 'Blue Velvet' jazz club on Tuesdays," Avery said. She tapped the paper. "He's looking for a pianist for his noir film. He wants authenticity."

Zoe looked skeptical. "You don't play piano, Avery. You play the radio. And you definitely don't play jazz."

Avery smiled. It was a small, mysterious smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I have hidden depths, Zoe."

She stood up and went to her suitcase. She pulled out a black dress. It was simple, backless, and elegant. It was the only thing she had saved that looked like armor.

"This isn't an audition," Avery said, holding the dress up. "It's an ambush."

Zoe sat down heavily on the other bed. She looked at Avery-really looked at her-for the first time since the morning. "You've changed. You're... scary."

"Survival is scary," Avery said softly.

They spent the afternoon prepping. Avery did her makeup in the dim bathroom light. Sharp winged eyeliner. Dark red lips. She hummed a melody as she worked-a complex, dissonant jazz scale that twisted and turned.

Zoe listened from the bedroom, a frown creasing her forehead. That wasn't a song from the radio.

"Where did you learn that?" Zoe asked through the open door.

"YouTube," Avery lied again. She checked her reflection. The woman staring back was ready for war.

Night fell over Los Angeles. They called a generic taxi to avoid tracking.

The Blue Velvet was in an alleyway downtown. It was the kind of place you only found if you knew where to look. There was no sign, just a heavy metal door and a bouncer who looked like he ate bricks for breakfast.

The bouncer crossed his massive arms as they approached. "List only."

Zoe opened her mouth to plead, but Avery stepped in front of her.

She looked at the bouncer. She looked at the faded tattoo on his forearm.

"Semper Fi, Sergeant," Avery said. Her voice was respectful. "First Division, right? The Old Breed."

The bouncer blinked. His scowl faltered. He looked at this girl in the expensive dress who knew his unit patch.

"My uncle served in Fallujah with the First," Avery lied smoothly, adding a detail she remembered from the novel's character bio. "He always said the jazz in Baghdad was terrible."

The bouncer cracked a grin. It transformed his face. "He wasn't wrong."

He unhooked the velvet rope. "Enjoy the music, ladies."

Zoe grabbed Avery's arm as they walked past him. Her grip was tight. "How did you know that?"

"Lucky guess," Avery whispered.

They stepped inside. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of expensive whiskey. A saxophone was wailing in the corner.

The hunt was on.