The next morning, a sleek black Maybach pulled smoothly up to the rear entrance of a top-tier Hollywood photography studio.

Eleonora stepped out of the vehicle. She wore massive black sunglasses that covered half her face. Maeve flanked her, acting as a physical shield.

Eleonora's stiletto heels clicked sharply against the concrete. She radiated a freezing, unapproachable aura.

Inside the studio, the frantic crew members immediately stopped what they were doing. They cast nervous, awestruck glances at her as she walked past.

She ignored the whispers. She walked straight down the long corridor toward the VIP dressing room that bore her name on a gold plaque.

Maeve hurried half a step ahead and pushed the door open. Eleonora stepped one foot inside, and her body instantly froze.

The VIP dressing room was spacious and luxurious. But sitting right in the center, occupying her personal makeup chair, was a woman in a cheap-looking, fluffy pink tulle dress.

It was Adela Booth. Adela was a B-list actress, a notorious rival who had spent her entire career desperately trying to copy Eleonora's style and steal her roles.

Adela was looking in the vanity mirror, having a makeup artist touch up her lip gloss. She saw Eleonora's reflection in the glass.

Adela immediately spun around in the chair. She stretched her lips into a sickly sweet, entirely fake smile.

"Oh, Nora! It's been so long," Adela chirped, her voice artificially high-pitched.

Eleonora slowly reached up and pulled off her sunglasses. Her deep blue eyes were chips of solid ice.

She ignored the greeting entirely. "Why are you sneaking around in my private dressing room like a rat?" she demanded, her voice cutting through the air like a blade.

Adela pouted, feigning innocence. "The communal dressing rooms out there are just so crowded, Nora."

Eleonora didn't buy the act for a second. She tilted her head slightly and looked at Maeve. "Go find the floor manager. Tell them to clear the trash out of my room immediately."

Adela's fake smile cracked. Her face flushed. She took a step forward, dropping the sweet act.

She lowered her voice, her tone dripping with venom. "Did you lose your movie role because of your little scandal? Is that why you're reduced to doing reality TV to save your career?"

Eleonora raised one perfect eyebrow. Her eyes slowly and deliberately scanned Adela from head to toe, a look of utter disgust on her face.

She let out a short, mocking laugh. "Even on my worst day, I wouldn't be caught dead wearing something that looks like it was ripped off the windows of a cheap Vegas motel."

Adela's face turned a mottled shade of red and green. Her hands balled into tight fists, grabbing handfuls of her pink skirt.

Before Adela could scream, the show's director sprinted into the room, sweating profusely.

He instantly felt the suffocating tension in the air. He bowed his head repeatedly, trying to defuse the bomb.

"Ms. Carlisle, I am so sorry for the mix-up. Dressing Room Number One just opened up across the hall. It's much larger. Please, let me escort you."

Eleonora let out a cold scoff. She shoved her sunglasses back onto her face and turned on her heel.

As she walked past Adela, Eleonora subtly shifted her weight. She drove her shoulder hard into Adela's collarbone.

The physical impact sent Adela stumbling backward. She nearly tripped over her own heels, forced to swallow her scream of outrage.

Eleonora walked into Dressing Room Number One. Maeve immediately slammed the door shut and locked it, cutting off the outside world.

Eleonora sat down heavily in the massive leather chair. She took a deep breath, forcing the anger down into her stomach.

She closed her eyes, letting the terrified, top-tier makeup artist begin working on her face.

Half an hour later, she stepped out onto the soundstage wearing a breathtaking, blood-red gown. The moment the spotlights hit her, she transformed. She delivered a flawless, dominating performance for the cameras, proving exactly why she was a superstar.

At three o'clock that afternoon, Eleonora walked into the towering glass skyscraper of the Carlisle Group headquarters. She had swapped her glamorous gown for a low-profile khaki trench coat and a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes.

She swiped her security badge and stepped into the private elevator reserved exclusively for the CEO.

The elevator chimed softly as the doors opened on the top floor. She walked down the silent, heavily carpeted hallway and pushed open the massive mahogany double doors.

Behind a sprawling executive desk sat her older brother, Alphons Carlisle. He was reviewing a mountain of legal documents.

Hearing the doors open, Alphons looked up. The severe, ruthless expression he wore for business softened slightly when he saw his sister.

Eleonora didn't bother with pleasantries. She walked straight to the expensive leather sofa and collapsed onto it, her limbs going boneless.

She pulled off her baseball cap and immediately started venting loudly about the paparazzi, the scandal, and Carrie's blackmail.

Alphons set down his Montblanc pen. He stood up, his tall frame imposing, and walked over to the water dispenser.

He filled a glass with warm water and carried it over, handing it to his complaining sister.

His brow furrowed. "I heard about this reality show nonsense. You shouldn't be doing this."

Eleonora took a sip of the water. She shrugged, her shoulders slumping. "Carrie says it's the only PR strategy that will save my role in the movie."

Alphons let out a cold, dismissive snort. "The heir to the Carlisle family does not need to suffer this kind of humiliation. I will have the acquisitions department buy the production company tomorrow. We will fire the director and cancel the show."

Eleonora choked on her water. She waved her hands frantically. "No! Absolutely not. I spend my entire life trying to prove I'm a real actress. If you buy the studio, the media will just say I'm a spoiled rich girl throwing daddy's money around."

Alphons saw the genuine panic in her eyes and relented. He turned and walked back to his desk.

As he organized the papers, he spoke casually. "The legal department just brought on a new Chief Counsel. His name is Brennan Kane. His methods are incredibly ruthless and efficient. He's a rare talent."

Eleonora had zero interest in corporate personnel changes. She gave a vague, dismissive "Oh" and didn't process the name at all.

She lifted her wrist and glanced at her watch. It was nearing five o'clock.

Alphons noticed the movement. "Don't forget. We have the family dinner with the board of directors and the elders tonight."

The words "family dinner" hit Eleonora like a physical shock. Her spine went completely rigid.

Her mind was instantly flooded with terrifying images of her aunts and uncles relentlessly pressuring her to get married, trying to force her into a strategic business alliance with another wealthy family.

She shot up from the sofa as if the leather had caught fire. She grabbed her bag and her hat in one frantic motion.

She started backing toward the door, her words tumbling out in a rushed panic. "I can't! The production crew just texted. They need me for an emergency pre-interview tonight. I have to go!"

Alphons saw right through the lie. He opened his mouth to stop her.

But Eleonora had already yanked the heavy doors open. She sprinted out of the office like a fleeing criminal, shouting, "Apologize to the uncles for me!" over her shoulder.

The doors slammed shut. Alphons stared at the empty space, letting out a heavy sigh.

He knew she was running away from the pressure of marriage because of the deep emotional trauma she had suffered years ago. His eyes darkened with worry.

He picked up the internal phone on his desk. He ordered his assistant to secretly monitor the reality show's production to ensure her safety.

He hung up the phone. His gaze dropped to the legal document on his desk. In the bottom right corner was the bold, aggressive signature of Brennan Kane.

At eight o'clock that night, Eleonora walked into her Beverly Hills mansion and kicked off her heels.

In the center of her massive bedroom, two enormous Rimowa suitcases lay open on the Persian rug.

Maeve was kneeling on the floor, carefully folding and packing stacks of expensive silk pajamas.

Eleonora walked out of her closet carrying a massive pile of yoga pants and athletic gear. She dumped the entire pile onto the bed.

Carrie sat in a single armchair in the corner, her eyes locked on an iPad as she rapidly scrolled through tomorrow's itinerary.

Eleonora stared at the mess on the floor. "Why are we packing all this useless junk?" she complained, rubbing her temples.

Carrie didn't look up. "You are going to be locked inside a villa for an entire month. You need a wardrobe."

Eleonora rolled her eyes. She walked over to the corner of the room and bent down. She wrapped her hand around the thick handle of a massive, black cast-iron dumbbell.

She carried the heavy piece of gym equipment over to the half-full suitcase, intending to shove it inside.

Maeve gasped, her eyes going wide. "Eleonora, no! That dumbbell is way too heavy. The suitcase will be over the weight limit."

Eleonora ignored her. She flexed her arm, and with a casual, terrifying display of physical strength, she lifted the fifty-pound dumbbell with one hand. The sleek muscle definition in her arm popped briefly before she gently set the iron weight into the corner of the suitcase.

Maeve swallowed hard, staring at Eleonora's arm in shock.

Eleonora dusted off her hands. She turned to look directly at Carrie. "So, how exactly does this shoot work? Is it like the other shows? Do they hand us a script in the morning, and then we get to go sleep in a hotel at night?"

At that question, Carrie's finger froze on the iPad screen.

Carrie slowly lifted her head. She shot a rapid, incredibly guilty look at Maeve.

Carrie cleared her throat. She picked up her coffee cup and took a slow sip, using the physical action to hide her micro-expressions.

"This show focuses on 'authentic reality'," Carrie lied smoothly. "There is no script. You just act naturally."

Eleonora didn't catch the lie. She turned back to her suitcase and started throwing in bags of low-calorie snacks.

"Fine," Eleonora asked casually. "Are there blind spots where the cameras can't see us? Like the bathrooms or the closets?"

Carrie shifted her gaze, looking out the window instead of at Eleonora. "The bedrooms and private areas are generally camera-free."

Carrie deliberately omitted the massive, terrifying truth: the entire show was a 24/7, unedited live stream broadcast to the entire world.

Maeve's palms were sweating. She kept her head down, pretending to be intensely focused on folding a shirt so she wouldn't give the secret away.

Eleonora, satisfied with the "safe" answer, grabbed the zippers of the Rimowa suitcase and pulled them shut.

She stretched her arms over her head, letting out a relaxed sigh. "Whatever. I'll just treat it like a free, boring vacation."

Carrie stood up and tucked the iPad under her arm. Her face was deadly serious. "The car picks you up at seven a. m. sharp."

As Carrie reached the door, she turned back. "Control your temper, Eleonora. Do not create a PR disaster on camera."

Eleonora waved her hand dismissively, practically shoving Carrie and Maeve out into the hallway. She locked the door behind them.

She walked over to the window, looking out at the city lights. She felt a strange, lingering sense of unease about tomorrow's "vacation," completely unaware of the trap waiting for her.