Chapter 7
Monday morning broke over Los Angeles with a harsh, glaring sunlight.
Catalina sat at the small wooden dining table in her apartment. She wore an oversized grey hoodie, her hair tied up in a messy knot.
She held a mug of black coffee in both hands, letting the heat seep into her cold fingers.
She stared at the iPad propped up on the table.
The Twitter trending page was a bloodbath. The negative hashtags, the vicious comment threads, and the paparazzi photos of her and Brogan were still multiplying like a virus.
She hadn't slept a wink. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the vile words burning into her retinas. The tight knot of anxiety in her chest felt like a physical weight, crushing the air out of her lungs.
Suddenly, her cell phone vibrated violently against the wood table.
The caller ID read Mark - Assistant Director.
It was the indie film she had spent six months preparing for. The role that was going to prove she was more than just a pretty face.
Catalina immediately swiped to answer. She sat up straight, clearing her throat to sound professional.
"Hi Mark, good morning," she said brightly. "Are we locking in the call times for next week?"
On the other end of the line, Mark hesitated. The silence stretched. In the background, Catalina could hear the loud, chaotic sounds of heavy equipment being moved.
"Caty..." Mark started, his voice thick with awkwardness. "I'm so sorry."
Catalina's grip on the ceramic mug tightened. "Sorry for what?"
"The primary financier pulled out at 3 AM," Mark confessed, his words rushing out in a panicked breath.
Catalina's hand jerked.
The heavy ceramic mug slammed down hard onto the table. A loud thwack echoed in the kitchen. Hot black coffee sloshed over the rim, burning her knuckles, but she didn't even flinch.
"What? Why?" she demanded, her voice rising in panic. "I'll take a pay cut. I'll work for scale. We can make the budget work."
Mark sighed heavily. The sound was full of pity.
"It's not the money, Caty. The investors ran a risk assessment. With the current public sentiment... you're deemed an uncontrollable commercial liability. The studio shut the production down indefinitely."
The words hit her like a physical punch to the throat.
The line went dead. The monotonous beep of the dial tone filled her ear.
Catalina's arm dropped. The phone slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the table.
She slumped back into her chair. All the strength drained from her muscles.
She had won a Golden Globe, the highest honor of her career, and within a week, she was completely unemployed. The injustice of it burned in her chest, a hot, suffocating pressure.
She grabbed her phone and opened Signal. She tapped into the three-person group chat with Jame and Denisse.
Her thumbs hit the screen with aggressive force.
Catalina: The movie is dead. They pulled the funding. I lost the role.
Denisse replied instantly.
Denisse: WHAT?!
Denisse: [Angry Face Emoji] [Knife Emoji]
Denisse: Hollywood executives are brain-dead cowards! I am so sorry, babe.
Jame's icon popped up.
Jame: I'm bringing the most expensive tequila I own to your place tonight. We are getting blackout drunk.
Catalina stared at the screen. A tiny fraction of the crushing weight lifted.
Catalina: Okay.
A few seconds later, Denisse sent another text.
Denisse: By the way... has a certain Mr. Cohen bothered you since the Hamptons?
Catalina's eyes locked onto the name. A cold sneer twisted her lips.
Catalina: We screamed at each other by the pool and I haven't seen him since.
Jame sent a voice note.
Catalina tapped play.
"Well, don't expect an apology anytime soon," Jame's voice rang out, laced with a hint of dark amusement. "He hopped on his private jet last night. Fled to Europe to dodge the paparazzi. Word is he's hiding out in the South of France for half a month."
Catalina stared at the audio waveform on the screen.
Her finger hovered frozen over the keyboard.
Her stomach plummeted, dropping so fast it made her nauseous.
He ran away.
The man who caused this entire apocalypse, the man who ruined her career, had simply packed his bags and flown to the French Riviera to drink wine while she lost everything.
A violent cocktail of betrayal and pure, unadulterated rage exploded in her chest.
She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted the sharp, metallic tang of copper.
She typed furiously.
Catalina: I hope he rots in Europe. I never want to see his face again.
She hit send. She locked the phone and slammed it face-down onto the table.
Thousands of miles away, cruising at forty thousand feet in the quiet, luxurious cabin of his Gulfstream jet, Brogan stared at a confidential email from his LA fixers. The subject line read: CAMPBELL INDIE PROJECT SUSPENDED - INVESTOR PULLOUT. His dark eyes narrowed into lethal slits. The realization that his mere presence had shattered her hard-earned opportunity hit him like a physical blow.
He reached into his pocket and dialed a highly encrypted number. It rang once.
"Boss," Alex, his executive assistant, answered.
"Call the executives at Twitter. Call the head of TMZ," Brogan ordered, his voice as cold and hard as ice.
"Sir?" Alex sounded confused.
"I want every single negative hashtag, every trending topic, and every unauthorized photo of me and Catalina wiped from the internet immediately," Brogan commanded. His tone left zero room for negotiation.
Alex gasped loudly. "Brogan, that's impossible. The manpower required... the bribes... you're talking about a seven-figure PR wipe."
"Pull it from my personal offshore accounts," Brogan snapped. "Do not route this through CAA. This has to remain strictly personal. Dwayne, that old fox, can never be allowed to get his hands on anything that could be used to speculate on my motives or leverage against Catalina."
"But from a business standpoint-"
"If it's not gone by the time she wakes up, Alex, I'll accept your resignation," Brogan interrupted, dropping his voice to a lethal whisper. He hung up the phone.
Back in Los Angeles, Catalina pushed her chair back and marched into the bathroom. She turned the silver faucet, cupped her hands, and splashed freezing cold water onto her face.
The shock of the cold snapped her out of her spiral.
She looked up at the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot, but her jaw was set in stone.
In this industry, no one was going to save her. She had to fight back herself.
She grabbed a towel, dried her face, and walked back to the living room. She picked up her iPad, ready to email Fran to demand new auditions.
The moment her finger swiped the screen to unlock it, a breaking news banner dropped down from the top.
It was from The Hollywood Reporter.
Her name was in the headline.
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