Chapter 1: Sugar and Venom

Everyone knows my name, but not for the reasons you’d think. At award shows, I catch folks glancing sideways—from my killer figure to my too-bright laugh. I play it up, sure, but the minute I open my mouth, the internet loses its mind.

My body turns heads, but my voice? It’s so sugary it could send you to the dentist. Every time I speak, Twitter lights up just to roast me.

The red carpet’s flashbulbs pop, and the scent of someone’s expensive perfume lingers in the air. Sometimes, I’ll see a clip of myself go viral—me in some over-the-top sequin dress, voice as high and soft as cotton candy. The comments roll in before the night’s even over. I can practically hear the snark through my phone screen.

“Shut up already! Aren’t you tired of always talking like you’re pinching your throat?”

It’s always the same: some random with too much time on their hands, dropping a comment that stings a little more than it should. I imagine them hunched over their phones, probably in pajama pants, feeling clever.

“Stop faking it. With that face, why do you have to put on a cutesy baby voice? I’m switching from fan to anti right now.”

That one actually made me laugh. Switching teams like it’s that easy. But deep down? It burns. Still, what can I do? Internet trolls aren’t known for mercy.

I’ve been dragged on the internet for a whole year, but honestly, I’m a coward—I never dare to clap back.

My notifications never stopped pinging, each one another tiny paper cut. My phone vibrates late into the night with hate. I’ll try to ignore it, but eventually, I doom-scroll through the hate until my eyes burn, heart hammering with every new insult. I want to throw my phone across the room, but I can’t stop.

Then one day on a reality show, someone pointed right at my nose and called me shameless in front of everyone.

It wasn’t some staged drama, either—just pure, raw TV. The studio lights made everything surreal. The words hung in the air, heavier than the studio lights. For a second, I forgot how to breathe. My cheeks went hot, and suddenly, the whole set was holding its breath, waiting for me to fold or fight back.

I finally couldn’t hold it in. I grabbed the Oscar-winning actor sitting next to me, broke down, and started bawling.

You know those ugly cries that catch in your chest and won’t let go? That was me. Mascara running, nose red, clutching the nearest thing—unfortunately, that happened to be Hollywood’s golden boy.

“I swear I’m not faking—why does nobody ever believe me?”

I sounded about twelve years old. In that moment, I didn’t care. Snot, tears, and all—I was done pretending.

He stiffened, then his hand hovered over my shoulder, unsure. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t pull away. To everyone’s shock, the usually sharp-tongued movie star instantly dropped his act. His earlobes turned red, and he awkwardly patted my head, completely at a loss.

He looked like he wanted the stage to swallow him whole. Even the sound guy was hiding a grin. The viewers at home? I could practically hear their jaws hitting the floor.

I knew the cameras were rolling, but I didn’t care. Maybe letting them see me break was better than pretending I was bulletproof.

The people waiting for drama online were dumbfounded.

“Wait, is she really not faking it? No way even her crying is an act, right?”

“Dude, cat got your tongue? Hurry up and call her out for faking! Why are you blushing instead?”

“LOL, pass it on: the king of savage comebacks has lost his edge. Her voice must’ve melted his bones.”

Memes started circulating before the episode even finished airing. Someone even made a GIF of him melting like the Wicked Witch. I sent it to Lisa, who nearly spit out her Dr Pepper.