Chapter 1: Truth Bombs and Tabloid Storms

I'm Hollywood's notorious wild card. Always trending for my lack of filter. Always making headlines for my very public meltdowns.

Not that I ever asked for this reputation. Still, I sure as hell earned it. One minute I’m the punchline of late-night talk shows, the next I’m the meme of the week. You’d think I’d be used to the spotlight by now. But honestly? The glare never really softens.

To clean up my image, my agent, Denise, landed me a spot on a new reality show—the kind where you have to spill the truth, no matter how brutal it gets.

Honestly, I thought it was a joke at first. Me, on a show about honesty? That’s like tossing a match into a fireworks factory and hoping for a quiet night. But Denise swore it’d be good for me. So… here we are.

The second the official announcement hit Instagram, I was hit with a tidal wave of hate. No surprise there.

My DMs lit up like a Christmas tree, and the comment section? A total dumpster fire. I scrolled through insults that would make a sailor blush. For a second, I almost admired their creativity.

“Who let this woman on a truth-telling show? Her mouth is a dumpster fire, spewing garbage everywhere.”

It took everything in me not to laugh. Instead, I snapped, grabbed my phone, and fired off a reply:

“It’s a figure of speech, not actual garbage. Try to keep up.”

I could practically hear Denise groaning across town. But what can I say? Even when I lose it, I stick to the facts and throw in some classic sayings.

I guess I’m a sucker for a well-timed proverb. My grandma would be proud—if she weren’t blocking me on Facebook.

When a hotshot young actor claimed he didn’t get love, I called him a bullfrog playing prince—ugly but cocky.

It got a laugh from the crew and a death glare from his manager. I just shrugged. Someone had to say it.

When a new heartthrob said his looks were all-natural, I said he was a raccoon in a masquerade mask—shameless.

He looked like he wanted to crawl under the table. For a second, I almost felt bad. Almost.

When a bombshell actress rocked a daring dress, I said she was a wolf in designer heels—bold and flashy.

She winked at me and blew a kiss. Not everyone takes it personally, thank God.

Sure, I pissed off their fans, but I was loving it.

The adrenaline rush, the chaos—that’s my element. I thrive in the eye of the storm.

Obviously, my scandal count shot up again.

At this point, I could wallpaper my bathroom with tabloid covers. Maybe I should. Wouldn’t that be a statement?

At first, the reality show barely registered on anyone’s radar, but the second my name dropped, it shot to the top of Twitter trends.

One tweet and suddenly everyone’s got an opinion. Most of them want my head on a platter.

Ninety-nine percent of the internet raged: “Boycott trashy celebs! No way I’m watching this.”

The other one percent? Please. That’s probably just my mom’s burner accounts.

Agent Denise was so stressed she was pacing the office, calling the PR team nonstop.

I watched her wear a groove in the carpet. She kept muttering about crisis management and brand rehabilitation like it was some kind of prayer.

But the hate wouldn’t die down.

Just when I was about to throw in the towel, public opinion flipped on its head.

Because the show announced a new guest.

And who was it? None other than Ethan Marshall. Oscar-winner.

Suddenly, that same ninety-nine percent said: “Let’s not get hasty—it’s worth watching for Ethan.”

You could practically hear the collective gasp. The mood changed in a heartbeat.

Denise was over the moon:

“Perfect! A fan favorite to anchor the show!”

She started talking about synergy and audience overlap, her eyes shining like she’d just won the lottery.

Then she frowned, confused:

“But why did Ethan suddenly sign on? He wasn’t on the original list.”

I was scrolling through my DMs, my other hand balled in a fist.

Yeah… why did he suddenly join?

Denise noticed my tension and turned to me:

“Something wrong? You don’t like him?”

I forced a smile.

It’s more complicated than that.

We’ve been divorced for almost a year now.

That’s right. Ethan Marshall. My ex-husband.

I still remember the day we split—his eyes red, looking so lost. He signed the divorce papers. Only because I pushed for it.

“You sure you won’t regret this?”

I shook my head, determined:

“Not a chance.”

A year later, I’m still the Hollywood trainwreck, and he’s got an Oscar on his shelf.

Funny how life works out, right? He gets gold, I get clickbait.

I was lost in the memory spiral when Denise snapped me back to reality.

She shoved her phone in my face, suspicious:

“Reese Callahan, are you two having a thing?”

I glanced at the screen.