Chapter 1: White Moonlight Returns

I was the white moonlight—the one unforgettable, idealized first love—of the prince of New York’s elite circle.

That phrase always sounded a little too poetic for a city like this, didn’t it? Still, it stuck. Why? Maybe because it was true, or maybe because New Yorkers just can’t resist a juicy story. When I came back to the States, everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see if I’d crash and burn.

Word was, the prince had found a lookalike and spoiled her rotten, giving her everything she could ever want. The gossip spread through the Upper East Side like wildfire, and even the doormen in my building started giving me those long, sympathetic looks.

Then a video leaked, and the whole internet lost its mind. Screenshots, reaction threads, TikToks—my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Honestly, I thought it might explode. The high-and-mighty prince, head bowed, rubbing against my palm:

"Babe, I’m really clean. Please don’t leave me, okay?"

Under the shifting, dazzling lights, the Whitmore family’s golden boy, Mason Whitmore, lounged with his long legs crossed. His face was just as infuriatingly handsome as it had been three years ago.

Only now, there was a chill about him, a distance. He looked like someone who’d never had a bad day—until you noticed those new shadows under his eyes.

At the welcome party my friend Jenna Torres threw for my return, I ran into him with zero warning. It smelled like expensive perfume and nerves. The penthouse buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses, everyone’s smile just a little too bright.

Mason caught me staring, raised an eyebrow, and let out a low, teasing laugh.

"Finally decided to come back? I thought those European playboys had you so turned around you forgot your way home."

The laughter in the private room died instantly. It was like someone hit pause on the whole night. Even the music seemed to fade into the background. For a second, all I could think was, Seriously?

Mason seemed to realize what he’d said, yanked his baseball cap down, scowling. He looked away, the tips of his ears turning red, fiddling with his glass like he wanted to vanish inside it.

People scrambled to change the subject, all talking at once.

"Quinn, you have great taste, that dress is stunning on you."

"Quinn, you’ve lost weight, you should eat more—you’re wasting away."

"But Quinn, you’re still going to act, right…"

I pretended not to notice Mason’s red-tipped ears and nodded with a smile. Pretend, pretend, pretend.

"Acting is my lifelong dream. I’m not giving up."

Three years gone, a has-been in everyone’s eyes. Still, I wasn’t done yet. There was a stubbornness in me that New York never managed to stamp out.

Someone muttered, "Why not ask Mr. Whitmore for help? He’s so generous—the roles he got for Emily Lane were worth millions each." There was a beat of awkward silence, and I caught a few sideways glances.

"That big TV series, 'The Underdog’s Revenge,' that’s about to start shooting—Mr. Whitmore invested in it and got her a supporting role."

My hand holding the wine glass paused. The crystal caught the light, trembling slightly. My heart did the same. Emily Lane.

That name, I’d heard it a lot since coming back. It seemed to follow me everywhere—in conversations, in tabloid headlines, even in the nervous glances of old friends.

They said Emily was the stand-in Mason found, who looked eerily like me—enough that people kept staring. The city always loved a good doppelgänger story.

Mason spoiled her, sparing no expense to make her famous. It was the kind of thing that would make any girl’s head spin, but all it did was leave a sour taste in my mouth.

Emily even hinted on a talk show that Mason was planning to propose. My agent sent me the clip, just in case I wanted to torture myself. I watched it, rolled my eyes, and closed the tab with a sigh.

So right when I came back, all eyes were on me.

Countless people were waiting to see me fall flat on my face. After all, I was the girl who’d left the prince for a million-dollar check. No one bets on the one who leaves—this city only bets on comebacks. I could almost hear the snark: "Let’s see how she crawls back."

Before I could speak, Mason jumped in first: "Don’t. I can’t take that. Someone was tough back then—left without a word, just like that."

He fiddled with his cigarette case, half-smiling, flicking the lid open and closed with his thumb. The click was sharp in the hush.

But I knew better. Mason’s calm was always just for show. I could see the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders stiffened.

When he was anxious or uneasy, he liked to smoke.

I can’t stand smoke—chronic lungs—so he quit. For me.

But he never stopped fiddling with that case. Old habits die hard.

I lowered my eyes and laughed, clinking glasses with Mason. Fake it till you make it.

"Oh, I wouldn’t dream of troubling Mr. Whitmore. Actually, Director Carter just called—he wants me to audition for the lead."

Everyone was stunned. You could practically hear the record scratch. Guess I still had a few surprises left.

Carter Evans is the youngest genius director in the business, with a shelf full of Emmys. He’s the kind of guy even the Hollywood big shots keep an eye on.

The highly anticipated 'The Underdog’s Revenge' is his personal project.

He’s famous for his high standards—if he’s not a hundred percent sure about someone, he won’t even let them audition. People joke he’s allergic to mediocrity. I snorted internally—he’d probably break out in hives if you handed him a mediocre script.