The first death threat arrives with a heart emoji.
I stare at the subject line in my inbox—"die slow :)"—and let my cursor hover just long enough to feel my stomach tilt. The apartment is silent except for Nora’s furious typing on the couch, keys rattling like she’s trying to beat the internet into submission.
"Please tell me that one is at least spelled correctly," she says without looking up.
"Nope," I answer. "S-L-O. They forgot the W."
"Illiterate and homicidal," she mutters. "A winning demo." She finally drags her gaze up to my monitor. "Report and block. And maybe stop reading past the subject lines?"
I should. I don’t.
The email opens in a clean white box, my own video thumbnail reflected at the top: my face, framed by crappy fairy lights, mid-eye roll. The title in bold beneath it: "Alec Vance Is a Fake Prince (And Hollywood Knows It)."
"Harper," Nora warns.
"I’m just—" I skim anyway. The message is a wall of caps lock, creative slurs for my height, and an impressive array of threats involving my camera and orifices it should never meet. At the bottom, a lone red heart.
"It’s almost…on brand for a romance fandom," I say, voice thinner than I want.
Nora snaps my laptop halfway shut with a decisive clap. "Okay, that’s enough doom-scrolling for one morning. Views are still climbing, sponsors haven’t bailed, and Variety quoted you. We’re in the good column. Stop looking for the brick that’s about to fall on your head."
I slide the laptop back open, because of course I do. "If a brick is falling, I’d kinda like to see it coming."
Nora’s phone pings on the coffee table. Both of us freeze.
She snatches it up, eyes flicking across the screen. Something in her shoulders tightens. "Well," she says. "Ask and the brick shall appear."
"What?" My fingers tangle in the frayed hem of my oversized hoodie. "What is it?"
"It’s…" She hesitates, then exhales. "It’s an email from a Warner-Hart corporate account. To our business address. Requesting a ‘conversation regarding your recent content about Mr. Alec Vance.’" She air-quotes hard enough to sprain something.
My heart thumps once, too loud. Warner-Hart. Evelyn Hart’s empire. Alec’s studio.
"Requesting like…in the friendly sense?" I ask. "Or requesting like, ‘hand over your kidneys’?"
"They don’t mention organs." Nora scrolls. "They just copied a lawyer with more syllables in his name than I trust. And they attached an NDA."
A thin film of sweat prickles the back of my neck. "Oh. So definitely the kidneys."
For a moment, the room feels too small. The fairy lights I strung along the ceiling last Christmas buzz faintly, haloing the chipped walls in warm gold. My whole life fits in this studio: the thrift-store couch, the wobbly ring light, the tripod perpetually aimed at the desk where I dismantle Movies That Should Know Better. Low-budget honesty, high-quality outrage. Safe.
And now the machine I’ve been throwing stones at wants to talk.
"We can ignore it," Nora says, surprising me. "They’re trying to scare you. You didn’t say anything that isn’t backed up by marketing material and clips. Fair use is on our side. We lawyer up if we have to. I’ll call Kiran."
I swallow. My video still plays muted on my second monitor, comments zipping past in a fluorescent blur. People calling me brave, people calling me bitter, people calling me a goblin for daring to suggest the King of Romance might be more cardboard than charming.
I’d expected backlash. I hadn’t expected Warner-Hart to show up in my inbox within twelve hours of upload.
"What if it’s not just a scare?" I ask. "What if they…actually sue? Can we afford that?"
Nora’s jaw twitches. She doesn’t answer immediately, which is answer enough.
My phone lights up on the desk, buzzing toward the edge. Unknown number.
"Ignore it," Nora says again.
I hit accept.
"Hello?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
There’s a beat of clean, expensive silence. Then a man says, "Is this Harper Lane?"
His voice is smooth in the way of professionally charming people. I imagine a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes.
"Depends," I say, because instinct is a hell of a drug. "Who’s asking?"
On the couch, Nora gestures wildly for me to put it on speaker.
"My name is Mark Ellison." Another beat, like he expects that to mean something. It does. I’ve seen it in fine print on Alec’s movie posters. "I represent Alec Vance and, by extension, Warner-Hart Pictures. We emailed your producer this morning."
"We saw." I thumb the speaker icon. "Is this the part where you threaten to take my cat and my firstborn? I have neither, by the way, so you might have to settle for my succulent collection."
Nora covers her mouth to smother a laugh and immediately starts typing notes on her laptop, eyes razor-focused.
Mark doesn’t laugh. "Ms. Lane, no one is interested in taking your…plants. We’d like to avoid litigation. Which is why I’m calling to offer you an opportunity instead."
I actually do laugh at that, a short, disbelieving bark. "I call your client a ‘fake prince of romance’ and you want to…hire me?"
"We want to invite you to a meeting," he corrects. "Today. Our offices in Beverly Hills. Noon."
I look at the digital clock on my wall. 10:03 a.m. "That’s in, like, two hours."
"Traffic permitting, yes."
"So this is less an invitation and more a summons."
His tone doesn’t change. "I’m choosing to regard it as an invitation. Legally, if it makes you more comfortable, you’re under no obligation to attend. Pragmatically, I strongly advise that you do."
"If I don’t?" I ask.
"Then the people on the CC line in that email will have to earn their fees." Still smooth. Still polite. Still a threat.
Nora scribbles in huge letters on her notepad: RECORD. CALL.
Too late.
"You understand," Mark says, "that your video has already cost the studio a significant amount in projected revenue. I’m sure you value freedom of speech. I’m equally sure you value paying rent. Our interest is in finding a solution that’s…mutually beneficial."
Heat flashes in my chest. "My interest is in telling the truth," I shoot back. "If your client can’t survive that, maybe that’s not my problem."
There’s the tiniest pause, like I’ve surprised him. "Come to the meeting, Ms. Lane. Hear us out. Bring your producer. Sign nothing until you’ve spoken to your own counsel. Noon."
He rattles off an address. I recognize the street from movies where people in power lean on desks and ruin lives.
"I’ll text you the building instructions," he finishes. "Security can be…intense."
"Good," I say. "I love metal detectors. They make me feel like I’m in a Jason Bourne movie."
This time, I think he might actually smile, because his voice softens by half a degree. "I’ll see you soon." He hangs up.
The apartment is suddenly too loud with the thump of my own pulse.
"We’re not going," Nora says immediately. "This is intimidation 101."
"He said we should bring our own lawyer." I grab my backpack and start jamming in my camera, my battered notebook, two pens, and the emergency chocolate bar I keep for when movies try to redeem abusers in the third act.
"He also said ‘projected revenue’ like a Bond villain." Nora paces, fingers tapping against her thigh. "Harper, this isn’t your fight. You made a video. We upload, we move on. We don’t walk into the dragon’s mouth because it emailed."
"It’s my face in that thumbnail," I say, shouldering the bag. "If they’re coming for anyone, it’s me. I’d like to know how sharp their knives actually are."
Her eyes flash. "Bravery is not the same as self-endangerment. Remember your whole thing about ethics? Power structures? This is that." She points at my laptop, where my paused video shows me mid-rant, finger stabbing at the air. "You don’t have to prove you’re not a sellout by getting eaten alive."
The word sellout lands like a pebble in my gut, sending ripples through colder water. My father’s face flickers in memory—smiling, shifty-eyed on some behind-the-scenes doc, praising a movie he’d trashed in private. The day I found the check with the studio letterhead.
"I’m not going to sell out," I tell Nora. Myself. "I’m going to listen. And record."
She studies me, then sighs, the fight draining from her shoulders. "Fine. But I’m coming. And we’re calling Kiran from the Uber. And if they so much as look at you like you’re content instead of a human being, I’m flipping a table."
"Please don’t flip a table in Beverly Hills," I say weakly. "They’re probably made of, like, endangered marble."
"Then I’ll flip a fern. Get your shoes."
The Warner-Hart tower looks exactly like the kind of place that would sue a girl like me into dust. All glass and sun and security guards with cheekbones sharp enough to cut me.
The lobby is a cool, polished cavern, air-conditioned within an inch of its life. My boots squeak faintly on the marble. Movie posters line the walls in frames that cost more than my camera: sweeping epics, tear-streaked close-ups of Alec Vance gazing soulfully into some actress’s eyes.
"Smile," Nora murmurs, nudging me as we approach the front desk. "If we look small and harmless, maybe they won’t think to frisk us for critical thinking."
The receptionist—a woman with a sleek bob and a headset that looks fused to her skull—eyes us over her monitor. Her gaze flicks from my thrifted denim jacket to my camera peeking out of my bag.
"Names?" she asks, voice like chilled champagne.
"Harper Lane and Nora King," I say. "We’re here to see Mark Ellison. Noon appointment."
She checks something on her screen, then presses a button. "They’ll be right down. Please wait by the escalators. Security will escort you up."
"Security," Nora repeats under her breath. "Because two broke lesbians from Echo Park are such a threat to their empire."
"I’m not a—" I start, then stop when she smirks. "You know what, focus. We have, like, three minutes before this becomes real."
It takes less than two.
The elevator doors slide open and a man strides out who looks exactly like a Hollywood agent: tailored navy suit, perfect hair, tie just loose enough to say I’m so relaxed, trust me while I ruin you.
Mark Ellison’s head turns, eyes landing on me like a camera finding its mark. For a second, he just looks, cataloguing. I feel the weight of a million-dollar calculus in that glance: problem, potential, risk.
Then he smiles. It’s practiced but not insincere, which might be worse.
"Ms. Lane," he says, crossing the marble. "Thank you for coming." He offers his hand.
His grip is warm, firm, unthreatening. I remind myself that hand once signed a contract that turned a heartbreak into a marketing plan.
"You made it sound awfully optional," I reply.
One corner of his mouth lifts. "I find people respond better to invitations than subpoenas." He nods at Nora. "You must be Ms. King. Thank you for joining us."
"I’m here to make sure she doesn’t sign her soul away," Nora says sweetly. "Also to enjoy the free air-conditioning."
He chuckles, but his eyes flash with that same quick assessment. "Understood. Right this way."
We pass through a turnstile that scans our IDs, then into an elevator that glides up so smoothly my stomach only realizes we’re moving when my ears pop. Mark presses 27.
"Just to be clear," I say, fingers tight around the strap of my bag, "I’m not signing anything today."
"We’re just talking," Mark assures. "You’ll meet my boss, Evelyn Hart. She’d like to make a proposal before this situation escalates further."
"Before you unleash the lawyers," Nora translates.
"If mutually agreeable terms can be reached, there will be no need for lawyers," he says. "Conversely, if we can’t…" He lets the sentence trail off as the doors slide open.
The 27th floor is quieter, carpeted corridors muffling our steps. Movie posters give way to abstract art—colorful swirls that probably mean "money" in some unspoken executive language.
Mark leads us into a conference room that overlooks Los Angeles in dizzying glass-walled detail. The city sprawls under a hazy blue sky, miniature cars crawling along the freeway like toy soldiers marching toward some invisible war.
At the head of the table stands Evelyn Hart.
She’s even more intimidating in person than in the glossy Variety photos. Tall. Immaculate white blouse, black hair in a sleek chignon, red lipstick that looks like a warning sign. She turns as we enter, eyes sweeping over me with surgical precision.
"Ms. Lane," she says. "I’ve been very curious to meet you. Sit, please."
Her voice is warm. Her gaze is not.
We sit. Nora positions herself slightly in front of me, like a shield.
Evelyn slides a leather folder across the table. "We’ll keep this brief. You’re busy, we’re busy, and the internet moves faster than all of us. Your video has…created a narrative that we find both inaccurate and damaging."
"Inaccurate how?" I ask. "I used his own press junket quotes. I showed clips. All I did was connect dots your marketing team painted on billboards."
"You connected them with a very loaded descriptor—‘fake,’" she says calmly. "That word is trending. Hashtags have power, Ms. Lane. #AlecIsFake is already affecting our projections for ‘Midnight in Venice.’" She steeples her fingers. "We could pursue legal action on a number of fronts. Defamation, interference with business expectancy—"
"Fair use," Nora cuts in. "Opinion. Public figure. And you know it."
Evelyn’s mouth doesn’t quite smile. "Which is why we’re offering a different path. One that leverages your…brand, instead of destroying it."
I brace. Here it comes.
"We would like to retain your services," she says, "as a consultant for the next thirty days. You will work directly with Alec on what we’re calling an emotional authenticity initiative. You’ll help shape his messaging, his public interactions, his…‘truth.’" The last word has quotes I can feel.
I blink. "You want me to…fix him?"
"We want you to help us show the world who he really is," Evelyn replies smoothly. "You claim he’s ‘fake.’ We believe that’s a misunderstanding born of pain and privacy. You’re very good at drawing out emotional narratives. We’d like you to do so with our full cooperation—and compensation."
Mark slides a single-page summary toward me. I scan. Words jump out: EXCLUSIVITY. CONTENT RIGHTS. NDA. PENTHOUSE. COHABITATION.
"Live-in?" I say aloud before my brain can edit. "What does ‘temporary residential arrangement’ mean?"
"Alec’s schedule is…intense," Mark says. "To make this work on such a short timeline, we’d need you on-site. His penthouse has a guest suite and production facilities. You’d have full access to him when he’s not on set. Think of it as…immersion."
I laugh again, but there’s no humor in it this time. "So you want the girl who called him emotionally constipated on YouTube to move into his house and teach him how to poop feelings convincingly on command?"
Mark winces. Evelyn doesn’t.
"We want you," she says, "to help rehabilitate a narrative you helped damage. In exchange, we pay you a generous consulting fee, promote your channel through official partners, and—" she flicks the edge of the paper "—waive any legal claims regarding your video."
My breath catches. There it is. The brick. Wrapped in velvet.
If I say no, they sue. Even if they don’t win, the process will bleed me dry. Sponsors will run. Algorithms will punish controversy. I’ll be the girl who picked a fight with a studio and lost.
If I say yes…I become their pet critic. I move into a stranger’s glass palace and teach a man I don’t trust how to fake sincerity even better.
"You think I can be bought," I say quietly.
"I think you’re idealistic," Evelyn counters. "And practical under pressure. You want to maintain your platform, your voice, your…integrity. This lets you do that and correct harm at the same time."
"By lying for you," I say.
"By helping us tell a fuller truth," she amends.
I look at Mark. "And what does Alec think about having his worst critic as a roommate-slash-emotional coach?"
For the first time, Mark looks mildly uncomfortable. "He understands the stakes. He’s…willing to cooperate."
Which is not the same as happy.
Nora leans in. "We need time. A lawyer. A week."
"You have twenty-four hours," Evelyn says. "The longer #AlecIsFake trends, the harder it becomes to reverse. Every hour costs us money. Consider this offer extremely time-sensitive."
My throat feels dry. I picture my tiny apartment, my ring light, my bank account balance. My father’s resigned voice when he told me, "You’ll understand one day, Harp. Principles don’t pay mortgages."
I also picture Alec Vance’s face, frozen mid-smirk in my thumbnail. The way his on-screen eyes never quite match the words he says.
"And if I agree," I ask, "do I…still get to tell the truth? Or do I become another glossy behind-the-scenes featurette where everybody pretends the script wrote itself and nobody ever cried between takes?"
Evelyn considers me for a long beat. The city glitters behind her like a promise or a threat.
"You’ll have unprecedented access," she says finally. "What you do with it will be subject to certain…parameters. But I’m not asking you to lie, Ms. Lane. I’m asking you to help us shape what truth looks like when millions of people are watching."
My fingers trace the edge of the paper, the fine linen texture catching on a hangnail. This is how it happens, I think. Not with a giant check slid across the table while ominous strings play, but with a polite woman in a white blouse saying, It’s complicated. Be reasonable.
"You can walk away," Nora whispers. Her leg presses against mine under the table, a grounding heat. "We’ll crowdfund a legal fund. Make a video about corporate bullying. People will back you."
They might. Or they might get bored and move on to the next outrage.
My whole channel is built on demanding that other people be braver. More honest. Less fake. If I refuse to step into the mess when it’s pointed directly at me, what does that make me?
"I need to meet him," I say before I can stop the words.
Three pairs of eyes turn to me.
"Excuse me?" Evelyn asks.
"If you want me to sign up to be Alec Vance’s emotional handler, I need to talk to him. Alone. No cameras. No lawyers. No PR filters." I hold her gaze, even though my skin feels too tight. "Otherwise, this is just another script. And if I’m going to be in the story, I at least want to know if my co-star is human."
For a heartbeat, no one speaks.
Then Evelyn smiles, slow and sharp. "You are…interesting," she says. She glances at Mark. "Can you make that happen?"
Mark hesitates. "He’s at home this afternoon. Between fittings." His eyes flick back to me. "I can arrange for you to drop by. Supervised."
"Unsupervised," I counter. "Or this conversation is over."
Nora’s hand clamps around my knee under the table. I don’t look at her.
Evelyn studies me, then lets out a soft, economical laugh. "Very well. One hour. No recording devices. No contracts signed until after. Mark will drive you."
Nora bristles. "She’s not going anywhere without me."
"Of course," Mark says quickly. "You can wait downstairs."
"Not what I—" Nora starts.
"Deal," I say, cutting her off. "I’ll meet him. Then I’ll decide."
The peak line rises in my chest, unbidden, like it’s been waiting for this moment.
"If he’s really as fake as you’ve built him to be," I add, "you won’t want me anywhere near him."
Evelyn’s eyes narrow, but her smile doesn’t slip. "We’ll see, Ms. Lane. Some performances are more honest than you think."
She stands, signaling the meeting is over.
As we follow Mark out, my palms damp against the folder I refuse to fully accept, Nora leans in.
"You’re out of your mind," she hisses. "You know that, right?"
"Probably," I murmur.
Down the hall, through the glass, the city stretches out—sunlit, glittering, treacherous.
I wonder, as the elevator doors close around us, what kind of man waits at the top of a glass-walled penthouse, and how much of him is real.
And more dangerously: what happens to me if I find out.
