Chapter 1: The Audition That Changed Everything

If you’d asked me two years ago who I was, I’d have said: Autumn Delaney, bottom-tier actress.

Back then, I was the kind of actress whose face barely made it into the frame—just a blurry extra on the edge, or the friend with three lines and a forced laugh. My name? Never in the opening credits, just buried somewhere in the endless crawl of names at the end. Sometimes I’d stare at the screen, wondering if anyone ever actually read those names. It was the kind of grind that made you question if you were just chasing smoke, but I kept going, even when it felt like I was the only one still rooting for myself.

After three years of hustling with nothing to show for it, my dad—who’d never exactly been my number-one fan when it came to acting—gave me an ultimatum. He called, gruff as ever. “Two months, Autumn. That’s all you get.” If I couldn’t land a decent role in two months, I’d have to come home and take the civil service exam. You know, the kind that lands you a government desk job.

I swear I could still hear Dad’s voice bouncing off the peeling walls of my tiny apartment, stubborn as always: “Autumn, you can’t keep living on takeout and hope. Two more months. Then you come home, take the exam, and get a real job. That’s final.” I remember standing there, clutching my phone, staring at the cracked ceiling, my heart sinking. It wasn’t just about acting. It was about me. Proving I could make it on my own terms.

Just when I was ready to give up, I got an email. From Grant Easton.

It landed in my inbox like a miracle, the kind of email you check three times to make sure it’s not a scam. Grant Easton—the legendary Grant Easton—was holding auditions for his next film. I read it out loud to my cat. She was the only one who saw me squeal and jump around the living room. She didn’t seem impressed, but I didn’t care. For a second, I just sat there, hands shaking so much I almost dropped my phone.

I mean, Grant Easton. The guy’s a legend. Every single movie he touches turns to gold.

His films sweep the Oscars, light up every theater from LA to New York, and make nobodies into household names. I’d watched every one of his movies, memorized his interviews, and even had a Pinterest board dedicated to his most iconic shots. Getting an audition with him felt like winning the lottery—except it was a ticket I’d bought with sweat, tears, and a little too much ramen.

So, for this audition, I spent all my savings on a plane ticket to Maple Heights.

I didn’t even hesitate. I booked the cheapest flight I could find, packed my one good dress, and double-checked my script until the words blurred. This was my shot. My one shot.

Of course, that’s when disaster struck.

It happened so fast, it barely felt real. Some guy in a ratty hoodie grabbed my fake Michael Kors and bolted. My heart lurched. Everything important was in there—wallet, script, lucky lipstick. For a second, I just froze. Was this real life? I could feel panic clawing up my throat.

He ran, clutching my bag like it was a million bucks. My heart lurched. Everything important was in there. I wanted to chase him, but I’d twisted my ankle a few days earlier on set, so I only managed a few steps before faceplanting on the cold tile.

Pain shot up my leg, sharp and humiliating. I sprawled on the cold tile. People stared. No one helped. For a split second, I wanted to cry—not just from the pain, but from the sheer unfairness of it all. Was this how my dream ended? On the dirty floor of Terminal C, with my pride and my bag both stolen?

Watching the thief disappear, I thought my shot at the audition was gone. A blur of motion zipped past. What now?

She moved like a runner, all long strides and laser focus. I barely registered her at first—just a flash of confidence and purpose. She didn’t even look back.

She was fast. In one move, she tackled him. My bag was back in her hands before I could blink.

It was like watching a scene out of an action movie—except it was real, and it was happening to me. I just stared. Was this real life?

Still in shock. She walked over, my bag in her hand.

She walked with a calm confidence, the kind that made you want to stand up a little straighter. Her hair was in a loose ponytail. She wore a leather jacket that had definitely seen some things.

My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might explode. I’d always rolled my eyes at that line in movies. Not anymore.

She handed me my bag. Of course. Perfect timing—the airport PA called my name.

The announcement echoed through the terminal, jolting me back to reality. I fumbled for words. Nothing came out.

Her voice was low, warm. She asked softly, "Is that you they’re calling?" I nodded, still clutching my bag.

I nodded. She nudged me, gentle but firm. "Go on, then. I’ll handle things here."

Her hand was steady on my shoulder, a gentle push that somehow gave me the courage to move. I managed a shaky smile. Then I was running—well, limping—toward my gate.

That day, I boarded the plane in a daze. All I could think was: Why didn’t I get her number?

The whole flight, I replayed the scene over and over, wishing I’d at least asked her name. I promised myself I’d never forget her face.

I never expected to see her again. But fate had other plans.

That’s when I learned her name was Morgan Lane, and she was Harper’s real older sister.

I felt my jaw drop. Harper Lane—the industry’s golden boy, the guy everyone wanted to work with—had a sister, and she was the woman who’d saved me at the airport. I watched the two of them laugh together, the easy way they moved around each other, and something inside me clicked. Morgan Lane. The name felt right, like it had been waiting for me to hear it.

So I started hanging around Harper, just to get closer to his sister.

I found excuses to linger after rehearsals, to chat with Harper about anything and everything, hoping Morgan would pop in. I told myself it was just curiosity, but even I didn’t believe that. Every time Morgan walked by, my heart did a little flip. I felt like a teenager with her first crush, and honestly, it was kind of embarrassing.

Unexpectedly, people online misunderstood and thought I had a crush on Harper.

It started with a few comments, then turned into full-blown shipping wars. Suddenly, fan edits of me and Harper were everywhere—slow-motion montages, soft music, hearts floating across the screen. I wanted to laugh, but it was also a little surreal. My actual crush was standing just off-camera, and no one had a clue.

I wanted to explain, but my agent, Miss Kelsey, stopped me. She insisted that hyping up a ship was a necessary step for every rising star, and even threatened me with my contract.

Miss Kelsey was all business, her voice crisp and unyielding: “Autumn, you need buzz. Every star does. Let them ship you. It’s harmless, and it’s good for your image.” She waved my contract at me like a warning flag. I knew better than to argue. In this business, you played the game or you got left behind.

I had no choice but to play along.

So I smiled for the cameras, laughed at the right moments, and let the world believe whatever it wanted. At night, I scrolled through fan edits and wondered if Morgan ever saw them. I doubted it. She seemed too cool to get caught up in internet drama.

A week ago, Miss Kelsey got me onto a live variety show called “Kitchen Time.”

It was the hottest cooking show on streaming, and getting a spot was a big deal. I practiced my omelet flip for days, terrified I’d drop an egg on national TV. Miss Kelsey called it “brand-building,” but all I could think about was not burning down the set.

Only when I arrived did I find out Harper was a guest, too.

The second I saw him, I knew what was coming. The producers wanted drama, and nothing got views like a good ship. Harper flashed me that easy grin of his, and I just braced myself for the onslaught.