Chapter 1: Stolen Spotlight, Shattered Trust

“This is insane! Who does that to someone?” My assistant, Zoe, slammed her hand down on the break room table, her eyes on fire.

The mug in her other hand rattled against the scratched Formica. For a second, the sound echoed off the faded motivational posters tacked to the wall. It was one of those cheap, generic office break rooms, the kind with a fridge that hummed so loud it sounded like it was about to die. Zoe looked like she was ready to flip the table—her cheeks flushed deep red, like she was fighting back more than just tears.

“The show was finally picking up steam, and you were about to blow up. Now they just swap you out like it’s nothing!” Zoe was so mad her voice was shaking. “Back when nobody wanted the show, when the production team had zero pull and it was filming way out in the sticks, they shoved you into it. Now that it’s a hit, they toss you aside. I’ve never seen anything so shady!”

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, blinking hard, her voice cracking. “Seriously, Brooke, they used you as a placeholder. Now that there’s a spotlight, they don’t even have the decency to tell you face to face.” Her outrage was so pure, so fierce, it almost made me smile.

The “she” Zoe meant was Madison Lane—the one who stole my spot on the show.

Madison Lane. Her name was basically a curse word in our circles these days. If anyone could steal your spot with a fake smile and a compliment that cuts both ways, it was her.

She and I both worked for the same agency.

We’d joined about the same time, were the same age, and both had that “girl-next-door” look—basically, we were the same type, chasing the same gigs.

It was like running a three-legged race with your lookalike, only she’d trip you the second she got the chance. I could practically hear the agents in their glass offices: “We need a Brooke or a Madison type.” Seriously, who comes up with these labels?

Honestly, Zoe was still a little too innocent.

She still believed hard work and decency would win out. I’d lost that faith about a year ago, after watching Madison work the system like a pro.

Madison always clawed her way up by stepping on me—not just because I was easygoing and had zero pull, but because I was her direct competition.

She never tried to take Savannah Kim’s opportunities, not just because Savannah was blunt and feisty, but because Savannah played the “bad girl” angle, which didn’t threaten her brand.

Savannah was the kind of girl who’d show up to a casting call in ripped jeans and Doc Martens, flipping the bird at anyone who looked at her sideways. Madison wouldn’t dare cross her.

We’d moved to the dressing room to cool off and grab our things.

I was about to explain to Zoe that I planned to let my contract run out and wasn’t fighting for this anymore, when the dressing room door swung open.

It banged against the wall, making Zoe jump. The air changed—everyone in the room felt it, like the temperature dropped a couple degrees.

Madison strutted in, flanked by four assistants like she was the next Taylor Swift.

She wore oversized sunglasses indoors, her hair freshly blown out, and her lips curled in that fake smile she always wore. Her entourage trailed behind, juggling lattes and makeup bags, one of them snapping gum with a bored look.

With her level of fame, she didn’t need four assistants, but Madison loved making a scene.

She moved like she was on a runway, pausing for effect. You could almost hear the imaginary paparazzi snapping photos in her mind.

Watching her, I remembered that viral news clip: Madison showing up at a mall event with over a dozen bodyguards, chin up, sunglasses on, acting like an A-lister. The bodyguards pushed the crowd back like they were expecting Beyoncé to show up.

The clip was a classic—one of those moments that gets meme’d to death. Her bodyguards looked like they were expecting Beyoncé to show up, but the crowd was just a handful of bored shoppers and a couple of teens filming on their phones.

In reality, hardly anyone was watching. In the video, you could hear someone say, “Who’s that?” and another reply, “No clue, maybe some TikTok influencer?”

The way the camera panned to the empty food court still cracks me up. That “No clue” line became an inside joke on Twitter for weeks.

That video got Madison roasted online. She picked up a bunch of nicknames: “Big-Shot Maddie,” “Try-Hard Lane,” “Queen of Awkward.”

Even my grandma texted me a meme of Madison’s sunglasses, captioned: “When you’re famous in your own head.”

She was so embarrassed she took time off to recover.

Rumor had it she went off the grid for a month, “finding herself” at a spa in Arizona. But her Instagram was full of poolside selfies, so who knows.

I looked away, fighting not to burst out laughing.

Zoe shot me a look, silently begging me not to lose it. I bit my lip so hard it hurt, focusing on the cracked tile floor.

But Madison wasn’t about to let me off the hook. She dragged a chair over and dropped into it like she owned the place, right in front of me. I couldn’t help but feel a jolt—of course she’d make it a scene.

The scraping sound was loud, and she made sure everyone saw her settle in. Her assistants hovered nearby, eyes darting between us like they expected a scene.

“Brooke, I’m heading out to film the show tomorrow, but I have no idea what to pack. You’re so experienced—can you give me some tips?”

She leaned forward, voice syrupy sweet but dripping with fake concern. If she’d been chewing gum, she’d have snapped it right in my face.

She pretended to ask for advice, but her voice was pure show-off. Zoe clenched her fists, seething.

Zoe’s jaw flexed, her knuckles whitening on the table’s edge. I could practically hear her thoughts—Don’t give her the satisfaction.

I shot Zoe a look—don’t lose it.

She’d already gotten in trouble just for being my assistant, thanks to Madison’s crew. I didn’t want to make things harder for her.

The last time Zoe snapped, Madison’s assistant ran straight to HR. We’d spent a week walking on eggshells. I couldn’t risk that again.

“The sun’s brutal by the ocean. Bring plenty of sunscreen,” I said. I wasn’t even kidding.

I kept my tone even, refusing to let her see me sweat. Zoe nodded, arms crossed, daring Madison to say something snide.

“Hmm—hat, sunglasses, sunscreen, spray, long sleeves…” Madison ticked them off, batting her lashes. “What else? Ugh, I can’t remember everything. Brooke, could you make me a list? Like, super detailed? If my skin gets ruined, I’ll blame you.”

She said it with a little giggle, but her eyes were sharp as tacks. Her words hung in the air, a warning wrapped in sugar.

She made it sound cutesy, but it was a threat.

Zoe’s mouth opened in protest, her cheeks burning. My stomach twisted—if Zoe exploded now, Madison would eat her alive.

“Who are you to boss—” Zoe shot to her feet, furious.

Her chair screeched back, and for a split second, I thought she might actually throw something.

“No problem,” I cut in. “I’ll get you a list this afternoon.”

I forced a smile, hoping Zoe would catch my drift—let it go, just this once. There were bigger battles ahead.

Just then, Madison’s agent burst in.

She was all business, phone glued to her ear, her expression sharp enough to cut glass. She didn’t even look at me, just barked orders like we were invisible.

“Why aren’t you getting your makeup done yet? The interview’s in an hour.” She frowned at me. “Anyone not involved, please leave. Don’t slow us down.”

The way she said it, you’d think I was a stray dog in the wrong yard. Zoe’s shoulders slumped, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

She blinked rapidly, trying to hide it, but I saw the shimmer. I reached for her hand and squeezed, guiding her out before she could say anything she’d regret.

As the door swung shut behind us, I could hear Madison laughing with her entourage. The sound made my skin crawl.

“This room was supposed to be for both of you. Why do we have to leave?”

Zoe’s voice trembled with indignation as we walked down the hall, passing framed photos of former agency stars—most of whom nobody remembered anymore.

In the break room, Zoe was still fuming.

She paced the length of the room, fists clenched, muttering under her breath. I patted the couch beside me, hoping she’d sit and calm down.

“Zoe, what’s your dream? I mean, what’s your career goal?” I motioned for her to sit on the battered couch.

She dropped onto the sagging cushions, hugging a throw pillow to her chest. I could tell she thought I was changing the subject, but she went along anyway.

“Why are you asking all of a sudden?” Zoe paused, bit her lip, and thought hard. “I want to be a successful agent. If I’m dreaming big, I want to manage a superstar—someone everyone knows.”

Her eyes sparkled.

She looked like she could already see her name in Variety, her phone blowing up with offers. I smiled, imagining Zoe in a power suit, running the show.

“So, you’re planning to stay at the agency. That means you can’t afford to make an enemy of Madison, or you’ll never get anywhere.” I reminded her, “Once I’m gone, she’ll leave you alone. Just keep your head down.”

I spoke softly, hoping she’d understand. The industry was brutal—sometimes survival meant swallowing your pride.

If Zoe hadn’t wanted to be an agent, I’d have taken her with me. But I was leaving showbiz soon and couldn’t help her reach that dream.

I wished I could promise her more, but I knew what was coming. My time here was almost up.

Zoe panicked. “Leave? Where are you going?”

She sat up straight, eyes wide, like I’d just announced I was moving to Mars.

“My contract’s up in three months. I’m not renewing.”

I tried to sound casual, but the words felt heavy. Zoe’s mouth dropped open.

“Just because they’re bullying you? Brooke, don’t be scared. I’ll always have your back.” She looked at me, totally sincere. “Trust me, you’re going to be huge someday!”

She reached for my hand, her grip warm and fierce. I squeezed back, grateful for her loyalty.

I shook my head. “Sorry, I can’t stay with you on this path. Honestly, I never wanted to be a star. My real dream is to write bestselling novels.”

The truth felt good to say out loud. I’d never told anyone but my family—not even Zoe, until now.

I’d joined the agency after a talent scout spotted me at the mall during sophomore year. I’d wanted to write a novel about the entertainment world, but didn’t know much, so I figured this was a perfect chance to gather material.

I remembered that day—wandering through the food court, juggling a smoothie and a stack of books, when some guy in skinny jeans handed me a business card. It was all so random, but it felt like fate at the time.

The shortest contract was three years, so that’s what I picked. My agent, Ms. Harper, tried to talk me out of it, saying three years was the worst deal—if I got popular, the agency would worry I’d leave and wouldn’t invest in me.

She’d leaned across her desk, tapping her pen on the contract. “Three years is career suicide, honey. You’ll be stuck in limbo.”

“You won’t get good gigs or resources,” Ms. Harper warned.

She was blunt, but I appreciated her honesty. Most agents would just push you to sign the longest deal possible.

“That’s fine,” I said. Three years was perfect—fewer gigs meant I wouldn’t miss classes.

Honestly, I was more worried about missing finals than missing out on fame.

Ms. Harper just shook her head and assigned me Zoe, who was new at the agency, as my assistant. After that, she barely managed me.

Zoe and I became a team by default—two rookies thrown together, learning the ropes the hard way.

“You’re really quitting?” Zoe asked.

She sounded like she didn’t quite believe me. I nodded, feeling lighter already.

“Yeah.”

“You know, you really could be a star. If you kept at it, I know you’d make it big.” Zoe sounded down. “Such a waste.”

She looked away, blinking fast. For a second, I thought she might cry again.

I actually believed her.

It was the weirdest thing—her faith in me was so unwavering, it almost made me want to try harder, just to prove her right.

Showbiz almost feels a little supernatural sometimes. I was ignored by the agency from day one, with scraps for resources.

Sometimes I wondered if the place was haunted—how else to explain the way luck would twist itself into knots around me?

My first acting gig was supposed to be a maid in a period drama. Three days in, the actress playing the third female lead broke her leg and had to be hospitalized. The director thought I fit the part and put me in.

I barely had time to be nervous—one day I was fetching tea on set, the next I was the tragic love interest. It was surreal.

The third female lead was a pure-hearted character, the male lead’s first love, who died saving him and became his forever-unattainable dream girl. It was a great role.

I remember reading the script, heart pounding. It was the kind of part actresses fight for—doomed, beautiful, unforgettable.

Determined to do well, I studied the script, tried to get into the character’s head, sat in on classes at the local film school, and picked up some basic acting skills. I fumbled a lot at first, but got better, and the director praised my progress.

I spent nights watching old movies, practicing lines in front of the bathroom mirror. Every time the director said, “Good job,” I felt like I was actually getting somewhere.

When the show aired, my character became surprisingly popular, and I got a small but loyal fanbase.

People started sending me fan mail—actual letters, not just DMs. Someone even mailed me a hand-knit scarf with my character’s name stitched in the corner.

Meanwhile, Madison, who joined with me, latched onto a wealthy backer and landed a lead role in her first web series. The production was solid, and the team had a name. Her sponsor was generous.

She’d show up to set in designer heels, always with a new purse. The rest of us wore whatever we could afford from Target.

But the show bombed—no buzz at all.

The ratings tanked, and the critics didn’t hold back. I almost felt bad for her—almost.

Because I got some attention, advertisers and reality shows started reaching out. But the agency worked behind the scenes, and Madison snatched up all the best gigs.

My phone would buzz with offers, but by the time I called back, Madison’s name was already on the call sheet. It was like a magic trick—my opportunities vanished into thin air.

One movie role had been recommended to me by a director I’d worked with before, but Madison stole it. The movie was a big deal—even though she only had a few minutes of screen time, it was a box office smash, and she rode the hype.

She posted about it nonstop—red carpet selfies, interviews, even a photo with the director’s dog. I just watched from the sidelines.

After that, she became obsessed with taking my opportunities.

It was like she had a radar for anything I wanted. If I so much as glanced at a script, she’d be all over it.

The funny thing was, I always ended up with the jobs she’d passed over—dramas, reality shows, or ads—and somehow, they always turned out better than expected.

It became a running joke between Zoe and me—"Let Madison pick first, and I’ll get the one that blows up.”

Meanwhile, the things she fought so hard for never made much impact.

Her projects fizzled out, one after another. It was almost uncanny.

This time was no different. The slow-paced reality show by the beach was mostly about chores. The sun was brutal, you could get sunburned, and sometimes we had to help out on local farms. The production team had no reputation.

The set was a couple of shacks near the shore, the catering was all PB&J sandwiches, and the crew looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.

Madison didn’t want it, nor did the other artists, so it landed on me.

I took it because, honestly, I had nothing else. I figured at least I’d get a good tan.

But after just three episodes, ratings kept climbing until it was the top show in its slot, and its hashtag blew up on Instagram. All the cast saw their popularity rise.

My follower count doubled overnight. Suddenly, people were DMing me for skincare tips and recipes I’d made on the show.

Madison got jealous and took my spot.

She called in favors, pulled strings, and next thing I knew, I was out. Classic Madison.

I’d gotten into showbiz mainly to gather material and learn about the industry. I never expected to get famous. I’d always been pretty chill, ready to leave at any time, and didn’t care much about missed chances.

It was all research for my “someday” novel. I never thought I’d actually care about the outcome.

The only thing I felt bad about was disappointing Zoe, who had such high hopes for me.

She believed in me more than I believed in myself. That was the hardest part.

Once she realized I was set on leaving, she stopped pushing and gave me a hug, saying she respected my decision.

She squeezed me tight, whispering, “You’ll be a bestselling author—I just know it.”

That afternoon, I made the detailed packing list Madison wanted and asked Zoe to deliver it.

I even included my favorite brand of aloe gel, just to be nice. Zoe rolled her eyes but agreed to drop it off.

But Zoe came back in tears.

She stormed in, cheeks blotchy, clutching the crumpled list like it was a resignation letter.

“This is too much! They moved your makeup table to the little back room. Said Madison’s status is higher now and she needs a private dressing room.”

She kicked the leg of the couch, voice shaking with fury. “I can’t believe this. You made that show what it is. Now they treat you like a nobody!”

She fumed, “Higher status? Are the bosses blind? She’s nowhere near as popular as you!”

She sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “If they actually checked the ratings, they’d see the truth.”

Madison and I joined the agency at the same time and advanced at a similar pace—we’d always shared the same dressing room.

It was tradition, almost. We’d decorated our side with Polaroids and string lights. Now, it felt like I was being erased.

“Let it go. The bosses know I’m not renewing, so I won’t need a dressing room anyway.” I tried to comfort Zoe. “We’ve got nothing to do right now—let’s go out for a big meal!”

I forced a grin, nudging her shoulder. “I’m craving burgers and curly fries. My treat.”

Just as we were about to leave, Ms. Harper, my agent, called.

Her number flashed on my screen, and my stomach dropped. Zoe groaned, already guessing the mood would shift.

“Come to my office.”

Her tone brooked no argument. I mouthed an apology to Zoe and hurried down the hall.

Once inside, she set a stack of documents on the desk and tapped her fingers.

She didn’t offer me a seat, just pointed at the paperwork like she was dealing cards at a poker game.

“Take a look at this.”

Her nails drummed a staccato rhythm as I picked up the folder, heart thumping.

I picked it up—it was an intro packet for a reality show.

The glossy cover featured a heart-shaped logo and a photo of a country road. It looked… wholesome.

“A dating show?” I skimmed it.

I tried to keep my face neutral, but inside, I was groaning. Another one?

“Read up on it. You’re going next week. The contract will be sent soon,” she said curtly.

She didn’t even look at me, already scrolling her phone. I felt like an afterthought.

“But Ms. Harper, my contract’s almost up.”

I tried to sound respectful, but my patience was wearing thin. I just wanted out.

Why were they still booking me gigs? Shouldn’t they just ignore me? Seriously?

Was this a punishment? Or were they just trying to squeeze every last drop out of me before I left?

Ms. Harper’s face was cold. “Almost up isn’t the same as up. As long as you’re under contract, you do what the agency says.”

She didn’t even blink. I could see my reflection in her glasses, looking as lost as I felt.

I thought for a moment and nodded. “Okay.”

What else could I do? At least it would give me more material for my book.

It’s just a dating show. I’ll go. More material for my novel, anyway.

I shrugged, thinking, At least it’s not another sunscreen list.

I knew I’d never get the best gigs.

I’d accepted that a long time ago. Sometimes, though, the leftovers turn out to be the tastiest bites.

Looking closer at the details, I got a sense of the show’s format. I had no idea which genius director came up with it: four pairs of men and women go to a small town to date. Each shoot lasts ten days straight, then a week off, then another ten days of filming. During the shoot, all devices are confiscated—no contact with the outside world. Total immersion in small-town life.

No phones, no WiFi, no doom-scrolling—just ten days of forced bonding. I could already picture the awkward icebreakers.

No wonder no one wanted it. The director’s name was unfamiliar, the shoot was long, and you had to live in the country for ten days. No one in their right mind would sign up for that.

I imagined the group chat: “Who wants to spend two weeks with no DoorDash?” Crickets.

The show’s name was something else: “Heartland Match.”

It sounded like a dating app for farmers, but whatever.

There were eight participants—four female celebs, four regular guys. I figured everyone booked for this was probably someone their agency had given up on—just like me.

It was the Island of Misfit Toys, reality TV edition. I wondered who else would be stuck with me.