Chapter 1: Fired Back and Trending

I Transmigrated Into a Washed-Up D-List Actress, Cyberbullied and Slandered by a Certain Top Pop Star’s Fans. After Becoming Her, I Openly Fired Back: “Thanks for the invite, but honey, I’m not into sleazy guys~”

Later, the entertainment industry lost its mind, and my TikTok comment section absolutely blew up.

(Girl, you’re about to make it big... That insane luck is finally ours—wait, is that really the Silver Lake Limo pulling up for you?)

(Don’t say much right now—pay your taxes and, for the love of God, don’t hook up with anyone sketchy.)

Then, the rock singer with the wrench tattoo commented on my post: I’m awesome, I’m awesome, don’t worry.

Me: “???”

When I transmigrated, I woke up as Mariah Lane, who’d already lost her fight with depression. I was here to finish what she couldn’t.

The original Mariah had fought for so long, all because fans of a top idol she’d worked with couldn’t handle her kissing their idol on a TV show.

The kiss was in the script. The director called the shots.

But that didn’t stop the trolls from spreading fake photos and filthy rumors. Some even showed up at her apartment to dump dead rats, screaming that she’d slept her way into roles.

Sitting cross-legged on the couch, I traced the scars on Mariah’s arms. My chest tightened. She must’ve been in agony. No matter how much proof she had, no one would believe she was innocent.

The apartment was still, just the low hum of the fridge and the distant wail of sirens on Sunset Boulevard. The faint smell of old takeout lingered in the air. I ran my thumb over the faded scars, the ache in my chest sharp and raw. Sunlight sliced through the blinds, too bright, almost mocking.

I saw all kinds of trending topics about her on Twitter:

#DListActressSleepsHerWayToTheTop

#WhoIsThisNobodyKissingMyIdol? #ReadyToDoxx

The top pinned tweet from the main slander account read: How can a nobody like Mariah Lane kiss my idol? Get out of Hollywood!

I quote-tweeted: Thanks for the invite, but honey, I’m in the sapphic circle, not into dudes who reek of Axe~ Your idol isn’t even fit to carry my shoes.

My fingers tingled as I typed. I could practically hear the fandom’s collective shriek. I hit send, tossed my phone on the coffee table, and braced for the firestorm. My heart pounded—equal parts dread and wicked satisfaction.

My post shot up the trending topics, even overtaking the buzz about Lila Fox’s new reality show.

Naturally, the haters went nuclear.

They cursed me straight onto the trending list. I surfed the chaos and fired up a livestream, facing my haters head-on with a grin. By the end, I’d happily gained 200,000 anti-fans and made a tidy profit off their rage-fueled gifts.

The chat was a blur—haters, stans, randos, all shrieking over each other. I sipped my iced coffee, flashed a peace sign, and let their fury pay for my groceries. Honestly? Peak American hustle.

I’m the heiress of Lane Holdings, but hardly anyone in the industry has a clue.

I dove into Hollywood after fighting with my family; I refused to be the pawn in some corporate merger.

After my scandal, my family wanted to sweep everything under the rug, but I wasn’t about to disappear quietly.

I know, I know—why not use my family’s power? Why care about pride at a time like this? Even I can’t explain it. Maybe I’m just stubborn.

I quickly ordered bouquets, apology cupcakes, the works—ready to go home and make up with my folks.

After plenty of groveling, I finally patched things up and agreed to meet my blind date. But before I could convince them to buy out the company that trashed me—

Hollywood went into meltdown.

A movement against the old guard erupted—one of those once-in-a-generation moments.

My TikTok comments went nuclear.

(Girl, get your acting game ready, we’re about to go viral.)

(Girl, luck’s finally on our side—Silver Lake Limo, here we come!)

(Don’t say much right now, pay your taxes, and please, no sketchy hookups.)

And then, the badass rocker who swings a wrench commented on my post: I’m awesome, I’m awesome, don’t worry.

Me: “???”

I clicked over to Lila Fox’s Instagram. She only followed two accounts: her studio, and—me.

I was still at the top of her list.

Plot twist: the sapphic queen is actually into me?

To be polite, I followed her back. Not three seconds later, a DM popped up.

(Gosh, you finally followed me back! I’ve been waiting so long I’m getting gray hairs...)

(Babe, I’m about to record ‘Homestead Challenge.’ Will you come too?)

(Sweetheart, answer my DM! Please, please, I’m begging you~)

Me: “??”

Is this really the sapphic queen Lila Fox, with a whole internet calling her wifey?

I closed Instagram, reopened it, checked again—it was really her. Was her account hacked? Or did my gay vibes just beam out through the WiFi?

In the novel “Don’t Cry, Mr. West, The Lady’s Having Another Baby,” I’m the female lead Lila Fox’s foil—a villainess built to make her shine, doomed to crash and burn.

Doesn’t matter. Now that I’m Mariah Lane, I’m taking down the male lead and stealing the heroine! Sorry, boys, this is a WLW takeover.

---

Filming Site of “Homestead Challenge.”

It’s a live-broadcast reality show with 13 guests—7 men and 6 women—theme: “Good Things Come in Pairs.”

Before I came, my agent reminded me to build up a showmance with top idol Ethan Cross. I nodded along, but as soon as I turned away, I told the production team in my background interview that I was too low on the totem pole and just wanted to stay out of the spotlight.