Chapter 1: The Scandal Magnet Goes Wild

I'm the most notorious magnet for hate in the American entertainment industry—a C-list actress, Hollywood's favorite scapegoat. My name is always tangled up in rumors: plastic surgery, bad acting, diva meltdowns, secret sugar daddies. The bad press just keeps coming, like I’m collecting a lifetime achievement award for scandal.

Sometimes I wonder if my name isn’t just a punchline in every group chat and tabloid DM. The blogs go wild with stories about my so-called 'mysterious surgeries' and 'temper tantrums.' Fans love to hate me for things I haven’t even done—go figure. Story of my life. Honestly, it’s almost impressive how creative these rumors get.

But honestly? I couldn’t care less. Let them talk—I’m just here for the snacks. My only goal is to slack off until I get booted out of the industry. If the headlines are going to write themselves, why bother trying?

I mean, why sweat it? The more people expect me to hustle, the more I want to kick back. Honestly, it’s almost become a game—I swear, how little can I do and still make headlines?

Well, that was the plan until my agency signed me up for a survival reality show on a deserted island.

Yeah, you read that right. Of course they did. Out of all the gigs in Hollywood, they picked the one that sounds like a fever dream. My phone buzzed with the news and I actually laughed out loud—couldn’t have scripted it better myself.

My dad, a bigwig in Hollywood investment circles, absolutely lost it. He was pacing, phone glued to his ear, probably ready to storm the studio and pull me off the island himself. “Who’s the genius that let her go on this show?”

What nobody knows is, I’ve been obsessed with extreme sports since I was a kid—skiing, rock climbing, deep diving, skydiving, tightrope walking. The more adrenaline, the better. No joke.

Honestly, I was that girl. The one who’d climb out her bedroom window at midnight just to rappel down the side of the house. My mom always said I had a death wish. I always figured I was just living a little louder than most.

My bigwig dad, terrified I'd get myself killed doing these stunts, pushed me into the industry instead. He signed me up for a girl group audition. Maybe I stood out too much, because even coasting, I still wound up debuting as the face of the group.

He figured the stage was safer than a mountain ledge. Joke’s on him—I found a way to make even the stage a dangerous place for my career. Ha. If only he knew.

But from day one, I started slacking off. No surprise there.

Because—

Whenever I wore light makeup on camera, people insisted I’d spent a fortune on plastic surgery. Sure, Jan.

If I took my family’s helicopter to a set, I was labeled a diva. Yeah, right.

Caught dozing off while acting? They called me a stone-faced amateur. As if.

I know a bunch of A-list actors, but people say I’m just a clout-chasing fake innocent. Classic.

Oh, please...

Those so-called A-listers always show up at my house with a script and puppy-dog eyes whenever they want to land a big project.

It’s funny how the same people who trash you online show up with a bottle of wine and a script, hoping for an intro to my dad. Hollywood’s got a short memory. And an even longer list of favors.

Not that I can blame anyone for the rumors. My dad is seriously low-key—he’s always kept our connection under wraps.

He’s the king of keeping things under wraps. Total stealth mode. If you met him at a party, you’d think he was just another guy in a Patagonia vest, not the man who bankrolls half of L.A.

“Autumn Sinclair, you’re about to fade into total obscurity, you know? Out of sympathy, the agency’s giving you a spot on this island survival show.”

The manager’s voice was dripping with fake concern, like he was auditioning for a Hallmark movie. I almost felt bad for him. Almost.

Island survival? That’s right up my alley! Finally, something fun.

I had to bite back a grin. Was the universe finally cutting me a break?

“Mr. Walker, are you really giving me such a great opportunity?” I shot back, all tongue-in-cheek.

I put on my best wide-eyed innocent look—the one that makes casting directors sigh and reach for their wallets, or at least pretend they’re not about to.

Mr. Walker’s mouth twitched. He looked like he was about to laugh, or maybe cry. For a second, I wondered if he’d just walk out.

He took a breath, looked at me, and said, “Autumn, since you’re basically out the door anyway, let’s be real. This reality show is a little dangerous. None of the other female artists want to go. Just take one for the team and give the agency one last boost in ratings.”

So that’s it—they’re all too scared to go. Figures.

Of course. No one wants to chip a nail or break a sweat for reality TV, not when they can get paid to post #WellnessWednesday selfies on Instagram.

I grinned, feeling a little wicked. Let’s see how long it takes them to regret this.

“Thanks for the opportunity, Mr. Walker!” I said, giving him a salute that was so cheesy, it had to be intentional.