Parallel Lines That Will Never Intersect Again

Im a no-name actress from the wrong side of the tracks, and to survive in this dog-eat-dog town, I faked a connection with Sebastian Wheatley, the crown prince of Manhattans elite.
My nemesis, Phoebe Vance, didn't buy it.
She dropped a fortune on paparazzi and private investigators to tail me.
I'm going to rip that mask right off your face, she hissed, "and show the world what kind of trash you really are."
I fell to my knees, begging her to stop.
"We're not even in the same league. Please, just leave me alone."
Phoebe just laughed, a cold, triumphant sound.
"I just can't stand that fake, holier-than-thou act of yours. It makes me sick!"
She called a press conference to announce her findings.
And she finally found itthe truth. It turns out Im Sebastian Wheatleys long-lost sister.
1
The dressing room was arctic.
Phoebe Vance, poured into a skintight black dress, sat perched on a velvet armchair, her legs crossed elegantly. The silver stiletto on her dangling foot, encrusted with rhinestones, swung back and forth like the blade of a guillotine, ready to drop.
I was kneeling before her. The cold marble floor was agony against my kneecaps, a spreading numbness I didn't dare shift away from.
"Ava Reed, you really are a performer," Phoebe purred, leaning forward. Her long nail traced a line down my cheek, a cat toying with a mouse. "All those years playing the saint, but deep down, you're just gutter trash, aren't you? You sure know how to kneel."
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.
"Phoebe I'm begging you. Don't do this. I'm no competition for you. Please, just let me go."
I was a nobody in this industry. I started at seventeen and now, at twenty-six, Id never even landed a lead role. My biggest claim to fame was a supporting part in an Oscar-nominated film.
But I was cheap and I worked hard, earning me a reputation as the industrys workhorse. I was never short on offers. All that screen time meant audiences recognized my face, and my public image was decent enough.
That was it.
Compared to Phoebe Vance, it was nothing.
She was born into money, a true industry princess. Her debut was a starring role, with A-list actors practically carrying her projects to prop her up. Endorsement deals with major brands fell into her lap.
We were from different universes, worlds apart. I had no idea how Id managed to piss off this heiress so badly that she wanted to destroy me.
A month ago, her assistant contacted me out of the blue. Phoebe had spent a seven-figure sum to hire the best P.I. firm and paparazzi team in the city, swearing to strip me bare and leave me exposed for all to see.
My hands trembled as I held the phone to my ear, tears already welling up. "Phoebe, why are you investigating me? Did I do something to offend you? Tell me, I'll fix it, I'll apologize!"
Phoebe's laugh was sharp and cold. "Offend me? You think you're even worthy?"
"I just can't stand fakes and phonies," she said. "See you at the Starlight Gala next month. You better be ready."
2
I spent the next month in a panic, calling in every favor I had, trying to find out what was going on. But Phoebe dodged all my attempts to reach her.
Until today. The Starlight Gala.
Half of Hollywood was in attendance. I came with my agency; an actress of my status didn't rate a private dressing room. Phoebe's assistant summoned me to hers.
The moment I walked in, she eyed me with a smirk. "Well, if it isn't our industry's little workhorse," she chirped. "Ava, you work so tirelessly. You must have had a tough childhood, hmm?"
The insinuation hit me like a physical blow. I dropped to my knees on the spot. "Phoebe, whatever you found, please don't tell anyone!"
Phoebe sank back into the plush sofa, legs crossed. She looked triumphant, tapping a blood-red nail against her chin as if in deep thought. "What did I find? Let's see an orphanage? A job as a dishwasher?"
She clicked her tongue. "Tsk. Doesn't quite match that 'East Coast heiress' persona you've been selling, does it?"
Her words sucked the air from my lungs. I collapsed onto the floor, a single thought screaming in my mind: It's over. It's all over.
She had dug up everything.
I had cultivated an image as the only daughter of a wealthy family, which wasn't entirely a lie. I was from Connecticut, and I was an only child. The part I left out was that my parents died in a car crash when I was four.
None of my relatives wanted me. They said I was cursed, that Id jinxed my parents and would bring bad luck to anyone who took me in. They carved up my family's assets and dumped me in an orphanage.
Those years were hell. I wore donated hand-me-downs, got bullied at school for it, and had to work to earn my keep back at the orphanage. My grades were, unsurprisingly, terrible.
After barely graduating high school, I was working odd jobs when a talent scout found me.
3
I thought entering the entertainment industry would be my ticket out, a way to earn a decent living through hard work.
The reality was a rude awakening.
This place was a meat grinder. Calling it a cesspool would be a compliment.
I was seventeen, not even a legal adult, when I got my first role as a minor handmaiden. The casting director cornered me on his office sofa, his breath reeking of whiskey.
"Spend the night with me, and I'll give you a better part," he slurred. "The lead's personal maid. She has pages of dialogue. Better than being a glorified extra, right?"
I grabbed the glass ashtray from his desk and threw it at his head.
Afterward, my manager dragged me back to apologize and pay his medical bills. The agency shelved me for a year, giving me a measly three-hundred-dollar monthly allowance.
At nineteen, I landed a part in a low-budget web series. My manager got me drunk, and my own assistant personally walked me to the producer's hotel room at two in the morning.
I fought back, scrambled out the window, and called the police.
Of course, the whole thing was hushed up. My agency bosses screamed my head off before terminating my contract. I was free, but no other agency would touch me. I ended up working as an extra on film sets.
For three years, I hustled. My acting was solid and my work ethic was relentless, which eventually got me noticed. A bigger agency finally signed me.
This time, I got a decent supporting role. I had learned my lesson. I couldn't be the reckless, naive girl I once was.
My new manager took me to industry parties. I learned to plaster on a smile and toast with the best of them. When investors got handsy, I gritted my teeth and endured it. I was desperate not to be poor again.
With no family and no connections, being bullied and humiliated in this world of glamour and power felt like my destiny. I could take the insults, the condescension, the unwanted touches.
As long as they didn't cross my ultimate line.
4
Then one day, Director Evans, a titan of the industry, personally requested me for an audition.
"There's a fire in your eyes," he told me. "A resilience that's perfect for this role."
"Come to my hotel room tomorrow night. Nine o'clock. We'll discuss the scene."
The color drained from my face.
Director Evans was brilliant, but his vindictive nature was even more famous than his films. I'd been in the business long enough to hear the stories. Anyone who defied him found their career in Hollywood mysteriously stalled.
Two years ago, a talented young actress who'd won a Best Newcomer award was blacklisted after refusing his advances. Rumor had it she had a mental breakdown. Her family took her abroad, and she was never seen on screen again.
She was a leading lady, from a well-off family.
I was an orphan. Crushing me would be as easy as squashing an ant.
I braced myself for the worst. If it came down to it, I would just quit the industry. But as a high school graduate with no diploma, my future would probably involve delivering for DoorDash.
Standing in that hotel corridor, I thought of my bleak prospects and started to cry, my makeup running down my face.
And that was the day I met Sebastian Wheatley.
The whispered-about crown prince of Manhattan's elite, the sole heir to the Wheatley Corporation, whose media empire controlled half of Hollywood. He was flanked by bodyguards, his suit immaculate, his features as sharp and cold as carved ice.
For some reason, my pathetic, sobbing figure caught his attention.
Sebastian walked over and handed me a tissue. "What are you crying about?"
Through a blur of tears, my lips trembled, but no words came out.
I must have been a pitiful sight. His interest faded as quickly as it had appeared.
He frowned, clicking his tongue. "For God's sake, wipe your nose."
5
That was my one and only interaction with Sebastian Wheatley.
But by a stroke of horrible luck, a paparazzo caught the moment on camera, and the photo went viral.
I decided to lean into it. I gave a deliberately vague statement to the press:
"Mr. Wheatley and I we've known each other for a long time."
"As for the nature of our relationship, it's not really something I can discuss publicly."
The internet exploded.
Because Id never revealed my true background, and an old rumor about me being an "East Coast heiress" was still floating around, fans started connecting imaginary dots. Sebastian's mother was from Connecticut, they pointed out. Maybe we were related, cousins perhaps.
And if you squinted, there was a faint resemblance in the lines of our faces.
That theory was immediately shot down.
"Get real, trying to claim ties to the Wheatley family? The audacity!"
"Seriously, look at Ava Reed's career. She's never even been a lead. If she was Sebastian Wheatley's cousin, would she be this pathetic?"
"Definitely not his cousin. Probably some dirty little secret, a mistress on the side."
"Please. Everyone knows Sebastian and Phoebe Vance are the real dealchildhood friends, a perfect match. Why would he stoop to someone like her?"
"Exactly! Even if she was his mistress, her career is still a joke! Look at Phoebe, she debuted as a leading lady. That's the kind of power the Wheatleys wield!"
"My bet? Ava's just a shameless clout-chaser making it all up."
"She's got guts, I'll give her that. Faking a connection with Sebastian Wheatley? But why hasn't he denied it?"
"The man runs a multi-billion dollar empire. You think he has time for this celebrity gossip?"
They had no idea how close to the truth they were.
But they didn't understand the industry, and they certainly didn't understand Sebastian Wheatley. The man was notoriously aloof, a prince of ice who looked down on everyone. He gave no one the time of day.
Once, a top-tier actress tried to throw herself at him. Sebastian simply instructed his bodyguards, "Get her out of here. If this happens again, she is to never appear in my sight line again."
Even with Phoebe Vance, his supposed childhood friend, he was polite but distant. When they spoke, he maintained a ten-foot gap between them.
For a man that cold and hard-hearted to hand a tissue to a nobody actress he didn't know? Impossible.
6
After the news broke, Director Evans immediately called me. The "meeting" was moved from his hotel room to the company's conference room. He, the producer, and the casting director were all there, treating it as a formal, professional audition.
I got the part.
After that, the investors who used to harass me suddenly backed off.
No one dared to touch a woman "connected to Sebastian Wheatley."
Even if it was just a rumor, it was enough to give me some breathing room. I thought I could survive on that lie for a few more years.
But Phoebe wouldn't let me.
The sharp heel of her stiletto ground into the back of my hand. Phoebe leaned down, her face close to mine.
"Ava Reed, you think you're worthy of even being associated with Sebastian Wheatley?"
"After tonight, everyone will know what kind of pathetic gutter trash you really are."
"A rat from the sewer belongs in the sewer. Crawl back to where you came from!" she spat. "Some people are not for vermin like you to even dream of!"
"Agh!"
The heel dug deeper, a searing pain shooting up my arm. I felt the bones grind.
I cried out, trying to pull my hand away, but Phoebe's assistant stepped forward, pinning me down by my shoulders.
I was forced to look up into Phoebe's eyes, which burned with a toxic mix of rage and jealousy. And in that moment, I finally understood.
It was all about Sebastian.
It was over. I had borrowed the tiger's skin to protect myself, and now, the tiger was here to rip me apart.
I closed my eyes in despair.
...
7
The Starlight Gala was a blinding spectacle of flashing lights.
It was being broadcast live nationwide, with dozens of media outlets and millions of viewers online.
Ushers practically dragged me to the backstage waiting area, my face ashen. As I glanced at the front row of the audience, my pupils contracted. The ghostly white of my face turned to a dead, hopeless gray.
Phoebe had invited Sebastian Wheatley.
In a few moments, in front of the entire country, Sebastian would say he didn't know me.
What hope would I have left?
The investors and directors Id fooled would tear me to shreds. And the public, who lived for this kind of drama, would have a field day.
I could already picture tomorrow's headlines, a storm of humiliation and scorn.
Some people look alive, but they're already dead.
In that instant, I wished a meteor would fall from the sky and obliterate the entire venue.
But my fantasy didn't come true.
Phoebe, holding the long train of her gown, walked gracefully onto the stage.

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