The Patron Saint of Pretty Little Disasters

§PROLOGUE

In Hollywood, they call it the Connolly Curse.

It’s a whisper in green rooms, an urban legend traded over overpriced cocktails at the Chateau Marmont.

The story changes with each telling, but the core of it remains the same.

Get a sincere blessing from Paige Connolly, the industry’s resident doormat, and your life will spectacularly implode.

The last director she wished “break a leg” to on his opening night?

He slipped on a spilled soda in the theater lobby and broke both of his.

The starlet she genuinely congratulated for landing a coveted role?

A deep-fake scandal erupted that very night, forcing her to drop the project and go into hiding.

It’s a joke, of course. A coincidence.

But in a town built on superstition and desperate for patterns, the legend grows.

And the first rule of the Connolly Curse is: you don’t talk about the Connolly Curse.

The second rule is: you pray she never, ever wishes you well.

§01

The flashbulbs were a declaration of war, and I was losing.

Another Tuesday, another premiere. Another chance for Paige Connolly to be professionally invisible.

My agent, Brenda, had secured the ticket to the Lumina Awards with the tenacity of a bulldog fighting over a steak.

“This is Jett Dawson’s night, Paige,” she’d hissed over the phone. “He’s a lock for Best Actor. Every producer in town will be there. You will smile, you will clap, and you will not, under any circumstances, genuinely wish anyone well. Got it?”

I got it. I was an expert in getting it.

I wore a rented dress that was a size too small and shoes that felt like medieval instruments of torture. My job was to be part of the background scenery. A living, breathing set decoration.

Then I saw her. Lacey Montgomery. The Belle of Buckhead. The industry’s reigning It-Girl.

And she was wearing my dress.

Well, not *my* dress. Hers was undoubtedly couture, tailored to perfection by hands that probably earned more than I did in a year. Mine was a knock-off from a rental service called ‘Borrowed Glamour’. Close enough to be an imitation, far enough to be an insult.

The cameras, like sharks smelling blood, went wild.

Tomorrow, the headlines would be brutal. The side-by-side photos. The cruel captions. ‘Who Wore It Better?’ as if it were ever a real question.

I felt the familiar, dull ache of humiliation settle in my stomach, a cold, heavy stone.

I was turning to find the darkest corner to melt into when a solid wall of muscle and ego slammed into me.

I stumbled, my ankle twisting, a sharp pain shooting up my leg.

“Watch where you’re going,” a voice snapped, laced with impatience.

It was Jett Dawson. Of course it was. The man of the hour.

He looked down at me, his perfect face a mask of disgust, as if I were something he’d scraped off the bottom of his thousand-dollar shoe.

His girlfriend, Lacey, glided to his side. Her eyes scanned my identical dress, and her lips curled into a smug, predatory little smile.

“An imitation,” Jett sneered, his voice loud enough for the reporters from *Variety* and *The Hollywood Reporter* to hear. “Pathetic. A stray trying to look like a show dog.”

The laughter around us was quiet, a ripple of polite amusement, but it felt like a roar in my ears.

Something inside me, something I thought had been beaten into submission long ago, flickered. A tiny, cold pilot light of rage.

Brenda’s warning echoed in my head. *Don't do it. Don't you dare.*

But the words were already forming, smooth as silk, dripping with a sincerity that surprised even me.

I pushed myself up, meeting Jett Dawson’s arrogant, beautiful eyes.

I gave him my best, most practiced, most utterly defeated smile. The one that had graced a hundred rejection letters.

“You’re right. My mistake,” I said, my voice trembling just enough to be convincing. “I’m so sorry. I truly hope you have a wonderful night. You deserve to win. Really.”

He scoffed, a dismissal in a single sound, and turned away, pulling Lacey with him down the red carpet into the blaze of glory.

I watched them go, a strange, profound calm washing over me.

The pain in my ankle was gone.

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