The Secret Wife Of Hollywood's Monk

The studio in Santa Monica was freezing, kept at a precise sixty-five degrees to keep the makeup from melting under the lights.

Kennedy Gilmore sat on a high stool, her blonde curls cascading perfectly over one shoulder. She smiled for the camera, that famous, crinkling-eye smile that had sold millions of movie tickets.

"Beautiful, Kennedy! Just like that! Innocent but knowing!" the photographer shouted.

The flash popped. Kennedy held the smile for exactly one more second, then dropped it like a heavy coat.

"Water," she snapped.

An assistant materialized with a bottle of Voss. Kennedy took a sip, her eyes scanning the room until they landed on her agent, Mark.

"Did you see?" she asked, her voice low.

Mark smirked, holding up his phone. "Trending for twelve hours straight. IvySnowMolester."

Kennedy let out a short, sharp laugh. "God, she's pathetic. I always knew she was trash, but actually grabbing Holt Nicholson? That's suicide."

"It's good for us," Mark said, tapping the screen. "Darius Clark was considering her for the role of Elena. He liked her tape. Said she had 'raw vulnerability.'"

Kennedy's grip on the water bottle tightened. "Vulnerability? She has the range of a toaster."

"Well, she's radioactive now," Mark said. "Darius won't touch her. The role is yours."

Kennedy relaxed, a smug satisfaction settling in her chest. She had hated Ivy Snow since they were both extras on a sitcom three years ago. Ivy had improvised a line that made the director laugh. Kennedy had been cut from the scene.

She never forgot.

"Let's make sure she stays dead," Kennedy said. "Give me my phone."

Mark handed it over. Kennedy opened Twitter. She composed a tweet, her fingers flying.

Heartbroken to see the lack of respect in our industry. Personal space is sacred. Sending love and strength to H. He deserves better. RespectBoundaries

She hit send.

"Perfect," Mark said. "Classy. Supportive. And it reminds everyone that she's the villain and you're the angel."

Kennedy smiled, handing the phone back. "I want that role, Mark. I want to see Ivy Snow back in a drive-thru window where she belongs."

Meanwhile, in West Hollywood, Alex was shouting into his phone.

"Yes! I'm telling you, it's a family thing! They're cousins! It's an inside joke!"

Ivy sat on the couch, chewing her thumbnail until it bled. Alex was talking to the casting director for Blue Note.

"You can check with his team!" Alex bluffed. "They won't deny it! It's just... private. You know how Holt is."

He listened for a moment, then pumped his fist in the air. "Fantastic! Tuesday at 2 PM. She'll be there. And she'll blow Darius away."

He hung up, beaming. "You got the audition."

Ivy felt a wave of nausea. "Alex, you just told them to check with his team."

"They won't," Alex dismissed. "They're too scared of Erich. And even if they do, by the time they get a response, you'll have already nailed the audition."

Ivy's phone dinged. A notification.

@KennedyGilmore: Heartbroken to see the lack of respect...

Ivy read the tweet. The comments were already pouring in.

Kennedy is such a queen.

Ivy Snow is trash.

Compare the class difference.

Rage, hot and sudden, flared in Ivy's chest. She was using Ivy's humiliation to polish her halo.

"She's trying to bury me," Ivy said, her voice hard.

"She's winning," Alex said, looking at the tweet. "Unless..." He looked at Ivy. "Unless the cousin thing comes out. Then she looks like she's attacking a family member."

Ivy looked at her phone. The "Landlord" contact was still open. The cursor blinked.

She had to do it. She had to beg.

Ivy typed.

Holt. It's Ivy. I know I'm the last person you want to hear from.

Delete. Too dramatic.

Mr. Nicholson. Regarding the incident...

Delete. Too formal. They were married, for God's sake.

She closed her eyes and typed the truth, or as close to it as she could get.

My agent is telling people we are cousins to stop the hate mob. I know I have no right to ask, but please... can you just not deny it? For a few days? I have an audition.

Ivy stared at the message. It was pathetic. It was desperate.

She hit send.