Cancelled & Unhinged: My Reality Show Revenge

Under the dazzling spotlights of the awards hall, I leaned back against the velvet chair, my long legs crossed. I stared at my scumbag ex, Tristan, accepting his trophy on stage.

My red lips parted slightly. "Got his chin pumped with silicone and a hair transplant. The sugar mama keeping him is old enough to be his grandma." The live stream chat exploded.

The gossiphungry viewers read my lips and translated every single syllable with deadon accuracy. Then it was Weston's turn to take the stage.

I arched an eyebrow and kept mouthing words to the camera. "Damn, hubby. Looking good." Weston's fans instantly flooded the screen with comments.

They cursed me out, calling me a cheap stripper trying to climb the social ladder. Hordes of crazed fans swarmed the feed, hurling the most toxic, filthy insults they could type.

A second later, Weston actually tagged me across every major platform. "When are you coming over for a taste?" My jaw dropped. That was absolutely not in the original script!

Chapter 1 I woke up inside a messy Hollywood drama novel.

In this book, the original female lead, Cleo, was scammed out of all her money by her scumbag boyfriend, had her reputation destroyed by a fake sex tape, and was cyberbullied by keyboard warriors on Twitter until she swallowed a whole bottle of sleeping pills.

Now, I am Cleo. I opened my eyes, the blinding camera flashes hitting my face. I was sitting in the front row of a starstudded awards ceremony.

Because of my endless scandals, the cameraman kept cutting to my face.

In the live stream chat, the internet was tearing me apart. [ Does Cleo actually have the nerve to show her face here? ] [ Wonder whose Hollywood producer's mansion she spread her legs in last night just to get this invite? ] [ God, get this trash smelling like cheap perfume out of here.

Don't let her dirty our Peyton's haute couture! ] But soon, they noticed something was off. Every time a star took the stage to accept an award, my mouth never stopped moving.

The audience mics were muted, but I didn't expect the viewers to be professional lipreaders. The trending idol Tristan took the stage.

I mouthed, "Got his chin pumped with silicone and a hair transplant. His sugar mama is old enough to be his grandma." The trending starlet Peyton took the stage.

I mouthed, "Acting like a pure little cheerleader, but who knows how many directors' drinks she's poured behind closed doors." Best Actor Weston took the stage.

I arched an eyebrow, leaning into it. "Damn, this one is hot. I wouldn't mind him as a husband." A few unfiltered sentences later, all of Hollywood was on fire.

The awards ceremony wasn't even over before the lipreading video of me went viral on TikTok, hitting tens of millions of views in an instant.

So people loved watching someone go completely unhinged? Perfect. Going unhinged was my specialty.

My bloodsucking manager, Mitchell, barged into the dressing room, slamming his coffee cup hard onto the vanity.

He pointed his finger right at my nose, spit flying as he roared, "Are you out of your fucking mind?! Get on Twitter right now!

Post a video apologizing to everyone!" I nodded. "Yes, yes, I'm out of my mind." I kicked the dressing room door open, completely ignoring Mitchell's purple face, and pulled out my phone.

I wasn't just throwing insults around for no reason. In the original book, her exboyfriend Tristan was a vain piece of trash.

He tricked Cleo into taking intimate photos, used her Social Security Number to borrow money from a loan shark for a Rolex, and then turned around, stripped naked, and jumped into his sugar mama's Beverly Hills bathtub.

Terrified the photos would leak, Cleo worked herself to the bone on movie sets day and night to pay off his debt. She finally caught a break and her career started looking up.

But her rival, Peyton, bought those photos and leaked them to the tabloids, spreading rumors that Cleo took them while sleeping her way up the Hollywood ladder.

Cleo tried to clear her name, but it was useless. The photos spread like wildfire. A leaked deepfake porn video cemented her reputation as a complete slut.

After that, whenever anyone mentioned Cleo's name, all they thought about were the nudes, the videos, and the casting couch. It wasn't that she didn't scream for help.

People just stopped listening. Those two—one was a scumbag, the other a bitch. And I wasn't allowed to drop a few truth bombs? The sky was already falling.

I might as well rip a hole right through it. They wanted an apology video? Fine. I thought the fire wasn't burning hot enough anyway.

I opened Twitter, and the screen instantly froze from the sheer number of red notification dots.

Staring at the vicious curses flooding my screen, I tugged at the corner of my lips and cracked my knuckles loudly.

Chapter 2 [ Bitch, do you even have any idea what you're talking about? ] I replied: [ I sure do.

I said your boy got his jaw shaved and hair transplanted while claiming to be allnatural. I dare to say it.

Does he dare to sue me for defamation? ] [ You're dirty, so you think everyone else is dirty. You have a sugar daddy, so you think everyone has one. ] I typed back: [ Yeah, right.

Like the one living in that Manhattan penthouse isn't his sugar mama, but his actual mom who milks cows on a farm in the country? ] [ He would never do something like that.

We believe him. ] I sneered, my fingers flying: [ Listen closely, sweetie.

Believing a man is the start of your miserable life. ] [ Oh my god, get out here and get on your knees to apologize to Peyton, you trasheating dumpster bitch! ] I didn't miss a beat: [ Your precious idol flies on private jets, while your mom washes dishes at a diner.

If your heart bleeds for her that much, why don't you wire your mom's pension right into her bank account? ] … Scrolling further down, I hit Best Actor Weston's fans.

Clearly, compared to the rabid dogs above, his fandom had way more restraint. [ Keep away from our billiondollar box office god, you firedfromastripclub trash. ] I stared at the screen.

Weston's face—the one kissed by God himself—really did make me lose control of my hormones for a second tonight. I instantly replied: [ My bad.

I want a taste, but I'll hold back. ] I was just about to shoot him a private apology DM.

But before I could even click on Weston's Twitter profile, a popup told me my session had expired. The agency must have seen me going completely unhinged and hijacked my account.

I was forced offline.

A new trending tag popped up. [ CleoGoneMad ] But before that tag could even hit the number one spot, another one shot right past it. [ WestonGoneMad ] Because Weston actually logged on and quotetweeted my apology: [ You can be a little bolder.

No need to hold back. ] Holy shit. I dropped my phone onto the floor. This was absolutely not in the original book! For a solid minute, the internet entirely forgot to curse me out.

Everyone rushed over to figure out who the hell hacked the Best Actor's account.

Mitchell lowered his phone, his face tight. "I didn't expect Weston to step up and take the heat for you." I didn't expect it either.

In the original book, Weston was just a background prop, a standard ruleabiding, blueblooded Hollywood Alister.

But his broad shoulders and jawline sharp enough to cut glass perfectly stepped into my hunting zone.

But hey, if I could transmigrate into a book, why couldn't he go a little crazy? I just chalked it up to a glitch in the plot.

Manager Mitchell slammed a heavy folder hard against my chest, sneering, "Infamy is still fame. I got you a spot on a reality show.

You better get on your knees and thank me…" I caught the folder and cut him off dryly. "Thank you for not throwing me to the wolves and giving me this golden opportunity?" Enraged by my attitude, Mitchell took a sudden step forward, his spit practically flying into my face. "What kind of tone is that?!" "What kind of tone?" I let out a sharp laugh and smashed the folder hard onto the table. "You really think I'm some brainless idiot with nothing but Botox in my head?

The contract states a fortysixty split, but ever since you took over, the money that actually hits my checkbook is less than ten percent!

You know exactly how many dollars you've skimmed off the top. Want me to thank you?

How the hell do you spit out that kind of bullshit with that fat pig face of yours?" Mitchell froze, a flash of panic crossing his face. "What the hell are you talking about?" "Am I talking bullshit?

The blood you've sucked from my accounts is enough for you to buy a pool villa in Miami Beach.

You better shut your filthy mouth, or I guarantee the IRS will be knocking on your door first thing tomorrow morning!" Chapter 3 Mitchell's jaw went slack.

Stripped of his cover and entirely unprepared for this new, razorsharp version of me, his heavy frame stood paralyzed in the doorway.

I dropped my gaze back to the thick stack of papers in my hands, completely ignoring him. It was a reality TV script.

The pitch was a fifteenday, 24/7 livestreamed lifestyle show called Let's Hit the Road.

It used to pull decent ratings, but after a string of massive Hollywood scandals, the public got sick of the fake wholesomeness and stopped tuning in.

The network was ready to pull the plug. So, the studio swapped out the showrunner.

The new guy was a bottomfeeder, an absolute expert at dragging controversial celebrities into the mud to spike the viewership.

The audience didn't want slowpaced farm life anymore? Fine. The network would give them exactly what they craved: screaming matches and girls tearing each other's hair out.

In the original book, Peyton, Tristan, and I were all thrown into this meat grinder.

I was handed the villain script, contracted to constantly "bully" Peyton on camera just to manufacture viral drama.

Back then, the scandals had cost Cleo her brand deals and movie roles, leaving her buried under a mountain of breachofcontract debt.

She had no choice but to swallow her pride and take the job. The result? The internet tore her apart so viciously she couldn't even step out her front door without hyperventilating.

I ran my thumb over the edge of the script, then shifted my gaze to Mitchell's greasy, bloated face.

I was just wondering how to utterly destroy him, and he practically giftwrapped the opportunity and dropped it right into my lap.

Enjoy your final days breathing free air, you piece of trash. The new me was taking the wheel. The reality show was set on a desolate, middleofnowhere farm deep in Texas.

The original schedule stated the production crew would send a luxury RV, starting a global live stream the exact second I stepped inside.

Instead, I was left baking on the asphalt in the scorching Los Angeles heat for a full hour before a beatup, rattling passenger van finally rolled up to the curb.

It was a calculated move to frame me as a diva who couldn't read a clock. I yanked the heavy sliding door open.

Inside, the field director popped a bubble of cheap chewing gum and shot me a gloating smirk, pointing a finger straight at the blinking red light of the HD camera rigged to the dashboard.

The global broadcast was already live. The second my face hit the feed, a tidal wave of pure hatred flooded the screen. [ A whole hour late? Peyton got there ages ago!

What right does a bottomfeeding trash like you have to make her wait? ] I stared dead into the camera lens and let out a sharp scoff. "I just hope she's this eager to be first in line when she finally goes to hell." [ Bitch, did you just curse her?

Did the dogs eat your fucking manners? ] "If you're going to call me a bitch," I said, leaning back into the cracked leather seat, "why don't you dial up the old bitch who birthed you and ask her exactly what manners look like?" The production crew brought me on specifically to watch me selfdestruct.

Seeing me toss a lit match into a powder keg within ten seconds of boarding, the director's face flushed red with pure, unadulterated thrill.

I completely ignored him, pulling out my phone and opening Twitter. I had only just wrested control of my account back from the agency this morning.

The two sentences I'd just spat at the camera had already been screenrecorded and blasted across the internet. These keyboard warriors had fast fingers.

Before I could drop another nuclear payload on my timeline, my screen completely froze.

When the feed finally refreshed, the endless stream of death threats had been entirely replaced by a massive wall of question marks.

Ten seconds later, I clicked the top trending post and found my answer. Weston just followed me. [ Why the hell did Weston just follow Cleo?? ] [ Weston, what is wrong with you?!

You didn't even explain your last post, and now you're following that slut? Please tell me you didn't go completely blind! ] [ LMAO!

Does Weston think Cleo's trashtalking is hilarious too? I'm officially invested.

Can someone drop a thread on why everyone hates this girl? ] That specific post was immediately hijacked by an army of trolls spamming my deepfake videos and scandals.

I let out a low scoff.

With hours to kill on this miserable drive, I cracked my knuckles, opened a secure cloud folder, and started meticulously screenshotting and logging the IP addresses of every single defamation post.

Chapter 4 By the time I arrived, Tristan and Peyton were already waiting. Tristan walked over holding an iced coffee.

He looked me up and down, his eyes full of contempt. "Long time no see, Cleo.

You've been pretty active on Twitter lately." "Of course," I yanked off my sunglasses and stared dead at him. "If I didn't step on spineless invertebrates like you, how would I climb up?" Tristan's jaw muscles instantly clamped tight. "Don't get too arrogant just yet!" I stepped right up to him, my high heels clicking sharply against the floorboards.

I lowered my voice into a cold sneer. "What's the matter? Did your sugar mama play with you so hard you lost your basic male functions?" Tristan froze.

A second later, his face shifted from pale to a deep, bruised purple. "You…" I pointed straight at the blinking red light on the camera. "Live broadcast." Peyton immediately put on her best Virgin Mary victim face, her voice sickeningly sweet. "Alright, everyone stop fighting.

Cleo's just under a lot of pressure lately, she's only joking." "I'm not joking. Paying for troll farms to flood Facebook with hate comments while playing the victim.

Slapping me ten times on set because you kept forgetting your lines and needed retakes. Faking a trip on the red carpet to fall right at my feet, just to claim I pushed you.

I called you a venomous snake in a cheerleader uniform—which part was I wrong about?" Peyton's face flushed a furious, blotchy red. "You… stop spitting out garbage!" "Right, it's all garbage," I gave a cold, sweeping glance at the Hermes Birkin hooked over her forearm. "That's a limited edition.

That balding producer, Roland, just swiped his black card to buy that for you, didn't he?" At the name Roland, all the blood drained out of Peyton's face.

I wasn't about to let her off the hook. "What, does he still like it when you wear sexy lingerie and put on stripteases for him in his kingsized bed?" She completely lost her mind.

Completely ignoring the live feed, she shrieked and lunged at my face, clawing the air with her long acrylic nails. "I swear to God I'm going to rip your fucking mouth open!" Seeing her charge, I darted backward.

I slammed right into a hard, solid chest. Weston reached out, instantly blocking the hand Peyton had aimed at my face.

He stood incredibly tall, his broad shoulders easily shielding me from the impact.

I was too deep in my performance to appreciate the flawless bone structure that the internet worshipped.

I immediately ducked behind Weston's broad back, grabbing a fistful of his dress shirt. I pitched my voice into a terrified, sugary whine. "Oh my god, why are you hitting me?!

Isn't this just the scripted conflict the director told us to act out?" [ ??? ] The production crew froze in sheer panic.

I pulled out the script Mitchell had shoved into my chest earlier. "It's written right here!

I'm supposed to pick verbal fights with you regardless of the situation… Wait, didn't they give you a copy of the script?" The crew's faces instantly turned a sickly green.

Weston's chest rumbled.

He barely suppressed a laugh. "The script also says I'm supposed to throw an entire glass of iced juice in your face, and secretly mix crushed peanuts into your salad to trigger your allergies… Am I still supposed to do all that next?" Hearing this, Weston clearly decided the fire wasn't big enough yet.

He slid the script out of my hand, flipped it open, and faced the camera. "She's right.

It's stamped right here with the production company's official seal." His voice dropped, cutting through the air like a winter freeze. "This doesn't look like a fake." For a solid minute, the live stream chat flooded so fast the server completely crashed.

I watched with a cold sneer as Peyton stood there trembling, her face ashwhite. The frantic production crew furiously pulled the plug on the live feed.

I tilted my head back and collided with Weston's dark, heavy gaze. A chill crawled up my spine. An inexplicable sense of dread settled in the pit of my stomach.

In the original book, Weston was never supposed to be on this reality show.

Chapter 5 The production crew frantically posted on Twitter, claiming the live stream was temporarily suspended due to technical difficulties.

After all, the network just wanted to watch us tear each other's hair out, not completely nuke their own paychecks.

I quotetweeted it with a single, sarcastic word: [ Oh. ] The comment section instantly flooded with [ LMAO ].

It was the most harmonious my comment section had been since the deepfake porn leaked. I was dragged into the executive office of the show's producer, Marshall.

My agency boss, Richard, was hauled in too.

The three of us stared at each other in dead silence for a long moment before Richard slammed his hand onto the desk. "Cleo, what the hell kind of crazy pill did you swallow?!" "What do you mean?" I widened my eyes, putting on a perfectly innocent face. "Isn't that exactly what the script told me to do?" Producer Marshall yanked hard on his tie, suppressing his rage as he growled, "Of course the reality show has a script!

What Hollywood show doesn't?

But how the fuck do you just rip off our underwear and expose it to the entire American audience on live TV?!" I blinked, my voice dripping with even more fake grievance. "I wouldn't have said anything if she hadn't tried to claw my face off… I just thought I was following directions." Richard planted both hands firmly on the desk, glaring at me viciously. "Did the dogs eat the NDA in your contract?

Cleo, you are facing millions of dollars in breachofcontract penalties and lawsuits!" That was exactly the sentence I was waiting for. "But I've never seen a contract." Richard froze. "You've never seen the contract?" I shook my head. "Nope.

Ever since Mitchell took over as my manager, I haven't laid eyes on a single piece of paper." Richard was used to sitting in the big chair; he didn't micromanage.

As long as the money rolled in from the people below him, he couldn't be bothered to check the math unless a fire broke out. But he wasn't an idiot. He instantly caught my drift.

He picked up his phone right then and ordered the legal department to courier over the exact contract Mitchell had submitted.

Marshall caught on too, sending his secretary to pull his copy from the network's legal team. Both sides moved fast.

When the two contracts were slammed onto the desk sidebyside, Richard's face turned completely black.

The contract Mitchell had filed away showed a payout of only onetenth of what the network was actually paying. The original appearance fee was two million dollars.

Mitchell's forged shadow contract only listed two hundred thousand dollars.

Plus all the other cuts, that fat pig had directly sucked over 1.8 million dollars of blood straight out of my account. And this was just for one gig.

It didn't even include everything before… Of course, the previous cuts might not have been this massive. But greed is a bottomless pit.

Usually, companies don't crosscheck with each other; contracts just gather dust in legal archives.

The old Cleo had been weak and easily bullied, letting Mitchell's appetite swell to a monstrous size. Richard let out a dark, furious laugh. "What kind of fucking rank is he?

He makes more money off my talent than I do?" I hadn't expected the gap to be this massive either.

I clicked my tongue. "He's practically begging for a prison uniform…" Just as the words left my mouth, someone knocked on the office door behind me.

Chapter 6 The office door was violently shoved open, and Mitchell's greasy, bloated face squeezed through the gap.

Dripping with sweat, he immediately bent his thick waist in a bow. "Sorry, bosses.

I didn't keep this bitch on a tight enough leash, I…" The next second, his gaze caught the two contracts lying side by side on the desk.

The heavy fat on his cheeks started twitching uncontrollably.

Richard pointed straight out the door. "Have security pin him to the floor and call 911 immediately." I blew a loud, sharp whistle. "No problem, boss." Mitchell was forcibly dragged out by two heavily built police officers, his wrists locked tight in cold steel handcuffs.

His legs turned to jelly, dragging across the hallway carpet like a puddle of wet mud. Just before they hauled him away, he glared at me with pure venom.

I stood tall, stared right back, and flipped him the most mocking middle finger I could muster.

His eyes bulged with bloodshot rage, thrashing against the cops to lunge at my throat. But it was too late.

The poisonous nail driven closest to Cleo's heart—it was better to rip it out early. I just scored first blood.

With Mitchell out of the picture, the stage belonged entirely to the suits.Richard leaned back in his chair. " The company names on the contracts don't match. We got played.

Cleo won't be shooting this reality show anymore. I apologize to Marshall on her behalf, and on behalf of our agency.

It's my lack of oversight…" "Absolute nonsense." Marshall practically crushed his molars together. "Miss Cleo absolutely must continue shooting.

It was our lack of diligence that led to this massive oversight. I will have the legal department draft a clean contract for her to sign immediately.

It's just a little misunderstanding.

Once we clear the air, everything is perfectly fine." When these two heavyweights met up, it was purely to find a scapegoat for the live broadcast disaster.

They originally planned to pin the whole mess on me and bury my career. They just didn't expect someone else to take the bullet.

On the drive over, I had scrolled through the internet fallout.

My timeline was completely swamped with trending tags. [ Production Crew Needs to Apologize to Cleo ] [ Hollywood Reality Show Casting Couch is Disgusting ] The trolls were feeding on the chaos, dying to know if all the dirty laundry I aired was actually true.

Whether for the show's skyrocketing ratings or public relations damage control, this disaster now had a much better solution. I had no objections. Cleo was dead broke anyway.

The second I walked out the office doors, the network's PR team blasted out a press release. The gist was simple.

Cleo's manager, Mitchell, was arrested by the police for felony contract fraud. The script Cleo held up on camera was an outdated, discarded draft.

The production team had already updated the script because they absolutely refused to profit off manufactured bullying. The newest version contained zero hostile drama.

It was all a tragic misunderstanding caused by Mitchell's clerical negligence. Let's Hit the Road offered its most sincere apologies to all parties involved.

No one could ever dig up the real truth behind those closed doors anymore. After all, Mitchell was already locked in a holding cell.

Peyton's PR crisis team fired off their own immediate statement.

Peyton had absolutely zero knowledge of that fake script's existence, which was the only reason she lost control of her emotions on camera.

Peyton played right along, posting on Twitter: [ The innocent have nothing to hide. ] She even attached a heavily filtered selfie, her eyes rimmed red but holding up a brave, trembling smile.

But the comments section split right down the middle. [ My heart breaks for you! ] [ Bullshit, ] By the time I rode the van back to the farm, dusk had completely swallowed the sky.

Dead night was closing in fast. Everyone was locked away in their rooms. Except Weston.

He stood right under the buzzing yellow streetlamp, one foot casually resting on a skateboard. He looked like he was just killing time, or maybe… waiting for someone.

Shoving down that sudden, weird flutter in my chest, I stepped out of the passenger door.

I was just about to open my mouth to say hi when he beat me to it. "You're back." My heart skipped a hard beat. Our eyes locked.

Maybe it was the heavy silence of the middle of nowhere, or the fact that it was just the two of us standing in the dark.

I stared into his deep, clear eyes, and I could clearly see my own reflection trapped right inside them.

Chapter 7 Because I ripped the script right down the middle, a massive chunk of their manufactured drama hit a dead end.

The production crew pulled an allnighter, frantically rewriting the schedule and bumping up events originally planned for later in the week.

If you play with fire, you better be prepared to get burned. They never expected such a massive plot twist, nor did they expect me to walk right back onto set completely unscathed.

They were crying, and I was laughing. Thanks to all the chaos, the reality show's ratings skyrocketed, and I officially took the brakes off.

I also finally met the other two cast members. In the original book, Nolan was a pretty lowkey character who stayed out of the mud. Sadie was genuinely sweet, too.

She had actually shot a movie with Cleo before.

Back then, when a sleazy director tried to put his hands on her, Cleo was the one who pulled out her phone and physically stood between them to protect her.

Later, when the entire internet was out for my blood, Sadie actually posted a cryptic tweet trying to defend me.

It was just that the hate mob was too loud, and her tiny voice got swallowed whole by the algorithm almost instantly.

In the original storyline, the cast was strictly a fiveperson roster: me, Nolan, Sadie, Tristan, and Peyton. Weston was never part of the deal.

This time around, I became the rogue variable tearing up the plot… So, what did that make Weston?

The live stream went black for twentyfour straight hours, only rebooting the next evening at dusk.

The producers handed each of us our own personal camera setup and ordered us to interact with the fans—a forced attempt to smooth over the explosive fallout from yesterday.

The field director stared at me, looking like he was about to burst into tears. "Please, just don't go completely off the rails again.

The bosses said if I can't keep you on a leash, I'm fired…" "The network really knows how to lay on the guilt trip." I clicked my tongue.

But here's the thing about moral kidnapping—it only works if you actually have morals to kidnap.

After all, this was the exact same director who popped gum and smirked at me while the internet tore me apart yesterday.

Peyton's PR team immediately launched their filthy, Hollywoodstyle scrubbing operation.

Before I even tapped the button to start my own stream, Peyton was already live next door, spouting her fabricated damage control. [ You guys totally misunderstood!

The Roland I mentioned is my bestie, Rolanda.

I was at cheerleading camp before this, and sometimes I literally dream about dancing in bed… I actually kick her awake all the time when she sleeps over! ] [ I seriously had no idea there was a fake script yesterday.

I thought Cleo just had some huge misunderstanding about me, and I lost control of my emotions.

I'm so sorry if I scared any of you guys. ] Sadie overheard the whole thing from the hallway and quietly muttered, "Wow." She caught my eye, her face practically screaming that people actually bought this garbage.

I said loudly, "Bullshit." [ Was that Cleo's voice just now? ] [ LMAO 'Bullshit!' Cleo is literally killing me! ] Seeing those two comments pop up on her screen, all the blood instantly drained from Peyton's face.

Roland had just ripped her a new one over the phone, strictly warning her to keep her mouth shut about their arrangement.

No matter how much she wanted to play the victim right now, she had to follow her agency's orders and drop the subject fast.

She nervously started hunting for safe questions in the chat to answer. Peyton read aloud, putting on a sweet smile. "Your skin looks amazing… Drop the skincare routine?

I don't use too many products, and I've never touched cosmetic surgery! I usually just wash my face with plain water.

Simple is always best." I didn't miss a beat. "Stop pretending to be allnatural and organic.

That VIP black card for the toptier plastic surgery clinic in Beverly Hills is literally about to fall out of your purse." "What do I like to do in my free time?" Peyton stammered, reading another comment. "I love… working out.

I practically live in the gym when I'm not shooting. Aww, yes! I'd love to run into you guys there…" I let out a sharp scoff. "Right.

She hasn't stepped foot in a gym once this entire year. If any of you actually run into her there, I'll eat dirt live on camera." [ Can Cleo just turn her camera on already?!

I need the crystalclear HD audio of this! ] [ Cleo is actually sending me to the grave right now… ] [ Peyton, just go to the gym once!

I just really want to see Cleo eat dirt. ] Not wanting to disappoint my audience, I reached over and tapped the button, going live.

Chapter 8 The exact second my face hit the screen, the live chat visibly lagged from the traffic spike. "You guys are spamming too fast.

I can't even read these." I leaned closer to the lens. "Did she really frame you for pushing her? Yep, it's true.

Why the hell would I lie to you?" "If they just switched the camera angle, you'd see we were standing miles apart.

Too bad I can't get my hands on that raw footage… There were so many people around, I guess everyone missed it.

Besides, why would I push her in broad daylight in front of an entire crowd?" I stared directly into the camera. "Oh, you're right.

To the user named Peyton's Lunchbox—yes, I pushed her. Want to know why? Because those freshly stuffed silicone boobs of hers looked pretty damn bouncy.

I just wanted to test if she'd bounce right back up when she slammed into the floorboards." The moment the words left my mouth, the chat completely exploded with [ LMAO ]. [ Cleo is literally insane. ] [ The silicone bounce test!

I'm screaming! ] [ I swear I need Cleo's trashtalking skills. ] I kept going. "Slapping her ten times in a row is absolutely true, too.

The crew's backup tapes definitely caught it in ultra HD. Look, I can't help it. She recites her lines like a constipated idiot.

Slapping her a few extra times was basically my charity work for the day.

Today's contribution: donating ten loud, ringing slaps in an attempt to slap awake her mushy brains so she can actually act." [ Savage.

Pure savage. ] [ Lol, who even dares to defend Peyton's acting? ] [ TBH, Peyton's acting is actually garbage. No idea how she gets such toptier scripts. ] [ Right?

She gets dragged for her wooden expressions every single movie. ] [ Like your acting is any better, Cleo? ] [ Not gonna lie, Cleo actually acts circles around Peyton. ] I caught another comment flying by. [ …Wait, what about the dancing in bed?

Didn't she just explain she was sleepdancing? ] "How do I know?" I smirked. "I just do. Maybe I was hiding under her bed that night.

If you're so pissed off for your precious idol, tell her to sue me.

Friendly reminder: sue for defamation, not emotional distress." The comments flew by in a blur. [ Hiding under the bed? Are you the monster in her closet? ] [ I'm mindblown.

Hollywood elites are absolute freaks. ] [ I don't know why, but Cleo actually sounds like she's telling the truth… ] The field director desperately wanted to keep listening to the gossip, but his knuckles were white as he gripped the hem of my shirt, terrified I was going to turn into a completely unhinged, runaway train right there on camera.

Finally, the solo stream segment wrapped up when Weston called us over for dinner. Weston had drawn the dinner duty for the night. His camera feed had been live the whole time.

Watching him expertly wash ingredients and cook up a storm, his fans flooded his chat, crying about how they loved him even more now.

At this point, only two main cameras were still broadcasting.

Besides the dramahungry bystanders, the feed was completely dominated by Weston's fans. [ While you guys were eating up the drama, our Weston was out here working hard on dinner. ] [ Weston is literally perfect.

Look at that fiery spread… I'm drooling. ] I strolled over to the dining table. Sure enough, fiery, heavyspice dishes took up half the spread.

The other few plates were the mild ones Nolan and Sadie had requested. It was obvious Weston actually knew his way around a kitchen. And me? I absolutely lived for spicy food.

With the solo streams finally off, Peyton visibly let out a sigh of relief.

She immediately strutted over to the kitchen, ready to manufacture some screen time for herself. "Wow, Weston, you're such an amazing cook!" she practically cooed. "I absolutely love spicy food." I totally expected Weston to just ignore her.

But a second later, Weston's deep voice cut through the air. "What does that have to do with me?" Peyton's face instantly froze. I instinctively looked up at Weston.

He was already looking right at me. "I didn't make it for you," he said smoothly. "She likes it." I completely froze.

Chapter 9 The live chat instantly exploded, flooded with a massive wall of question marks. [ WTF, is he talking about Cleo? ] [ Why do I feel like he's been acting weird lately… ] [ I'm a hardcore fan, and even I feel it. ] [ Weston literally never does reality shows… ] Tristan happened to walk over and caught that exact sentence.

His face instantly contorted into an ugly scowl. Sadie quietly covered her mouth, looking like she just witnessed the birth of her new favorite ship. My heart skipped a hard beat.

I quickly dropped my gaze, staring intently at my fork. What the hell was going on? I felt like he was flirting with me, but I had absolutely zero proof.

The second Mitchell was hauled off, my new manager stepped right in. She was a veteran female agent—a woman of few words, but ruthlessly professional.

She reminded me to check my inbox and actually reply to some fan comments and DMs.

I let out a dry laugh. "You mean the hate mail." She choked on her words for a second. "Actual fans…" She paused, then added, "You're going to get a lot more of them from now on." Even though I had been going completely unhinged on Twitter lately, I basically never checked my comments or inbox.

After all, in the original book, Cleo's notifications were an absolute toxic wasteland. Words were sharp knives.

Stare at them long enough, and you'd bleed out before you ever found the exit.

Whenever Sadie scrolled through the show's hashtag, she would read my fan comments out loud to me. "Your fans are hilarious.

They're telling you to do standup comedy… They said, keep flying high, just take the legal blame yourself if you crash." Sadie tilted her head. "There are actually a lot of people out there who like you." I took a deep breath and opened my DMs.

Unlike before, my inbox was split straight down the middle. One half begged me to drop more Hollywood dirt. The other half threatened me to stay the hell away from Weston.

But one specific thread caught my eye. ID: Stella. She shared the miserable and happy moments of her life, occasionally venting and complaining.

In the beginning, Cleo actually replied. But after the scandals broke, the replies dried up. Yet this girl never gave up.

She kept typing into the void, sending endless words of encouragement during the absolute darkest moments of Cleo's life… Looking at the unread badge, her messages had likely been swallowed whole by the avalanche of death threats.

Cleo never even saw them. If only she had seen them back then.

I immediately typed back: [ I'll keep fighting! ] The girl must have been glued to her screen, because she replied the exact same second: [ OMG! You finally replied!

I'm so happy to see you standing back up! We're going to keep walking this path with you!

No matter what happens, just remember we still love you! ] "You and Weston actually have shippers now!

There's even a whole hashtag for you guys!" I followed Sadie's gaze to her phone screen. I found out that Weston and I actually had a trending tag on Twitter: CrazyCouple.

The fandom name was even more absurd: The Asylum. I rolled my eyes so hard I almost saw my own brain.

Compared to the peaceful vibe on our side of the house, Peyton and Tristan were having a miserable time.

Peyton's career was hitting a massive slump, her follower count bleeding out by the minute.

Even though her top fan accounts were desperately doing damage control, the public wasn't stupid.

She lost a massive chunk of her fanbase, and her general public goodwill was completely shredded.

Tristan, who was supposed to use this show to farm new fans, completely lost his appetite for acting out the script.

He was terrified that if he stuck his head up too high, I'd just blow it right off. That night, the production crew dropped our task for the next day. Farm labor.

We were heading out under the scorching Texas sun to harvest oats and clean out the cow pens, all to authentically experience the hardships of manual labor.

But, due to technical difficulties, the live broadcast was officially changed to a prerecorded edit. Chapter 10 Hearing the announcement, a cold sharpness settled into my eyes.

In the original book, this exact segment was also flipped to a prerecorded edit.

Once the live feed was cut, Tristan and Peyton posed in front of the cameras for exactly five minutes before ducking right back into their airconditioned luxury RV, blasting the AC to the max.

Meanwhile, the production crew forced Cleo to work completely alone on the farm for twelve straight hours.

Even though she was suffering from excruciating period cramps, she gritted her teeth and didn't stop once.

Finally, when washing her hands by the sink, her violently trembling fingers lost their grip on the heavy bucket. Freezing well water instantly drenched her clothes.

The extreme physical exhaustion, combined with her severe cramps, caused her to go into absolute shock in the scorching heat, landing her straight in the ER.

Yet when the final edit aired, Peyton and Tristan—who had only shot a handful of Broll clips—took up more than half the episode's runtime.

Cleo, who had actually bled and sweat through a full day's labor, was reduced to a few brief shots before the scene brutally hardcut to her collapsing.

Even worse, right after her collapse, the network maliciously spliced in footage of Peyton working, all to prop up her angelic image.

The caption read: Peyton stepping in to finish Cleo's tasks. The moment the episode aired, the internet exploded in outrage.

Calling Cleo a dramatic faker who staged her fainting spell while praising Peyton as a beautiful saint was the mildest of it.

Because of Cleo's leaked deepfake photos, the comments quickly derailed into absolute filth. [ Fever and on her period? That's the premium package.

Any of the bros who've tried it know exactly what I'm talking about. ] That single comment spawned hundreds of vile replies in the thread.

A few girls couldn't stand it and called out the disgusting language. The original poster clapped right back: [ At least poor people have morals, unlike sluts.

You're empathizing with her?

What, do you want to be a Hollywood mattress too? ] … The exact second the production crew posted their tweet blaming technical difficulties for the switch to a prerecorded edit, my thumb hammered the quotetweet button. [ Funny how the tech works flawlessly until it's time for actual manual labor, then suddenly the equipment crashes.

What was the exact reason for the last technical difficulty again?

If you know, you know. ] Because I had been riding the top of the trending charts lately, half the gossip accounts and bystanders on Twitter had my notifications turned on.

The moment I hit send, screenshots were instantly plastered across the entire internet.

Hollywood was hit with another massive earthquake. [ CleoIfYouKnowYouKnow ] shot straight to the number one trending spot.

Thanks to my completely unhinged rampage, Peyton's public goodwill was already bleeding out. It didn't take a genius for the internet to connect the dots. [ Let me translate.

Cleo means somebody here can't handle the heat of actual work. ] [ Could they make it any more obvious? We're in the 21st century.

If a multimillion dollar network can't solve a technical issue, I'll drive to the farm and livestream it on my damn iPhone for free. ] [ If you can't handle dirty farm work, roll back to your Beverly Hills mansion.

Why the hell are you pretending to be a downtoearth girl on a reality show? ] [ Classic Hollywood manipulation.

Do they really think the audience is entirely made of braindead idiots? ] Peyton was so furious her eyes turned bloodshot and tears spilled over her heavy makeup, while the production crew ran around like headless chickens.

But before they could even finish doing damage control, Weston fired off a post of his own: [ I am willing to fully fund the production crew's live broadcasting equipment to help resolve this current technical difficulty. ] The second that tweet went live, a new tag instantly nuked the charts.

It was a simple, brutal phrase: [ WestonIsSimping ] The crew's prerecorded edit plan completely crashed and burned.

Some hardcore tech fans even pulled up the local cell tower distribution and signal coverage maps, scientifically proving that a 4G live broadcast was entirely feasible on the farm.

In the end, the production crew desperately tried to save face.

They released a statement claiming they had worked overnight to coordinate new equipment just to satisfy the audience's demands. The show would proceed strictly as a live broadcast.

Chapter 11 June in Texas. The blinding sun beat down relentlessly.

The moment Peyton stepped outside and saw the glaring sunlight, she looked like she was walking straight into a funeral. Tristan was also panting heavily in the heat.

These two ACdependent deadbeats eventually slathered on three thick layers of expensive sunscreen and hit the dirt wearing the latest Balenciaga tracksuits.

We were each assigned an equally sized plot of land to clear.

Weston hit his zone and immediately buried his head in his work, his movements fast and ruthlessly efficient as he harvested the oats.

Although Sadie and Nolan were a bit clumsy at first, they worked seriously, occasionally sighing about how incredibly hard the local farmers had it, successfully providing the show with its required dose of wholesome, positive energy.

My harvesting went pretty smoothly. I had chugged some painkillers beforehand, so the cramps weren't entirely unbearable.

In the live chat, the internet was still running its mouth. [ Cleo, stop cutting oats! Charge!

Go chop off Peyton's head! ] I spotted that comment while taking a water break and rolled my eyes. "This isn't a truecrime documentary, thanks." Out of all of us, the two suffering the absolute worst were Peyton and Tristan.

Posing for selfies in an airconditioned gym was a completely different universe from brutal manual labor in the dirt.

Not to mention, neither of them actually enjoyed working out in the first place. The production crew hadn't even given us that much land to clear.

But even so, Peyton was practically ready to drop dead. I was the one who noticed she was actively preparing to fake a fainting spell. How could I let her get away with that?

I darted straight over to Peyton's plot and held out my hand.

She jumped back, terrified. "What are you doing?!" I blew a sharp whistle at her. "Emergency ice packs and electrolyte sports drinks, sweetie.

Cures fake fainting and heatstroke instantly. Chug this and I guarantee you'll be bouncing around again.

Want to try?" The chat froze for a split second before completely erupting into a wall of [ LMAO ]. [ I swear to God, Cleo is absolutely not doing this out of the kindness of her heart. ] [ Peyton's face just turned completely green!

Who understands me?! Why did I ever like her?! ] [ 'Little sweetie' WTF! I'm laughing so hard I'm losing my mind! ] Peyton's face really was completely green.

But the cameras were rolling. She was bleeding followers by the thousands these past two days, so she simply gritted her teeth and squeezed out a forced thank you.

On the other side of the field, Tristan didn't even want to pretend anymore. The heat was absolutely killing him.

He kept dropping his tools and running back to the shade tent over and over again. By the time I finished harvesting my entire plot, he still had a solid quarter left.

As I brushed past him, I made no attempt to hide the mockery in my eyes and let out a cold sneer. "All show and no go, you spineless weakling." Tristan was so exhausted his brain completely shortcircuited.

He instantly snapped, cursing out loud: "You motherf—" I pointed at the lens. "Live broadcast." A single shred of his sanity snapped back into place.

He sharply pivoted his sentence: "—farmers… working out here every day have it so incredibly hard." [ I'm dead!

He was definitely about to curse her out, right?! ] [ Tristan is just too exhausted… ] [ Cleo is a girl and she hasn't complained once about being tired, come on. ] [ If I remember correctly, Tristan was pretty nasty to Cleo on the first day.

A male celebrity who disrespects women this much is a massive red flag… ] [ Why should anyone respect a Hollywood mattress? ] [ The comment above is disgusting!

But honestly, didn't someone leak a rumor that Tristan and Cleo used to date… ] [ Stop spreading rumors!

Tristan is single and focused on his career! ] [ Didn't Cleo also say Tristan got plastic surgery while claiming to be allnatural, and that he has a sugar mama? ] [ NGL, the camera just caught him in the sunlight and his nose and chin actually looked a bit translucent… I've been so focused on laughing at Peyton, I almost forgot about this dude. ] … Forgot?

I hadn't forgotten a thing. I already had the coffin custombuilt for their precious idol. Chapter 12 I was just about to turn around when a tall shadow suddenly blocked my path.

I tilted my head up and met Weston's eyes. His face was a shade tanner from the Texas sun, sweat clinging to his sharp jawline, yet he didn't look the slightest bit messy.

He was holding a bright pink thermos, extending it right toward me.

I froze. "You…" "I saw you dryswallowing ibuprofen this morning," Weston said, his long fingers lightly brushing the bridge of his nose in a rare display of awkwardness. "You shouldn't be chugging ice water right now.

This is warm." The closest camera rig picked up this exact exchange and broadcasted it live. [ Wait, what?

Cleo is on her period? ] [ Holy shit… she pushed through all that manual labor on her period?

That was brutal today. ] Suddenly, a massive string of glowing pink text flashed across the screen. You could smell the premium superchat money from a mile away. [ IF! THIS! ISN'T!

TRUE! LOVE! ] The next day, thanks to the aggressive complaints filed by Peyton and Tristan's management teams, we scored a rare day off.

Free time during the day, followed by a fireside chat at night. Weston got out of bed and immediately requested a leave of absence from the crew, citing personal business.

Peyton locked herself in her room doing emergency face masks to save her sunburned skin, while Tristan lay in bed playing Call of Duty all day.

Sadie, Nolan, and I chilled in the living room and watched a movie