Chapter One:

HOW TO LOSE FRIENDS AND ALIENATE PEOPLE: A Bella De La Cruz story.

I’d always liked being famous. You’re not supposed to say that. You’re supposed to be down to earth and relatable, to promise that you love the work you do, but the fame, oh, that’s nothing, you’d do it for free. Oh, how you wish you could go to the grocery store without being mobbed.

I hated grocery shopping. And I loved the fame: the clothes, the planes, the exclusive clubs, all of it. I loved never having to think or plan, I loved knowing that when my roots needed coloring, there would be someone arriving at my little Hollywood home without me needing to use a single brain cell.

I’d been doing this since I was fifteen which was when I’d somehow stumbled into an Oscar nomination in one of my first projects, Of Eternity— your typical three-hour-long period piece. Since then, I’d been whisked from project to project, accruing an amount of fame and fortune mindblowing to me, yet positively paltry to some of my peers. But I didn’t care. I loved it. I loved seeing my name on billboards, I loved having my picture taken at bars, and I loved the shimmering, sparkly feel of it all. Like everything I touched was gold, like everything I was, glittered.

Until it all fell apart, exactly 133 days ago.

I sold my beautiful house in Hollywood Hills. I’d loved that stupid place, the wood, the greenery, all of it. But my address had never been that private. It hadn’t mattered until people started throwing things at it. At me. So my sweet Midwestern mother had begged me to leave, for my own safety. And when my agent had backed her up? A more anonymous New York apartment became my permanent address.

Both the movie deals I had been in talks for fell through, citing perfectly palatable reasons. Budget, timing, etc. Anything I’d already shot couldn’t be scrapped, but I was already being cut out of certain press events, erased from posters, uninvited from interviews. I deleted all social media, barely left the house, and spent weeks just trying to block out all trace of the outside world.

I’d told myself at the time that everything would be fine. It would work out. People would get bored of hating me when they found their next target.

And they did, a bit. The hashtag #BellaDeLaCruzIsASlut stopped trending, the phone stopped ringing with bad news, and I began to feel just a little bit okay again. The thing was, the phone didn’t start ringing again. My career was dead in the water. And I had no idea what to do next.

--

If anyone else could see my apartment, I imagine they’d be disgusted, but it was hard to conjure up those feelings in myself. I hadn’t designed much of this place myself. I’d taken pride in my house, the one I’d sold. I had chatted through paint colors and fixtures, I’d planted trees in the yard, putting down more physical and metaphorical roots than I had in years. Then I’d been wrenched out, the tendrils of my life ripped out, and I’d barely even fought it.

With this apartment, I hadn’t wanted to think about anything. So it had been furnished for me, with bright white walls and low velvet sofas. I didn’t mind it, in theory. I had an abundance of surfaces now, with little end tables, shelves, and a large kitchen island. And every single one of them was now coated in a layer of dust and garbage. Some of the kitchen tiles stuck to the bottom of my slippers as I walked over them, my mop sitting in a closet I’d barely ever opened.

The walls were decorated with art I hadn’t chosen, mirrors I avoided, and a few plants that were hanging on for dear life, if they weren’t dead already. Curtains hung heavily by the windows, untouched for months. The air was thick with the cloying taste of exhaustion and indecision. I just couldn’t see the point in fixing it anymore.

I flipped through my vinyl records listlessly, hoping to drown out the constant noise of the city. I wasn’t particularly knowledgeable about music, but the thing about being sixteen with a lot of money is that you get to invest in it in pretty much anything. At that time, I’d chosen records and the paraphernalia that came with them.

I hesitated momentarily on some familiar cover art as a pinch of guilt made my breath catch. The first album I’d listened to with my ex. The first thing we’d bonded over, back when we started starring together in the Queens of Fire trilogy. I’d only been seventeen when we started filming. We’d finished up about a year ago, but with delays and reshoots, it hadn’t been released yet. We’d been gearing up to do the press tours when... when it happened. And now, I couldn’t be in the same room as Chris or the director, and I’d watched them do it all together— the culmination of five years of work— from the blue light of my phone.

I settled on the first release from Dippy Skinning, a band local to me, growing up in Minnesota. I’d danced to their basement shows with my elder sister, as she screamed in my ear that they were going to be huge one day. She hadn’t been wrong. Now we shared the Notable Alumni page at Fairbrooke High, and not a whole lot more. They were well known to be one of the more reckless celebrity groups out there, from stealing yachts to resisting arrest. Not my thing. But I still liked the music. It was nostalgic, if nothing else.

I hadn’t heard from Chris in 132 days. He had the dignity to drop off my things in person, although that had almost made things worse. He’d been photographed doing it, after all. Christopher Scott was almost as big a name as Bella De La Cruz. And now, I supposed, would end up being a whole lot bigger.

There hadn’t been much to say, between us, after it ended. I’d cheated on him. Been caught doing it... And it hadn’t been a one-time thing, either: I’d had an affair. I’d had an affair with a married man, and left the hearts of the American public in tatters. What could he possibly have to say to me, after that?

I looked down at my wrist, at the gold bracelet Rob had given me, on one of our late- night trysts. Right after he’d told me he loved me for the first time. He was getting divorced now, or that’s what he’d told me after the photos of us had leaked.

That was 128 days ago.

So I understood the silence. I understood why the press tour for Queens of Fire: The Final Ode had to continue without me. I understood why all my brand deals were broken and all my friends began to ghost me. Because I deserved it. Simple as that.

I sighed, slumping into the large, uncomfortable egg chair I kept in the corner. Another night on my own and another day after that. At least you could get weed delivered now.

I lit a joint and sunk into the pillows, letting the sounds of amateur indie rock wash over me. It would get better. It had to.