CHAPTER ONE
Plastic Platforms
In the Hollywood Hills, even the sunsets wait for their cue. They drip gold on command, soft with smog, just like our practiced smiles. Always ready to shine for the camera. If they falter, someone can fix it with a filter.
Perfection isn’t just expected in our world; it’s practically a job requirement. Not everyone can handle it, but I’ve made it my life.
I raise my champagne flute, phone poised to capture the moment, while my two partners-in-glam take their places beside me. Sierra Darling, the beauty guru with a million-dollar grin (and a Lustre following to match) and Lyla Monroe, fitness queen known for her green juice recipes and luxury retreats. Me? I’m somewhere in between. The girl who went viral after a makeup tutorial disaster. Twenty-seven million views, one set of ruined lashes, and I was an overnight sensation. Together, we’re a polished, camera-ready trio: the beauty, the fitness guru, and the accident-turned-icon.
We clink our glasses, champagne spilling over the edges, laughter bubbling up with the blinding light of a camera flash. The giggles feel real enough, but the truth? We’re not friends.Not really. We’re more like… frenemies. It’s an arrangement we’ve all silently agreed on. We need each other, but do we like each other? That’s not part of the deal.
Which sometimes makes me wonder if anyone at this event even remembers how to laugh without checking the angle first. I used to think I could balance the girl I was before with the persona I’ve built now. But somewhere along the way I stopped knowing which version of me was real.
Maybe that’s the trick.
We don’t sell ourselves; we sell theideaof ourselves. And the more perfect the idea, the more invisible the girl behind it becomes.
Sierra leans into me, her fake blond locks brushing my shoulder, while Lyla snakes an arm around my waist. We press together like a jigsaw puzzle, perfect for the millions watching on their phones.
"Can you believe our next event is in Bali?" Lyla sighs dreamily, her jade eyes sparkling as she adjusts her sequined strap. Sierra’s already touching up her lipstick, barely paying attention.
"I’ve never been," I admit, guilt tugging at me. I didn’t make the last brand deal. Who knows if I’ll make this one. And with an agoraphobic mother halfway across the country dealing with OCD, the thought of not being a flight away makes me uneasy. "But it sounds incredible."
Sierra shrugs, sweeping something shimmery across my cheeks in the fading light. "It’s fine," she says, though there’s an unmistakable edge in her voice. "Paris was so much better last year. Shame you missed it. Everyone’s still talking about it."
Heat floods my cheeks, but I force one of those practiced smiles. I’d missed Paris after a food poisoning nightmare left me glued to the toilet instead of boarding a plane. I almost lost my biggest brand deal because of it. Sierra and Lyla started todistance themselves after that, after one commentator called meproblematic. I couldn’t tell anyone the truth. That the restaurant—the one that gave me food poisoning—had me under contract. I had to play it off as asocial media break. It’s taken months to claw my way back into their world.
And I’m not about to mess it up again.
"Five minutes, ladies!" someone calls from across the room. "Then we’re live!"
If there’s one part of this influencer life that I dread, it’s going live. Our whole world is carefully edited, filtered, and framed to perfection. When you’re live, there are no second takes, no cuts. And when you’re sharing the screen with a bunch of girls who’ll battle for the spotlight like wolves over a carcass? Anything—and I meananything—can happen.
"Ugh," Sierra groans, rolling her eyes. "Big Belle is heading our way."
I glance up just as Belle—the southern icon herself—waves, regal as ever in her bright red dress. She’s all warm smiles and glossy curls, heading straight for us.
"Be nice," Lyla whispers, though I catch the hint of amusement in her tone. Lyla loves a bit of drama. Just not too much. A touch of controversy keeps us relevant. But too much? We’re disposable.
"Good evenin’, ladies!" Belle pulls us into a big group hug, her signature charm on full display. Her hug is solid, grounding, and nothing like the feather-light embraces staged for cameras. It’s jarring, the way her warmth penetrates through the lacquered surface of the evening.
"Y’all are looking adorable!" Belle tells us before leaning in. "Listen, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about a collab."
"We’re not interested," Sierra cuts her off without hesitation. Her gaze flickers over Belle’s curvy figure and hand-sewn reddress, the disdain dripping from every pore in her body. "We’re busy."
Lyla forces a polite smile, but I don’t miss the way Belle’s expression falters for a split second. My two so-called friends are already making their exit, heels clicking as they head toward the bar.
I glance back at Belle. "What’s the collaboration?" I ask, curious.
Belle’s face brightens instantly. "You’re interested?"
"Of course," I say, offering a genuine smile.
She tucks a loose curl behind her ear, her excitement palpable. "I’ll have my manager send you the details. You’re gonna love it."
The crowd migrates over to the glass platform. Everyone is adjusting designer outfits, fixing hair, and swiping last-minute touch-ups. Someone centers the massive ring light, another starts the countdown. I could push to the front, but being on the edge is enough. I'm visible, taggable, and definitely not absent.
Online, absence is blood in the water.
