I was halfway through reorganizing my contraband by emotional potency—Klonopin for regret, Adderall for charm—when I heard the knock.. I didn’t say come in. She opened the door anyway.

  “Francesca?” The voice was silk-draped menace. Lavender oil with a scalpel under it. “I’m Dr. Marla Cates.”

  She said it like I’d never heard of her. Like I hadn’t read her book in a waiting room once and used a quote from it to get out of a lease.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said.

  “You are,” I said. “But it’s fine. I wasn’t feeling spiritually aligned yet.”

  She laughed. “I just wanted to introduce myself.”

  She took two steps into the room, slow and practiced, like her hips remembered interpretive dance but her heels had a grudge. She was taller than I expected. Regal. Built for TED Talks and soft-focus lighting. Everything about her was neutral-toned except the way she looked at me—like I was a limited edition disaster she couldn’t wait to reissue.

  “I’m such a fan,” she said. “You brought such rawness to Sunset Falls. Brielle was… misunderstood. And gloriously dangerous.”

  I tilted my head. “Thanks. I based her on my mother.”

  She laughed like she didn’t believe me. I didn’t correct her. She clasped her hands together like prayer or strategy. “I thought we might take a little walk. Let you get a feel for the space. Unless, of course, you’re still aligning?”

  We walked the hallways like a two-woman parade of manipulation. Her in floaty linen. Me in borrowed sincerity.

  She showed me the meditation yurt, the koi pond, the aromatherapy chamber that smelled like broken promises and eucalyptus. I nodded dutifully at each one. Asked about the herbs in the garden like I hadn’t already stolen two for a staged Instagram shot I never posted.

  Marla kept her voice low and precise, like her sentences had been edited in post. “We try not to overwhelm the senses. Or the spirit. Stillness is a container.”

  I nodded like that meant anything.

  “And here,” she said, her hand brushing the doorframe like foreplay, “is my office.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Of course it was. Always end the tour where the sermon starts.

  The room looked exactly like what you’d expect from a woman who turned guilt into a business model. Abstract paintings in greige. Shelves filled with trauma memoirs and decorative rocks. Two chairs. One desk. One candle that smelled like grief and income.

  She gestured for me to sit, then circled behind her desk like a therapist or a predator. Same posture.

  “Frankie,” she said, folding her hands like she was about to say something she’d already rehearsed, “we should probably cut the bullshit, don’t you think?”

  I tilted my head. Just a degree. The way I used to when Brielle was about to reveal a twin.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re not here for healing,” she said. “You’re here for relevance. You’re not here to change. You’re here for optics. Which, frankly, I respect. You’re a phoenix,” she paused, “or at least, you play one beautifully.”

  She leaned forward just enough to trigger the scent of bergamot and sanitized guilt. “I pulled your form the second it came through. I made a few calls. Quiet ones. I knew who you were. And I knew what this could be.”

  My smile didn’t break, but I felt the crack behind it.

  “Then I guess we’re both frauds,” I said.

  She didn’t flinch. “Don’t be reductive, darling. Fraud implies you’re not getting anything out of it.”

  She opened a drawer, pulled out a thick folder with my name in tasteful serif font. My entire career compressed into a rebranding opportunity.

  “I pulled a few strings to get you in. Quietly. Discreetly. Wesley had reservations, but Wesley still uses the word ‘brand’ like it’s sacred.”

  I nodded like a woman listening to a compliment, even though she hadn’t paid me one.

  “And what do you want in return?”

  She leaned back. Steepled her fingers. Classic cult posture.

  “Sunshadow needs a win. Something visible. Preferably blonde. You’re not blonde anymore, but you are iconic. That’s workable. You play nice, I help you shape the story. Redemption arc, soft lighting. Maybe even a book deal.”

  I exhaled. Softly. Didn’t let the relief show.

  “That’s generous,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “It’s strategic.”

  The candle on her desk flickered.

  “You’re not the only one staging a comeback, Frankie. But I have the space. The lighting. The right hashtags. You still have the face. Let’s not waste it.”

  I smiled. Tilted my head the other way. I looked at her. Really looked. The Botox didn’t move, but something behind her eyes did. This wasn’t a pitch. It was a gamble. She was betting on me. Or branding me. Same difference.

  I uncrossed my legs. Re-crossed them. “And if I don’t?”

  She shrugged. “Then you’re just another washed-up actress with a god complex and a benzo stash. And I’ll treat you like one.”

  I stood. Smoothed the blouse I’d worn for likability. Walked to the bookshelf. Touched the spine of her book like I was deciding whether to reread or resell it.

  “Fine,” I said. “Let’s write something worth watching.”

  And just like that, I was back on script.

  The comeback had begun.

  Again.