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PROLOGUE

I’ve never feared dying.

Maybe it’s because I’m young, still a teenager, and in perfect health.

Maybe it’s because I know death comes for everyone, and there’s no point dreading the inevitable.

Or maybe it’s simply because I’ve never given much thought to my own mortality, having always viewed it as something to contemplate in the distant future, perhaps during a midlife crisis or some other existential predicament.

Had I known I would soon be lost in the wilderness and freefalling down a colossal waterfall, about to meet my end, I might have given my life—and death—more consideration.

But it’s too late for regrets.

It’s too late foranything.

Because when I finally stop plummeting only to slam into the hard surface of the raging, icy river, I don’t have time to be afraid of what’s coming next. I don’t even have time to mourn everything I’m about to lose, the life I could have had, the dreams I’ll never see come true. All I have time for is a single thought, a single feeling, before everything goes black:

Pain.

The moment I step out of the elevator into my agent’s high-rise office, the light streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows hits me like a slap in the face. I shield my eyes from the glittering Los Angeles skyline, hissing as my retinas sting in protest.

Atsksound greets my ears, followed by a deep voice saying, “Your community service might be over, but you’re still required to remain sober. Do youwantto be sent back to rehab?”

I squint through the room until I find my agent, Gabriel King, reclining on his cream leather couch and watching me over the rim of his takeout coffee cup.

“I’m not hungover.” The injustice of his assumption burns in my chest, compounded by guilt, shame, and—worst of all—grief, all of which I quickly stifle. “Your office might as well be on the sun. Haven’t you heard of blinds?”

“Gotta get my Vitamin D,” Gabe says, sliding one dark-skinned arm into a sunbeam. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his starched collar unbuttoned, his general appearance more disheveled than usual. It doesn’t bode well that he’s called me to his office, since we usually talk over the phone—especially lately, with how much I’ve been trying to avoid the paparazzi.

Gabe waves to an identical cream couch opposite him. “Have a seat, Zander.”

I head to where he indicated, trying to ignore the uneasy tension in my stomach. Gabe isn’t just my agent, he’s my friend. A father figure, almost. He’s been championing me ever since I accepted a dare to audition for a film inspired by a popular children’s book series and, without any experience or training, surprised everyone by being cast as the lead.The Lost Heirsfranchise took off, resulting in four blockbuster movies—and overnight fame for me. A real-life Hollywood fairy tale, reporters say, whenever they reference my rise to stardom, and Gabe was with me through it all. Contracts, scripts, endorsements, interviews, fans, social media—I had no idea what I was doing until he swooped in and took control. I was barely twelve when I signed with him. I’m now eighteen, and I still have no idea what I’m doing. But it turns out that the one thing I do know is how to act. Even more, I enjoy it. When I sink into the mind of a character, from the moment the director calls “Action!” to when they announce “That’s a wrap,” I feel alive. I feel free. I’m one of the lucky few who has found their calling in life, and I can’t imagine doing anything else.

Maybe that’s why I’m so nervous as I take my seat opposite Gabe. Because there’s a look on his face I’ve never seen before, a resigned set to his features, a depth of sadness in his eyes.

Sadness—for me.

“I’ll get straight to it,” Gabe says, not one to waste time. “The studio is threatening to find someone else to play Titan Wolfe.”

A single sentence is all it takes for something precious inside me to wither and die.

“You were already labeled difficult after everything with Summer,” Gabe continues, and when I open my mouth to object, he stops me with a look. “The truth doesn’t matter, Zan. This is Hollywood.” Despite his firm words, his tone is apologetic. “Lord knows you have the talent and the charisma and the—well,everything—but you also made an enemy out of one of the most powerful directors in the biz. Your reputation is mud. And we’re in damage control.” His dark eyes snare mine. “You already know how many favors I had to call in just to get you an audition forTitan’s War. They saw your skill enough to cast you as the lead, but can you blame them for being wary now? Especially with the DUI charge on top of the rest? They’re not out of line for citing breach of contract. I’m frankly surprised they’re only threateningto replace you.”

I clench my jaw and look out the window-wall, but then the last part of what he said sinks in.

“They’re not—” My voice is hoarse, so I cough and try again. “They’re only threatening? Does that mean they’re not actually terminating?”

Gabe takes a long sip of his coffee. “Not yet.”

A breath whooshes out of me, but my relief is short-lived.

“Things aren’t looking good though, kid.”

It’s his gentle tone that really hits me, making me realize how serious this is. And it’s because of that—and because of how much my career means to me—that I square my shoulders and ask, “How do I fix this?”

He could say anything and I would do it. Acting is all I have; losing it would be like losing myself.

Gabe sips his coffee again, before declaring, “We need to clean up your image.”