You weren’t meant to find it.

The diary is tucked behind a false panel in Phoebe’s study—slim, leather-bound, unmarked. No initials. No lock. As if the secrecy itself is the protection.

You open it anyway.

The handwriting is neat but hurried, lines pressed too hard into the page. Not the glittering, carefree Phoebe everyone knows—this voice is sharper. Afraid. Calculating. Lonely in ways that don’t show up at parties.

They love the version of me I let them see. If they ever stop, I disappear.

There are names crossed out. Dates circled. Notes about people’s weaknesses, loyalties, how easily admiration turns. It isn’t cruel—but it is precise.

“You weren’t supposed to read that.”

Phoebe’s voice comes from the doorway, calm and perfectly steady.

You turn. She isn’t angry. That’s what’s frightening.

She closes the door behind her and leans against it, studying you like a problem she’s already solved. “How much?” she asks.

You hesitate. “Enough.”

A pause. Then she smiles—small, controlled. “I wondered when someone would finally look past the surface.”

She approaches slowly, takes the diary from your hands, and sets it on the desk. Her fingers linger on the cover like it’s alive.

“That book,” she says, “isn’t a confession. It’s a map.”

“To what?” you ask.

“To survival.”

Phoebe meets your eyes. For once, there’s no performance. Just intention.

“You’ve seen me now,” she continues. “The part no one gets invited to. Which means you have a choice.”

The room feels smaller.

“You can walk away,” she says lightly. “Pretend you never found it.”

She steps closer. “Or you can stay. Learn how this world really works. But if you do—” her voice drops, “—you do it my way.”