I hated my job, everyone was like

but you make a lot of money but you’re famous

Yeah. For letting some prick spread me out and fuck me in front of a camera.

It hadn’t started as something willing, me, being a porn star or however you call it

I’d done it to survive.

I was seventeen, broke, and one missed rent payment away from sleeping in my car.

The first shoot paid more money in a day than I’d seen in months.

So I told myself it was temporary.

Just one job.

Then one turned into three.

Three turned into ten.

And suddenly I had an agent, a social media following, and strangers who acted like they knew everything about me because they’d seen edited pieces of my life on a screen.

But every time someone recognized me in public, I felt something twist in my stomach.

People never saw me.

They saw the fantasy.

The character.

Just the fucking fantasy.

The worst part wasn’t the cameras.

It wasn’t even the comments.

It wasn’t the interviews, although those were hard.

It was how lonely it got.

People wanted something from me all the time.

A picture.

A video.

But nobody wanted the truth.

Nobody wanted to hear that sometimes I’d sit in my apartment, staring out at the city lights, feeling completely invisible despite millions of people knowing my name.

I couldn’t complain about it either.

Whenever I tried, the reactions were always the same.

“You chose this.”

“You should be grateful.”

“Most people would kill for your life.”

Maybe they were right.

Maybe I should have been grateful.

But gratitude didn’t erase exhaustion.

And money didn’t automatically buy happiness.

It bought comfort.

It bought security.

It bought a beautiful apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows and furniture I barely used.

But it couldn’t buy a fresh start.

It couldn’t make people see me as anything other than the girl on the screen.

The one they jerked off on being used by male co-stars, the one they dreamed they were fucking instead of their wives.

But they didn't know a fucking thing about me.

They didn't know my favorite movie.

Didn't know I hated coffee despite pretending to like it during interviews.

Didn't know I still called my mom every Sunday.

To them, I wasn't a person.

I was a product.

And products don't get to have bad days.

What happens when this ends?

Because it would end.

Everything does.

I was twenty-four now.

Still young, according to everyone around me.

Still at the top of my career, according to my agent.

Still making more money than most people would see in years, according to the internet.

And yet every morning felt exactly the fucking same.

Wake up.

Check my phone.

See a thousand notifications from people who wanted something.

Ignore half of them.

Pretend I wasn't tired.

Pretend I wasn't slowly losing my mind.

I rolled out of bed and walked across the apartment barefoot.

My phone buzzed again.

Agent.

Of course.

"What?"

"Good morning to you too."

I rubbed my eyes.

"What do you want, Mark?"

"Need you on set at noon."

I closed my eyes.

"I thought that got pushed back."

"It did."

"So why the fuck am I needed at noon?"

"Interview first."

"Great."

"You sound thrilled."

"Go fuck yourself."

"Love you too."

The call ended.

I tossed the phone onto the couch.

I'd just walked out of my apartment when

A strong chest collided with mine hard enough to make me stumble backward.

"Jesus fucking—"

A hand shot out and caught my arm before I lost my balance.

"Sorry."

The voice was deep, rough around the edges.

I looked up, already prepared to tell whoever it was exactly where they could shove their apology.

The words died in my throat.

Not because he was ridiculously attractive.

Although he was.

No.

Because he wasn't looking at me the way people usually did.

No flicker of recognition.

No widening eyes.

No stupid grin.

No holy shit, aren't you—

Nothing.

"You okay?"

I blinked.

What a weird fucking question.

“Yeah”