Chapter 13: Rewrite the Stars

Elara watched the disdainful creatures slither away like snakes in designer heels. Only when the rhythmic click-clack of their departure faded did she move to push the restroom door open—then she paused.

If she entered unprotected, she would succumb to the mist just as easily.

Searching herself instinctively, her fingers brushed against a seam she hadn't noticed before. To her surprise, she found a black satin mask tucked into a hidden slit on the side of her gown.

A pocket?

She hadn’t realized the dress had been modified with one. Nor had she packed a mask. The realization sent a chill of confusion through her, but she didn't have the luxury of time. She slipped the satin over her nose and mouth, the fabric smelling faintly of cedar, and pushed open the door.

The scent hit her like a physical wall—overpowering, floral, and cloyingly sweet. It coated the air like invisible, heavy smoke. Even through the mask, she could feel the edges of her mind beginning to fray, a synthetic warmth trying to snake its way into her lungs.

And then she saw her.

Arabella.

The actress lay on the marble tiles in a disheveled heap, her radiant face now flushed a deep, feverish pink. Her perfectly styled hair clung to her damp forehead in dark, tangled ribbons. Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving with shallow, desperate gasps. Her body trembled with a heat that clearly ravaged her from the inside out.

“Miss Arabella!” Elara called, kneeling beside her and shaking her shoulders.

There was no cognitive response. Arabella’s eyes fluttered open, but they were unfocused, drowning in a chemical haze. To her, Elara was nothing but an angelic, crimson blur calling from across a vast distance. Arabella reached out a hand, her limbs weak and sluggish. The heat was too much—it seared through her skin and pooled in her veins like molten lead. Instinctively, she began to claw at the neckline of her own gown, seeking a relief that wouldn't come.

Elara acted instantly.

She helped loosen the front of Arabella’s designer dress. She cleared the delicate lace from the older girl's throat to help her breathe, but the drug was too potent. The "mist" was winning.

Elara reached into her hair and retrieved a small, sharp styling pin. It was a tiny thing, but in this moment, it was a scalpel. She took Arabella's limp hand and pricked the center of her palm.

She had remembered a fragment of medical trivia from her past life: sudden, sharp pain could temporarily shock the nervous system out of a chemically induced stupor.

Arabella jerked, a soft gasp escaping her lips as a spark of clarity returned to her eyes.

“Stay with me,” Elara whispered, her voice a firm anchor. She hauled the taller woman up, wrapping Arabella’s arm over her shoulder. “We’re getting out of here. Now.”

Even with the mind of a twenty-three-year-old, Elara’s eighteen-year-old body was small. Arabella was nearly two feet taller and dead weight, but Elara gritted her teeth, her muscles straining as she dragged the actress toward the service exit.

They stumbled down the back hallway just as the heavy thud of boots echoed from the main entrance—the men sent to "discover" and ruin Arabella had arrived.

In her past life, they had been on time.

In that life, the ballroom’s grand screens had flickered to life, broadcasting a horrific, grainy scene to the entire elite: Arabella, disheveled and drugged, surrounded by predatory men. The world hadn't seen a victim; they had seen a "Fallen Siren." The headlines had been her funeral pyre.

But not tonight.

As they neared the east exit, Elara ran into a frantic, tear-streaked face—Arabella’s assistant. The girl was clutching her phone, her mascara running in dark tracks down her cheeks.

Upon seeing the heiress hauling the half-conscious star, the assistant let out a choked sob of relief. “Oh my God—Miss Arabella! What happened?!”

“She was drugged,” Elara said, her voice low and commanding as she transferred Arabella’s weight to the assistant. “Someone sprayed an airborne aphrodisiac in the lounge. She needs a hospital and a private doctor. Do not let the press near her.”

The assistant nodded frantically, guiding Arabella toward a waiting SUV. Elara watched until the door slammed shut and the vehicle peeled away, its taillights disappearing into the city night.

Only then did Elara pull off the mask and let out a long, trembling breath.

She had done it. She had ripped the script of the past to shreds. Two headlines that had once defined her ruined world would now never be printed:

“Voss Heiress: Damien’s Submissive Lapdog?”

“Arabella’s Fall: The Promiscuous Whore with an Angel’s Face?”

Both were gone. Burned by the crimson fire of her own will.

Elara turned back toward the ballroom, a small, cold, and utterly satisfied smile playing on her lips.

Misfortune—evaded.

History—rewritten.