PART 2 OF 3

The Rejection

When your best friend looks through you like a stranger, what’s left to lose?

Chapter 8: Everything Falls Apart

The security guards had me by both arms, and I was too stunned to fight back. Ryland stood there in his expensive polo shirt, looking at me like I was a delusional fan who’d breached his personal space.

Which, technically, I guess I was. Except I wasn’t some random fan. I was Eva. Eva, who’d held his hand during his mom’s cancer scare in tenth grade. Eva, who’d helped him write his first real song. Eva, who’d believed in him when nobody else did.

“Ryland, what are you—” My voice cracked. “It’s me. Eva. Eva Richardson. We grew up together in Millbrook. Your mom used to make us grilled cheese sandwiches and we’d—”

“Look,” he interrupted, his voice flat and professional, like he’d done this a thousand times before. “I don’t know what you think this is, but I’ve never been to Millbrook and I don’t know anyone named Eva.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. “Stop. Stop lying. Why are you doing this?”

He pulled out his wallet and extracted a hundred-dollar bill, holding it out like I was a beggar he wanted to get rid of. “Here. Take this and leave me alone.”

The humiliation burned through me. “I don’t want your money, you—”

I lunged forward, trying to grab his arm, to make him look at me—really look at me—but the security guards hauled me backward. One of them muttered something into a radio.

“Ryland!” I was shouting now, not caring who heard. “It’s me! The garage roof! The promise! You said you’d never leave me behind! You said—”

“Get her out of here,” Ryland said coldly, turning away. “And call my publicist. I want a restraining order filed if she tries to contact me again.”

The security guards dragged me through the clubhouse. People stared. Someone took a photo. I kicked and screamed the whole way, my voice going hoarse as I yelled his name over and over.

They threw me out the front entrance. Literally threw me—I stumbled and fell on the pristine driveway, scraping my palms on the gravel.

And then Veronica was standing over me, her expression colder than I’d ever seen it.

“What the hell was that?”

I tried to explain, but she cut me off.

“You just assaulted a celebrity at my event. In front of investors, press, and half of New York’s elite. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I wasn’t assaulting him, I know him—”

“You’re fired. Clean out your desk by Monday. And if you’re smart, you’ll disappear before his lawyers come after you.”

She walked away without looking back.

I sat there on the gravel, shaking, until a valet asked me to move because I was blocking the driveway.

Chapter 9: Rock Bottom

Sky picked me up. I don’t even remember calling her, but suddenly she was there, helping me into the passenger seat of her beat-up Honda and not asking questions until we were on the highway.

“So,” she said finally. “That was Ryland.”

“Yeah.”

“And he pretended not to know you.”

“Yeah.”

“And you lost your job.”

I pressed my forehead against the cool window. “Yep.”

Sky was quiet for a long moment. “Okay. So that’s awful. But—”

“There’s no ‘but.’ He looked at me like I was nobody. Like the last fifteen years of friendship meant nothing. Like I imagined the whole thing.”

“Maybe he’s just a world-class asshole.”

“He is. But that doesn’t explain why he’d pretend we never met. Why lie about Millbrook? His entire origin story talks about growing up in a small town. He just won’t name it.”

Sky glanced at me. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that the Ryland I knew wouldn’t do this. Something’s wrong.”

“Or,” Sky said gently, “he changed. Fame changes people. Maybe he wants to erase his past because it doesn’t fit his image.”

I wanted to believe that. It would be easier—hating him, moving on, accepting that people grow apart and sometimes they become strangers.

But something didn’t add up.

When we got back to the apartment, Sky tried to get me to eat something, but I went straight to my laptop.

“Eva, what are you doing?”

“Research.”

Chapter 10: The Investigation

I stayed up all night digging through everything I could find about Ryland Pierce.

His Wikipedia page was frustratingly vague. Born in upstate New York. Discovered at eighteen. Signed to Apex Records. Managed by Lucas “Lucky” Morrison. Three platinum albums. World tours. Endorsement deals.

Nothing about Millbrook. Nothing about his childhood friends or his past. Even his mom—Carol Pierce, who used to let me stay at their house when things got bad at mine—was barely mentioned.

I found interviews where he deflected questions about his hometown. “I prefer to keep my past private,” he’d say with that practiced smile. “I want my music to speak for itself.”

But that wasn’t the Ryland I knew. The Ryland I knew loved talking about where he came from. He used to say his small-town roots kept him grounded.

I scrolled through fan forums, and I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the weirdness.

User RylandStan2023: Anyone else think it’s weird he never talks about his childhood?

User MusicLover99: Maybe he had a bad childhood and wants to forget it.

User ConspiracyQueen: OR maybe he’s hiding something. His manager Lucky gives me creepy vibes.

Lucky Morrison. I clicked on his profile. Mid-forties, shark-like smile, expensive suits. He’d taken over as Ryland’s manager two years ago, right around the time Ryland’s public persona shifted from “relatable small-town kid” to “untouchable superstar.”

I dug deeper. Lucky had a reputation in the industry—he represented several huge artists, but there were whispers about his business practices. Nothing concrete, just rumors of controlling behavior and shady contracts.

Then I found something interesting. A job posting on Ryland’s official website.

Position: Personal Assistant to Ryland Pierce
Seeking organized, discreet individual to manage day-to-day schedule and personal affairs. Must be willing to relocate to Los Angeles. Previous experience with high-profile clients preferred. Send resume to careers@rylandpierce.com.

I stared at the screen, my heart pounding.

This was insane. I had no experience as a personal assistant. I’d just been fired. And Ryland would recognize me the second I walked in.

Unless…

Chapter 11: The Plan

Sky found me the next morning surrounded by printouts and empty coffee cups.

“Did you sleep?”

“I’m going to LA.”

She stared at me. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Ryland’s hiring a personal assistant. I’m going to apply.”

“Eva, he threatened to get a restraining order against you. You can’t—”

“He won’t recognize me.”

I showed her the photos I’d been looking at. Me now versus me in high school. Different hair, different style, five years older. Plus, Ryland clearly wanted to pretend his past didn’t exist. He probably wouldn’t be looking for familiar faces.

“You want to go undercover,” Sky said slowly. “To work for the man who broke your heart and got you fired.”

“To find out why he’s lying about his past. Something’s not right, Sky. The Ryland I knew wouldn’t do this. What if he’s in trouble? What if someone’s controlling him?”

“Or what if he’s just a jerk who forgot about his small-town friend?”

“Then I’ll get my closure and move on. But I need to know.”

Sky looked at me for a long moment, then sighed. “You’re insane. You know that, right?”

“Probably.”

“And if this blows up in your face, I’m not bailing you out of jail in California.”

“Fair.”

She grabbed her laptop. “Fine. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. You’ll need a fake name, a fake resume, and a completely different look.”

Chapter 12: The Transformation

Over the next week, Eva Richardson disappeared and Emily Rivers was born.

I dyed my hair from brown to auburn—close enough to natural that it didn’t look fake, different enough that Ryland wouldn’t immediately recognize me. I switched from contacts to glasses. Changed my entire wardrobe from casual bohemian to sleek professional.

Sky helped me create a resume for Emily Rivers, complete with fake references (her friends agreed to back up my story if anyone called). We kept the experience truthful but changed the names of the companies. Emily had worked as an executive assistant in New York for three years. She was organized, discreet, and had glowing recommendations.

I practiced speaking in a slightly different cadence, more formal and polished than my usual sarcastic drawl. I rehearsed my backstory until I could recite it in my sleep: grew up in Boston, studied communications, moved to New York for work, looking for a change of pace in LA.

“This is either brilliant or the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Sky said, watching me practice in the mirror.

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

I sent in my application as Emily Rivers and got a response within two days: an invitation to interview in Los Angeles.

I booked a flight, told Sky I’d be back in a week, and tried not to think about all the ways this could go horribly wrong.

Chapter 13: The Interview

The interview was held at a sleek office building in West Hollywood. I arrived fifteen minutes early, wearing a navy blazer and the most professional heels I owned. My new glasses kept sliding down my nose.

The waiting room was packed with other applicants—mostly young women who looked like they’d stepped out of fashion magazines. Several wore Ryland Pierce merchandise. One girl had a tattoo of his lyrics on her arm.

I was the only one dressed like I was interviewing for a job, not auditioning to be his girlfriend.

A woman in her fifties with a severe bob called names one by one. “Emily Rivers?”

I stood, smoothing my blazer. “That’s me.”

She led me to a small conference room. No Ryland—just her, a laptop, and a notepad.

“I’m Margaret, Mr. Pierce’s executive coordinator. I’ll be conducting the preliminary interview. If you pass, you’ll meet with his manager, Mr. Morrison.”

“Not with Mr. Pierce himself?”

She smiled tightly. “Mr. Pierce doesn’t involve himself in hiring decisions. He prefers to maintain boundaries with staff.”

Of course he did.

Margaret asked standard interview questions—my experience, my availability, how I handled stress. I answered smoothly, channeling every corporate training seminar I’d ever sat through. I was professional, competent, and utterly forgettable.

Exactly what they needed.

“Most of the other candidates seem very… enthusiastic about Mr. Pierce’s music,” Margaret noted, studying my resume.

“I appreciate his work, but I’m here for the professional opportunity. I understand the position requires discretion and professionalism, not fandom.”

Her expression warmed slightly. “You’d be surprised how rare that is. Wait here.”

She left. I sat in the sterile conference room, my heart pounding, wondering if I’d just talked my way into a disaster.

Ten minutes later, she returned. “Mr. Morrison would like to meet you.”

Chapter 14: Meeting Lucky

Lucky Morrison’s office was on the top floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Los Angeles. He sat behind a massive desk, phone pressed to his ear, gesturing for me to sit.

I studied him while he finished his call. Mid-forties, expensive suit, watch that probably cost more than my college tuition. He had the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Emily Rivers,” he said, hanging up and leaning back in his chair. “Margaret tells me you’re not a fangirl.”

“I’m here for the job, Mr. Morrison.”

“Lucky. Everyone calls me Lucky.” He flipped through my resume. “Executive assistant for three years in New York. Good references. You understand this position is demanding? Ryland’s schedule is unpredictable. Late nights, early mornings, constant travel.”

“I’m prepared for that.”

“And discretion is paramount. What happens in Ryland’s life stays private. No social media posts, no sharing information with friends, no selling stories to tabloids. We’ve had problems with staff in the past.”

I met his gaze steadily. “I understand. I have no interest in violating anyone’s privacy.”

He studied me for a long moment, then smiled. “You know what? I believe you. Most of the girls out there would kill for five minutes alone with Ryland. But you look like you’d rather be organizing spreadsheets.”

“I’m very good at spreadsheets.”

He laughed—a sharp, calculated sound. “When can you start?”

My heart stopped. “I… you’re offering me the position?”

“Pending a background check, yes. Salary is $75,000 annually, plus housing allowance since you’ll need to relocate. Ryland lives in Malibu and works odd hours, so we prefer assistants who can be on-call. Are you interested?”

This was it. The point of no return. If I said yes, I’d be lying every day, infiltrating Ryland’s life under false pretenses, risking everything for answers I might not want to hear.

“I’m very interested,” I heard myself say.

Lucky extended his hand. “Welcome to Team Pierce, Emily. You start Monday.”