“You can still play your mother’s role,” he said coldly. “That is… if you don’t mind that whenever the audience sees her on screen, the first thing they’ll remember is you, sprawled out on a bed.”
The phone slipped from my hand and clattered to the floor. My knees buckled, and I crumpled down with it.
The trending page lit up my screen. My name was everywhere, twisted and mocked.
I broke down and cried until my chest ached.
Then my phone buzzed again. This time, it was an old, trembling voice on the other end. “Isla? I heard… your mother’s biopic is finally starting production? When’s the premiere? We want to fly back and watch your first performance.”
My hand shook so hard I almost dropped the phone again. But I managed to say, “They… they put my private photos online. I can’t act in it anymore.”
“What?!” That steady, familiar voice turned into a roar of anger.
When I forwarded him the entertainment headlines, he practically spat through the line. “Huh! Does he think all of your mother’s comrades are dead? That we’ll just sit by and let some kept woman trample on her daughter’s name? Isla, don’t be afraid. Every one of your mother’s old colleagues will return. We’ll stand behind you.”
