“Change it?” I want to laugh, and the cat’s ears airplane back because my voice is high and brittle. “You’re kidding, right? What can I do? I just want to make a difference. I just want to be part of movies that mean something—”

My voice catches in my throat as I remember Harper’s words: Sometimes the stories we need…

Natalia gives me a keen look.

“I have to find Imogen,” I whisper, and I order the driver to pull over. I’m somewhere in the outskirts of Atlanta, I can call a taxi to take me back to the convention, but Natalia motions for her driver to keep going. “Ms. Ford, I need to get back to the convention—”

“I would suggest you check the diner on the corner of the next street.”

I look at her blankly.

She produces a smartphone from her purse and turns it on. She shows me a gossip site—and its lead photo.

Imogen and Vance Reigns.

“I think you need to save her.”

“Starflame!” I hiss, and before the car even stops I’ve shoved the door open and am hopping out. “Thank you!” I call over my shoulder, and she waves dismissively until I close the door and the car moves on.

I can already count three of those cockroaches encroaching on the diner, and from the look of it, Imogen has no clue. Of course she doesn’t. I should’ve told her to stay away from Vance Reigns. That bloodsucking social climber will do anything to get ahead.

It occurs to me a little too late that I never prepared Imogen at all for being me, because though she might look like me and can imitate my voice, she doesn’t have the years of accumulated knowledge of who to trust and who to steer clear of. And she definitely doesn’t understand how to handle these sorts of situations.

But Jessica Stone does.

I whirl around to the paparazzo who had been following Natalia’s car and motion for them to pull over. I have an idea—it’s an awful one, and Ethan would definitely not approve, but I don’t have time for a better plan. The skies have brightened and it’s only drizzling now, and the city has become so humid that the air sticks to me like a tongue.

The paparazzo pulls over and a window rolls down to reveal a woman in her midtwenties, her hair swirled up into a bun atop her head. She pops her gum and lowers her heart-shaped sunglasses. “Miss Stone, you know I only park illegally for you—”

“Can I ask you a favor?”

“I’m sorry, did you just say you need to ask me for a favor?”

“I’ll give you an exclusive. A photo no one else’ll get. I just need you to help me out.” I glance over to the other paparazzi. “Can I get in?”