I take the ice pack gratefully and press it against the side of my face. I don’t think I have a concussion, but this is exactly why I don’t do my own stunts. I hiss as the cold cloth touches the growing bruise on my cheek.

How am I going to explain this to Ethan, or Diana, or at the pressers I have after this convention?

Thankfully, I have makeup. I guess.

My pursuers had quickly helped me up from my faceplant and are now squatting beside me. Well, the waifish guy in the witch’s hat is leaning on his umbrella, looking down at me as if he can’t quite figure out who I am. But I am most definitely not “Monster.”

I hate conventions.

“What happened to the Nox King?” asked the burly one to his friend.

Umbrella Guy shrugs. “He jetted as soon as she bit the floor.”

“Typical.”

I hate conventions.

At this rate, I’m more likely to blow Imogen’s cover than find the jerkoff who stole my script, and that has me very annoyed.

PS – Can you guess where I am? A surprise might be coming soon if you can find me!

It’s like this person wants to be found, and I’m afraid if someone does find them, they’ll reveal that the script was mine. Do they want to publicly humiliate me? Sic every living Starfield fan on me and drive me off the internet à la Star Wars? They’re already on the road to doing that if my Instagram comments are any indication. I can just imagine some greasy dirtbag riling the masses to get me annexed because how dare I even try to live up to their dear, beloved Natalia Ford?

Was that their plan all along?

My fingers curl tightly around the ice pack. I can’t let these strangers see me lose it. Breathe.

The broad guy with the curl of silver hair studies me. “So…it’s clear you’re not Mo…”

“But she looks familiar, doesn’t she, babe?” asks Umbrella Guy, giving me a long look. He has a jade earring in his right ear and strikingly dark eyes. He twirls his umbrella around his wrist. “You know, if I didn’t know better, you kinda look like—”

“I’m no one,” I interrupt.

“No one’s no one,” replies the muscular guy.

“Then it’s none of your business,” I snap and rise to my feet, gathering my strength even though my cheek is still throbbing and all I want to do is crawl back into my hotel room and watch reruns of Project Runway.

Maybe all of this is just one horrendous nightmare, and I’ll wake up soon and not have to worry about any of it. The stars will align and I’ll be Jessica Stone again, hating Starfield but solid in my career. Or maybe Starfield will be the nightmare, and I’ll wake up—