Chapter 1
The producer’s son, a playful 7–year–old, smudged the lead actress’s dress. Enraged, she had him strung up in a harness under the
scorching sun.
I intervened, but my director boyfriend did nothing–especially after Victoria purred, “Sun helps children grow. It’s for his own good.” He even shoved away the nanny trying to rescue the boy.
Trembling, I called 911 and cooled the child with ice water. When Mr. Blackwood arrived, I begged him not to ruin my boyfriend’s career. He agreed–but someone leaked the footage online. Victoria, branded a monster, jumped from her balcony.
Grateful, Blackwood signed me to his agency. Then, during a “romantic” beach stroll, Trevor shoved me into the ocean. “Why play hero?” he snarled. “Victoria would be alive if you’d stayed quiet!”
I drowned. Fans mourned the “grieving” director, funding his next hit.
When I woke again, I was back on set–the day the boy hung in the harness.
My eyes snapped open, and I was thrown headfirst into chaos.
Brett Blackwood, the producer’s seven–year–old son, was suspended in mid–air, his small body swinging gently in a wire harness. His face was ashen, sweat beaded on his forehead, and soft, broken moans escaped his lips.
My boyfriend Trevor, the fil
director, stood nearby, his face a mask of impatience. “This little brat is just trying to cause trouble!”
he roared to the crew. “Ignore him! I’m teaching him a lesson about consequences.”
My heart seized, as if an invisible hand had clenched it into a fist. I staggered back a step, my nails digging so deep into my palms that the sharp pain sent a shiver through me.
It was only then that I truly understood.
I was reborn. I was back on the day Victoria had the crew string up the producer’s son.
In my past life, this was the exact moment. Brett had simply taken a wrong turn and accidentally scuffed Victoria’s pristine gown. As “punishment,” he was strung up to appease the film’s star. I, fearing for the child’s life, had ignored Trevor’s fury and the crew’s
cold stares and called 911.
But my “kindness” was seen as nothing more than a self–serving stunt. It wasn’t until the producer himself, Damian Blackwood, stormed onto the set that we all learned the terrifying truth: the child dangling from the harness was his son.
Now, watching it unfold again, I saw Brett’s breathing grow more ragged. Victoria stood a short distance away, her perfectly made-
up face a portrait of cold indifference.
“Look at him, what an actor,” she sneered. “If he was really so fragile, he wouldn’t have had the guts to disrupt our set in the first
it, would we?”
place. If he hadn’t ruined my dress, we wouldn’t be wasting time waiting for the wardrobe department to fig
Trevor’s expression, already grim, darkened like a thundercloud. On a film set, every wasted minute
- ey.
“Everyone, forget about him!” Trevor commanded. “We’re moving on to the next scene! Now!”
mountain of wasted mon-
