Page 10 of Filthy Rich

But this isn’t about me.

It’s for Octavia, someone who will absolutely never defend herself, not over something like this. I could tell in the car—heck, I could tell the moment we met. Before I have time to second-guess myself, I plug my phone in, shut off the lights, and go to sleep.

For once, I don’t have a single nightmare. Maybe that’s my reward for doing the right thing.

Chapter 3

Octavia

I was seven years old when I was cast as Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.

My mom, whom I expected to be overjoyed, was very, very angry. In fact, when I came home and told her the news, she kicked the wall so hard that it left a small hole.

When Dad came home from work that day, she told him I caused the damage by throwing a video game controller—I didn’t even play video games. At the time, I thought she was upset because she’d have to take me to so many rehearsals—Dorothy had to be at every one.

Now I’m not sure why she was so angry.

People are funny, with their conflicting hopes, dreams, and fears. I can’t imagine ever being upset about my own child’s success, but maybe the world changes you. Maybe once I have a child, watching my kid do what I’ve failed at will upset me.

Mom loves to sing, but her voice has never been more than serviceable. Instead of being happy when my ability was praised, the older I got, the more my ability seemed to upset her.

Until a wig stuck to my face and caused my burns.

While I was recovering, she got me singing lessons. In some ways, that might have been the single most critical event of my life. It’s what took me from having a decent voice to having a phenomenal one. Thanks to my disfigurement, I no longer got cast for any musicals, so my mom didn’t get upset that I was doing better than her. I never showed her up again. How could I? I was just the poor, sad little burned girl with the lovely voice.

It’s all I’ve ever been since that day.

People call me hideous or a monster.

When they meet me, all they see is my face. They always focus on the very visible manifestation of the worst moment of my life. In fact, when Eddy confirmed that Patrice Jouveau would be singing for the album alongside Jake Priest, I felt relieved. There’s no way that doing something so visible, something so exposed wouldn’t result in a million comments, interactions, and incidents just like the one where Patrice called me ugly. I know their reactions say more about them than they do about me. That’s the whole point of the song, after all. But it still stings.

Every single time.

No one wants to be called ugly.

When I wake up, the morning after getting the news that I wouldn’t be performing for the movie album after all, I start to pack my bags. I definitely won’t miss living out of a suitcase. Being here in Hollywood has been an amazing experience in many ways. But being in a place that’s all about appearances is even harder when you look different.

I’m more than ready to get home.

I’ve nearly packed everything when I hear a banging on the hotel front door. I’m absolutely sure it’s Bea. She literally never remembers to take her key when she goes out. I’m still wearing my pajamas, plaid button down and pants, but I whip the door open without a second thought.

Bea storms past, but then she pivots and glares at my plaid pants. “Girl, why aren’t you ready? You can’t mean to go in that.”

Maybe she did notice.

“Go where?” My eyebrows rise. “If I’m not going to be recording, I don’t need to go. . .” Unless. . . Does the studio still want me to do the voice, while Patrice is just the face?

“Um, we’re going in to the recording studio, duh. Have you not checked social at all?” She smacks her head. “I forget sometimes that your Instagram account has one photo—a bouquet of lilies—and you never check it.” She whips out her phone. “Look.”

I’m a little confused, but I pull it up. “Did I post something last night? Or did you?” But there’s nothing. I didn’t post, and neither did she. “What exactly am I supposed to be?—”

“I didn’t think anyone could be worse at this than me. Gimme.” She grabs my phone and holds it in front of me like she’s doing a tutorial. “You tap here, and you see where people have tagged you.”

I frown. “But why would?—”

But there are dozens of tags—more than dozens. Hundreds.

“What is all that?”

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