3... 2... 1... Love? Go!

It’s never fun seeing your own naked ass plastered all over the internet, but there I was. My agent was sitting across from me, her laptop angled so I could watch the humiliating scene unfold. As if living it hadn’t been enough. Worse still, when the video ended, it immediately replayed itself, dragging out the embarrassment. After I’d counted every freckle on my bare skin, I’d had enough of the torture. I reached out, slammed the laptop shut, and then leaned back in my chair.

“That could be anybody,” I said.

“Oh yeah?” she challenged, then pulled something from her drawer and tossed it in front of me. Enlarged frames—freezes from the video—showing me running bare-assed, wearing only a bra. Why the bra and not panties? Well, when you’re caught with your pants down, you don’t think straight.

“Well, that, um…”

“That’s you,” she interrupted. “I can clearly see your face and that little scar on your back that I remember you got on a movie set when a prop malfunctioned.”

Scars and tattoos were supposed to reduce the risk of trafficking, right? Apparently, they’re just as good for identifying celebrities sprinting naked across someone’s backyard.

“I should have found a way to get that scar removed,” I muttered bitterly.

“That’s not something to joke about, Caroline,” she said, folding her hands.

Oh God, here comes the speech, I thought. But to my surprise, she stayed silent, just staring.

“What?” I pressed.

“What on earth were you thinking?” she inquired.

“It’s not my fault!”

“Then whose is it?”

“I’m not the one who’s married. He is!”

“And trust me, Tony’s name is all over the internet too. But we still live in a world that mostly blames women. And since you kept seeing him, knowing he was married, you’re the one in front of the firing squad.”

“But I’m still not the one who’s married!” I exclaimed. “It’s not my fault she can’t make him happy.”

“And that right there is why no one’s got any sympathy for you. Even you blame the wife, while Tony boy here”—my agent pulled up a photo of that handsome Italian I’d been seeing for weeks—“gets off the hook.”

“That’s not fair,” I murmured.

“No, it’s not. But this is exactly why, instead of firing shots at each other, you and Marina need to focus on the one it’s meant for.”

“Too bad. I’d rather not see his pretty face ruined by bullets. There’s a reason I slept with him.”

My agent kept a stone-cold expression, clearly unimpressed. I sighed and slumped deeper into my chair.

“It’s not my fault,” I sulked.

“It is now, especially since you were caught fleeing the scene when his wife came home early.”

“How was I supposed to know the neighbors would film me? I thought people in Hollywood had each other’s backs!”

“Not when it comes to cheating. Sources say they called her home early,” my agent informed me.

“Great!” I exclaimed, throwing my arms up. “No more fun.”

She raised an eyebrow, folding her hands again. “Do you know what they’re saying about you online?”

“Yeah, homewrecker,” I spat.

“Which you are.”

“He’s the one cheating!”

“That doesn’t make things better. But no, I mean before this. Want me to read you some comments?” she taunted.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” I mumbled. But it was too late. She leaned back in her swivel chair, looking every bit the queen in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and took on a casual tone.

“Caroline Dawn is the coldest person on the planet.”

“I’m not sure that commenter knows every person on the planet,” I shot back.

“Caroline Dawn is all face, no talent.”

“Rude.”

“Caroline Dawn seems like an ice queen.”

“I am a queen.”

“Caroline Dawn looks like someone who goes around stealing candy from kids and laughs about it.”

“Well, that’s not very nice!” I exclaimed.

“Do you know how many comments are like this?” she asked, setting her phone down.

“A hundred?”

“Try thousands.”

“I’m sure not all of them are bad.”

“It’s enough.”

“For what?”

“For giving you a horrible reputation. And do you know what people don’t want to work with?” she goaded.

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” I mumbled.

“Someone like this,” she said, holding up her phone, showing me a picture of myself with thousands of nasty comments below it. “We have damage control to do.”

“Fine! Shall I just go online and tweet how sorry I am and that I’m a girls’ girl?”

“No,” she replied firmly. “No one would buy it. But I have a better idea.”

“What idea?”

She turned her laptop and started typing. Her eyes sparkled with determination, sending a chill down my spine. What had she planned? Then she smiled and showed me what she’d pulled up. I took a moment to read, then shook my head in disbelief.

“No! Absolutely not!” I jumped up. “I’m not going on any dating shows. That’s for losers, people with no real talent who use sex and drama to get noticed!”

“Well, this isn’t that kind of show,” she assured me.

“What kind is it then? Survivor?”

“No, it’s a romance show. But you don’t have sex on camera.”

“Not Too Hot to Handle, then?”

“No, not that either. This is new, focused on genuine connections. Sex isn’t forbidden, but it’s not aired either. It’s all about pure love.”

“Pure love?” I echoed skeptically.

“That’s the title.”

“Pure Love?” I repeated.

“Yes.”

“And how’s that supposed to help me?” I asked, still not seeing the connection.

My agent leaned back, smiling. “Right now, everyone thinks you have no respect for love or marriage, that you’re cold-hearted and can’t commit.”

“I’m not,” I murmured.

“And that’s exactly what we’re going to prove wrong. Find someone on the show, build a real relationship, and show everyone there’s more to you than wrecking a marriage.”

“But I’m not married!”

“It doesn’t matter. The internet sees what it sees, and you’re in the hot seat. So it’s either this or risk never seeing your pretty face on screen again.”

A wave of fear washed over me. My face? Gone from the big screen? No, that couldn’t happen. What would become of me? My fans? Who would they worship if not me? I glanced between the program and my agent, torn. But how could I stoop to such a show?

“So?” she pressed. “What’s it going to be?”