Chapter 4

The first official activity of *Hollywood Family Fun* was, predictably, a communal meal. Lunch. Prepared by us, the "families."

Chad, eager to reassert dominance after our earlier exchange, immediately took charge.

"Alright everyone," he announced, clapping his hands with forced enthusiasm. "I'm thinking a nice, light, vegan quinoa salad. Super healthy, super LA. I can handle the quinoa. Brittany, you're on veggie chopping duty. Leo, you can... uh... find some plates."

He conveniently ignored me. Other families, a mix of has-beens and never-weres, mumbled agreement, clearly intimidated or just wanting to avoid conflict.

Leo looked at me, a question in his eyes. I gave a tiny shake of my head.

I had no intention of being bossed around by Captain Runner-Up, nor did I plan on subsisting on rabbit food for a week to fit his idea of a "team-building exercise."

"No thanks," I said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Chad stopped mid-stride. "Excuse me?"

"I'm not really a quinoa person," I said pleasantly. "And I don't recall signing up for a culinary boot camp. I'm on vacation."

Brittany sneered. "Oh, I'm sorry, is cooking too *strenuous* for you, Miss Mock Trial Champion?"

"Not at all," I replied. "I just prefer my food prepared by professionals. And not to be ordered around by someone whose primary qualification seems to be a silver medal in a casting call."

A few of the other guests gasped. One older character actor, a Mr. Johnson who'd seen it all, chuckled quietly into his hand.

Chad's face tightened. "This is a *family* show, Ava. It's about cooperation. Doing things together."

"Is it?" I asked. "Or is it about creating forced scenarios for ratings? I'm happy to cooperate when it makes sense. This doesn't."

I pulled out my phone. A few taps later, I looked up.

"My lunch will be here in about forty-five minutes," I announced. "Michelin-starred Italian from that place in Los Olivos. I ordered extra. Anyone who prefers pasta to a lecture on the virtues of kale is welcome to join me."

I specifically looked at Sierra, a young country singer with a guitar and a shy smile, who was looking particularly unenthusiastic about Chad's quinoa. And Mr. Johnson, who winked at me.

Chad was practically vibrating with indignation. "You can't just *order takeout* to a reality show set! That's... that's cheating!"

"Cheating at what?" I asked. "Starvation? I'm using my own money. It's not affecting the show's budget. Unless the producers want to make a segment out of 'Ava Hayes Enjoys Delicious Carbonara While Others Suffer Through Bland Grains.' I'm fine with that."

Brittany was sputtering. "You're so... so... entitled!"

"Probably," I agreed easily. "But I'll be entitled with a full stomach."

Leo looked horrified, thrilled, and terrified all at once. He kept glancing between me, Chad, and the nearest camera.

The producers, after a hurried, whispered conference, apparently decided this was ratings gold. No one tried to stop my delivery driver when he arrived.

The aroma of truffle pasta and garlic bread soon filled the air, starkly contrasting with the sad bowl of quinoa Chad was now disconsolately stirring.

Sierra and Mr. Johnson happily accepted my invitation. Even one of the cameramen looked longingly at my plate.

Chad and Brittany ate their quinoa in stony silence.

I made sure to savor every bite.