Chapter 1

The smell of antiseptic and burnt flesh filled my nose. It was a smell I knew well from my work, but I never thought it would be my own.

My last memory was the roar of the fire on set, a wave of heat, and then darkness. Now, I was in a hospital bed, a mummy of bandages and pain.

Matthew Scott, my senior colleague, was in the room across the hall. The news called him a hero.

They said he was badly burned trying to save people. I knew the truth.

He was just trying to save himself and got caught.

My one hope was an experimental skin graft program. The "magic flower," they called it. A miracle cure.

I pulled every string I had, called in every favor from a decade in the industry, and secured the last spot. It was my only chance to live.

Then Jocelyn Chavez walked in.

My protégée. I found her, trained her, paid for her acting classes when she couldn't afford them. I saw her as a little sister.

Her eyes were red.

"Andrew," she started, her voice trembling.

"They said you got the spot. The skin graft."

I managed a nod, the effort sending a jolt of agony through my body.

"You have to give it to Matthew," she pleaded, her words a gut punch. "His face... his career... he' s a leading man, Andrew. You' re... you work behind the scenes. He needs his looks. He needs this more."

I stared at her, trying to find the girl I mentored. All I saw was a stranger.

"Jocelyn... I' m dying," I rasped, the words tearing at my throat. "Without it, I die."

"But Matthew' s career will die!" she cried, as if that was the same thing. "He' s a star. Please, Andrew. For him."

She didn' t see me. She saw a stepping stone for the man she was infatuated with.

The handsome, charming Matthew who never lifted a finger for her, while I had given her everything.

She didn't wait for my answer. She left, and a few hours later, a nurse told me the spot had been "reallocated" based on a request facilitated by Jocelyn, citing Matthew' s "greater public value."

I died that night, alone, listening to the news praise Matthew Scott' s bravery.

My last thought was of Jocelyn' s face, not full of sorrow for me, but of hopeful devotion for him. The betrayal was the last thing I felt. It burned hotter than the fire.

Then, I jolted awake.

The acrid smell of a smoke machine, not a real fire, filled my lungs.

I was standing on the set of the disaster movie, "Fault Line." The controlled chaos of the crew buzzed around me. It was a year ago. The day it all started.

A stunt had just gone wrong. A controlled explosion that wasn' t so controlled. Two extras were caught too close.

I saw Matthew, his face a perfect mask of concern, rushing toward them. He knelt beside the one who was mostly just scared, a pretty girl with fire in her eyes.

"Are you okay? That was a close call. You' ve got the look of a fighter," he said, his voice smooth as silk. That was Nicole.

Then he glanced at the other girl, the one with a real, bleeding gash on her leg and a dislocated shoulder, wincing in genuine pain. He pointed her out to me, his charming smile never faltering.

"Andrew, my man," he called out. "Looks like we' ve got two damsels in distress. Why don' t we each take one? I' ll handle this one, you get the other one sorted out."

He was pointing at Jocelyn.

I looked at her. Her face was pale with pain, but her eyes, her star-struck, hopeful eyes, were locked on Matthew. She hadn' t even noticed me.

In my first life, I' d agreed. I' d taken on the "trouble" of the injured Jocelyn while Matthew charmed the uninjured Nicole. I' d seen it as helping someone in need.

Now, I saw it for what it was. Matthew avoiding the actual work, the actual responsibility, while still getting to play the hero.

This time would be different.