I’d been grinding it out on a reality talent show for two and a half years. Singing, dancing, rapping, running errands—I did it all, and I still wasn’t getting noticed. The day before our debut showcase, Arthur Pierce, the chairman of Summit Entertainment, summoned me. It turned out that his precious daughter—the one I ran errands for, the one who suppressed me at every turn and stole my resources—was a fake. I was his real daughter. Only later did I realize he was just looking for me to clear his conscience. The one they truly adored was still the impostor. Whatever. I was just in it for a career. A rich, powerful family? Like I give a damn. 1 For two and a half years, I’d been a face in the back row of this brutal talent competition. I sang, I danced, I rapped, I did every odd job imaginable. My screen time was earned by photobombing, my social media buzz was fueled by me retweeting and commenting on my own posts. As a total nobody, I was still the one hustling to bring hot water to the divas in the center spots right before a performance. Sometimes, I even had to pay for my own stage makeup out of pocket because the artists couldn't be bothered with me. I was used to it. With no one backing me, I knew I’d never make it to the center. I treated it like free training, and the cash I made from side gigs was a nice bonus. My plan was set: after this final showcase, I was packing my bags, taking the escape fund I’d saved up, and switching careers to become a video editor. But I never saw this coming. The day before the final performance, Arthur Pierce, the chairman of Summit Entertainment himself, suddenly asked to see me. My first thought was that I’d been caught sneaking fried chicken backstage and was about to be fired. Instead, his first words were, “You’re my daughter.” I froze, thinking it was a promo for some new, twisted reality show. Seeing my blank expression, he coolly slid a document across the table. “I’ve already had the DNA test done. It was a mix-up at the hospital eighteen years ago.” “Molly isn’t my daughter. You are.” My mind blanked. Molly? Molly Pierce? The girl poised to debut in the center position, the one whose name was always trending, the one the show had branded as its “angelic sweetheart”? The same Molly who, just a few days ago, had me hauling backdrop props for her rehearsal? The one who’d glare at me during filming, silently warning me not to steal her lines? She was the fake? And I was the real heiress? So what were all my years in foster care? Just a cosmic joke? Bad luck? A bitter laugh almost escaped me. “So… are you going to kick her out?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Arthur Pierce’s brow furrowed. “Kick her out? Don’t be ridiculous.” “Molly grew up with us. She is a part of this family. That will never change.” He stared at me, his tone flat, business-like. “We’re acknowledging you now to right a wrong, to find closure. Not to start a media circus.” “As for your identity, we’ll keep it confidential for now. Don’t tell anyone, and don’t disrupt the atmosphere on the show.” He sounded so sincere, like a programmer dispassionately fixing a bug in his life’s code. “I’ll speak with the production team. They’ll treat you fairly. But resources can’t be reallocated recklessly.” “Especially anything that’s Molly’s. She has a massive fanbase and a solid reputation. You should watch her and learn.” “You need to learn how to adapt.” I got it. This so-called family reunion was just an exercise in managing emotions and moral obligations. Finding me, their biological daughter, was just to satisfy their sense of humanitarian duty. No big deal. I didn’t care about any of that anyway. The news barely registered a ripple in my heart. What I cared about was debuting and making money. “So, can I still compete?” I asked. He gave me a look. “Of course. But you should understand that she is the one the company is promoting.” “You, on the other hand, should lay low for a while. After the show ends, the company can find another path for you.” Another path? Her understudy? The B-list backup? Or maybe just pushed behind the scenes for good? I nodded. “I understand.” 2 Molly cried for a full afternoon backstage. The rumor was she’d heard the news about the real heiress returning during a company meeting and had a complete meltdown. I had just finished my own rehearsal and went to the break room for some water. There she was, slumped on a sofa, her eyes puffy and red, surrounded by a court of sympathizers. “Don’t be sad, Molly. You’ll always be Summit’s princess.” “You’re the one who grew up with them, who shared everything. She’s just… genetics.” “Exactly. How could someone who’s been gone for so long be closer to the family than you?” The “family” included my supposed older brother, David, Summit’s top director and the mastermind behind a dozen hit shows, and my second brother, Daniel, the VP in charge of talent and finance, a bona fide business mogul. I glanced over. David was sitting beside her, sighing. “Molly, don’t overthink it. Mom and Dad are torn up about this too. They just feel like they owe her something.” “You’re the only sister we’ve ever known.” “If you choose to give her some of your resources, that’s you being kind. She wouldn’t dare push it.” I was about to turn and leave when Molly’s gaze snagged on me. She called out, her voice a fragile whisper, “Stella…” My feet stopped. I turned to face her. She stood up, her voice choked with emotion but soft as silk. “I had no idea you were the real daughter. I… I just couldn’t process it. It’s not about you.” She took my hand, her grip surprisingly firm. “I’ll… I’ll start stepping back. I’ll talk to Mom and Dad, I’ll make them understand.” Her performance was perfectly timed. A cameraman, documenting her emotional turmoil, captured the moment she reached for me, her expression a mask of heartbroken nobility. David nodded at me. “Stella, don’t get the wrong idea. She’s just emotional. She doesn’t hold anything against you.” “For now, just cooperate and film a short video. Clarify that you two are on good terms so the fans don’t speculate.” “Your identity isn’t public yet. Don’t let this create drama for the show.” I looked at the whole pathetic scene. “So what’s my role in this little play?” Daniel spoke up. “The bigger person. Hurt, but reasonable and mature. You’ve had acting lessons.” “If you can’t pull it off, don’t embarrass yourself on stage,” he added coolly. “Dad is giving you a chance. You should be grateful.” Wow. For a guy who’d directed so many flops, he sure knew how to write a script. Molly dabbed her eyes with a tissue, a single, perfect tear clinging to her lashes. She looked so beautifully fragile. “It’s okay if you’re angry with me, Stella. I get it. I’ll… I’ll try to stay out of the spotlight from now on. You’re the real one, after all.” My head was buzzing. How had I never noticed how fake she was? A two-faced, manipulative snake. Was it because I was so insignificant before that I never got close enough to see the real her? Probably. The media machine, as expected, moved at lightning speed. In no time, the headlines were everywhere: #MollyPierceInTearsVowsToStepAsideForTrueHeiress #MollyPierce:SheIsTheRealDaughterIWillNotCompete #HeiressStellaLaneResponds:ThankYouForLettingMeHaveAFamily I… what? I never said that! They were putting words in my mouth! And didn’t they just say to keep my identity secret? Now they were blasting it all over the internet? Underneath the trending topics, Summit Entertainment’s official account had shared a post with a quote from my "mother": 【We never intended to abandon either of our children. We hope everyone will give Stella time to grow.】 The comments section was a war zone. “Wow, what a spin job. Is Stella Lane really that cold?” “Molly is the one they raised. Stella has no class.” “I heard Stella is a real monster behind the scenes. Stop the act.” I was exhausted. The internet mob was eating it up. I closed the app. I hadn’t been back in the practice room for three minutes when a new message from Daniel popped up: 【Your performance in ‘Wall of Glass’ is canceled. You've been moved to the B-team as a backup dancer for ‘First Light.’】 Just brilliant. Molly was performing "First Light." They wanted me to be her backup dancer. I typed back: “I thought you said all I had to do was cooperate. What is this?” He replied instantly: “Your cooperation wasn't good enough. You’re not in a position to be demanding resources.” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I opened my email and downloaded the demo for a song no one ever picked. “Shattered Bloom.” It was a scrapped project from a previous season. The emotions were too raw, the choreography brutally explosive, the lyrics a tangled mess. It was an eight-minute, non-stop marathon for a single performer. No one dared touch it. No one wanted to. I chose it. I didn't need their hollow affection. Oh, right. There was no affection. I just needed a stage. After all, my goal was to debut and make some serious money. 3 Everyone knew “Shattered Bloom” was a cursed song. A difficult stage, dense choreography, complex lyrics, and a huge emotional arc. The last group that tried it fell apart, the lead singer’s voice cracked, and the company pulled the plug. It was considered one of the show’s biggest failures. It was left to rot in the digital archives, only mentioned as a cautionary tale. I dusted it off. The moment I submitted my choice, the music library manager tried to talk me out of it. “Stella, are you sure? No one can pull this song off. A whole boy band crashed and burned trying to perform this.” I just smiled. “No harm in trying. Think of it as a warm-up.” The production team approved my request, their faces a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity. I expected to be forgotten, but half an hour later, #StellaLanePicksCursedSong was trending. The comments exploded: 【Is she insane? ‘Shattered Bloom’? Is she trying to become a living meme?】 【Molly just announced she’s doing ‘First Light,’ and Stella picks this? Is she trying to lose on purpose to make a statement?】 【Tsk, tsk. So this is the real heiress. All drama, no substance.】 Then came the wave of coordinated comments, clearly paid for: 【Molly steps aside and this is how she repays her? Picking a flop song just to spite her?】 【She has no grace. All she knows is how to stir up trouble.】 I stared at the screen and let out a cold laugh. It hadn't even been twelve hours. How did the entire internet already decide I was the villain? Unsurprisingly, a "leaked" voice memo from Molly’s fan group chat surfaced late that night: “Stella’s personality might be a bit… intense, but she’s a really hard worker. I support her choice to perform ‘Shattered Bloom.’ She probably wants this stage more than I do.” One part "she's a hard worker," one part "I support her," and a final, devastating "she wants it more than I do." Just like that, she was the gracious, magnanimous victim. And I was back on the trending list: #StellaLane:ISnatchYourStageForYourOwnGood #MollyPierceInTears:I'veNeverBlamedHerSheIsTheRealFamily Hilarious. They were so good at writing scripts, I felt I could be a showrunner myself. The next day, my "brother" David showed up. He didn't call. He stormed right into my rehearsal studio, acting like a concerned older brother checking in. I was in the middle of deconstructing the choreography, tweaking the tempo, and syncing the beats on my laptop. He stood in the doorway, his face a thundercloud. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” “I’m rehearsing.” “You’re embarrassing Summit Entertainment.” He killed the music, his voice low and threatening. “‘Shattered Bloom’ is beyond you. Are you using it to attack Molly? To force her out of the industry?” “She already offered to step aside, and you’re still pushing her? Do you have any idea she cried so hard last night we almost took her to the hospital?” I wiped the sweat from my brow, ignoring him as I opened my audio software. “Her crying has nothing to do with me.” David’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea who you are now?” he hissed. “We made your identity public to give you a place, not for you to start a war.” “You’re a public figure now. You represent the company. You represent us.” “Are you trying to make enemies of everyone? To make the entire world hate you?” I stopped what I was doing and looked straight at him, my voice calm. “Then, for now, I don’t represent you.” “If you want to spoil her, go ahead. I won’t fight you for it.” “But I won’t yield, either.” “I don’t need you to acknowledge me, and I refuse to play ‘happy families’ for the cameras.” “I just want to perform on my own stage. Even if I fail, at least it won’t be because I accepted her pity.” David was stunned into silence. He’d dealt with difficult artists before, but never someone like me. Someone who knew her resources were cut, her screen time was limited, and her reputation was being systematically destroyed. And still charged forward. “You keep this up, and you’ll be torn to shreds by the public.” “Fine by me.” I offered a faint smile. “At least I’ll go down with dignity.” He finally turned and left, tossing one last threat over his shoulder. “You’ll regret this.” I sank back to the floor and went back to work on the music. If I wasn’t welcome, I’d carve out my own space. And this time, I was going to make it big. 4 On the day of the “Shattered Bloom” performance, everyone backstage looked at me like they were watching the final seconds before a train wreck. “Are you really going through with this?” the makeup artist whispered for the seventh time. I sat in the wings, my in-ear monitors silent, mentally running through the choreography one last time. No one had come to touch up my makeup; I’d done it myself at 2:30 AM the night before, and my face felt stiff from the absurd amount of setting spray I’d used. All I said was, “How will I know if I don’t try?” The lights went down. The opening notes of “Shattered Bloom” filled the auditorium. The performance began with twenty seconds of absolute stillness, my rhythm dictated only by the rise and fall of my breath. I closed my eyes and sank into the music. The entire venue was silent. Not out of tension, but out of shock. For eight minutes, I transformed the song. I took the original’s jarring emotional shifts and rebuilt them into a layered crescendo of power. Every pause was a breath held, every explosion of movement landed like a punch to the gut. A hair whip, a vocal run, a backbend, a perfectly controlled mic grab, a final, haunting look back. I was rock solid. When I hit my final pose and the lights went dark, a wave of delayed applause erupted, mixed with shouts and screams. “WHO IS THAT?” “IS THAT STELLA LANE?” “THAT WAS INSANE!” As I walked off stage, the contestant next to me was still staring, dumbfounded. “Girl,” she said, “have you been secretly training for this your whole life?” I wiped away the sweat and gave her a small smile, saying nothing. I hadn’t been training secretly. I had been training all along. It’s just that no one was watching. The first thing I did backstage was open Twitter. As expected, #MollyPierceGivesUpAnotherSpot and #AngelicSweetheartStepsBackForSister were trending in the top five. I tapped the screen, looking for a VOD of my performance. “Shattered Bloom” Full Stage: Stella Lane. My entire performance was shown in silhouette, from a distance, or from behind. My face? Not a single shot. Close-ups? Deleted. Even my final, defiant gaze at the camera was gone, replaced with a shot of Molly backstage, silently dabbing a tear. And a new trending topic was pinned: Molly Pierce: I Don't Blame Her, My Sister Is So Talented. I watched the clip, my expression unreadable. I picked up my phone and logged into my personal account. Ten minutes later, I posted a simple message with a photo of me from behind, scrubbing the floor of the practice room late at night: 【Scrapped song, remixed. Every front-facing shot, deleted. Thanks, production team. It’s fine. I’ll keep dancing until you run out of ways to erase me.】 Within five minutes, the post had ten thousand likes. The comments were flooding in. Twenty minutes later, #StellaLaneFaceDeleted shot to number nine on the trending list. Fifteen different dance critics shared my post. “If you didn’t see the real performance, just wait. I’ll edit it together for you.” #ShatteredBloomRemixIsGodTier #EightMinutesNoBreaks #MySoulLeftMyBodyYouHadToBeThere I turned off my phone, lay down on the cold backstage floor, and closed my eyes. They wanted me to be the counterpoint to their star? Fine. I’ll show them what a counterpoint can do.
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