Love beyond Deception

Ana’s POV *About 20 hours from now…* Seventy-five missed calls. Six hundred and thirty-four unread emails. One hundred thousand new i********: followers, up from eight thousand yesterday. "Already?" My voice was barely a whisper, a mixture of disbelief and excitement. My palms were dripping, and my heart began pumping adrenaline instead of blood. I was finally somebody. As I walked through the wide hallway of Brandon Private Hospital, heads turned. Patients and visitors angled their phones to capture selfies with me, like I was a goddess. I felt like Hera—a Greek goddess descending from Mount Olympus onto a red carpet. Until the hospital intercom shattered my illusion: "Five more premium nurses are needed at Herod Crackstone's quarters. He is awake..." My heart stuttered. Sun of a gun! My pupils widened. My stomach flipped. My knees buckled slightly. And yes, I let out an unapologetic fart. I didn't care who heard it. I farted whenever I was tense. "I'm a dead woman with a Brazilian wig." *… 20 Hours Earlier* San Francisco, California. A city that looked harmless on the outside but carried lots of unsuspecting secrets. I have lived there all my life. I would be twenty-four the following day with nothing to my name apart from a secondhand Tesla and an up-and-coming acting career. We all start from somewhere, right? I have a degree in Theater Arts from San Francisco State University and a natural talent for pretending life makes sense. My family was involved in a car crash on the Golden Gate Bridge when I was 10 years old. We were pulled out of the Golden Gate Strait, which connected San Francisco Bay to the Pacific Ocean. My dad's body was never found till today! I never knew if he made it out or not. His body just disappeared like a needle in a haystack. I thought about him every day. His encouragement: “Dream big, Ana. One day, the world shall recognize your potential.” "Please sit up and concentrate on the driving," my car’s polite robotic voice interrupted. "God bless autonomous vehicles," I mumbled, wiping drool from the corner of my mouth. 6:15 p.m. "Already?!" My windows were up, thank God, or someone might've called security on the crazy girl shouting alone in her car. Hollywood Boulevard shouldn't have had traffic this bad. It was a wide road. Smooth. Predictable. What went wrong? I was heading to Brandon Private Hospital to visit Selena, my childhood best friend. The girl who braided my hair in high school, covered for me when I snuck out at night, and slapped sense into me every time I dated a loser. But she didn't like it when anyone outshone her in school. Perhaps she outgrew all that childish jealousy and envy. She was full of wisdom and advice. “Be kind, not nice,” she would say, whenever I kept others first instead of myself. She had an infection to treat. Bad case for a woman. She told me not to come, that she would be fine, but I didn't listen. "You're too available to people, Ana," she'd warned the previous week before we went to a hook-up club: "One day it'll backfire. You give and give until you run dry." Well, as the traffic crept forward, I spotted a scene ahead on the other side of the road. A silver McLaren was acting like it was in a James Bond movie. Maybe it was. I was on Hollywood Boulevard and anything was possible. It got slammed by an Audi speeding to outrun a police van. The McLaren twisted, tires screeching, metal screaming. The driver was slowly trying to stay in the lane. “Oh my God!” I pulled up and tried to rush towards the scene. Something in me always chased after trouble, thinking I could help. The McLaren attempted to chase the Audi but probably lost control of its steering, and suddenly spun in my direction. I tried to sprint away—faster than the twin-turbocharged V8 engine, hopefully—but the car was uncontrollably faster. It might have caught me halfway as it hit a light pole. The Asphalt. My face tasted the dust. My body. Vibrated. The impact. Then came the sound that reminded me of the blast on the Golden Gate Bridge. The Golden Gate Strait where my father's body was never recovered. One explosion. One terrible day. One bridge that took my joy. Even now, whenever I cross that bridge, I hold my breath. "Oh no!" The McLaren's front kissed my secondhand Tesla in a painful-looking crash. My chest imploded at the sight of my first car, which took me six years of pain and sacrifice to buy. Dust. Smoke. Sirens. Screams. My vision was blurred. Then darkness… covered the earth. AT THE HOSPITAL "Breaking news: billionaire Hollywood superstar, Herod Crackstone is allegedly reported to be in a coma in a hospital after a ghastly acci..." "Turn down the volume, Doc. Don’t wake her up." "I think she's awake. Her ear twitched." I laid still, like a cobra waiting to strike. "Is she even qualified to be in the same room as Herod Crackstone?" "She’s a human being too. And what if they were together?" "This is a VVIP section, mate. No one knows about her.” “She deserves the luxury treatment too, Doc." I swallowed something thick and bitter. Where am I? Slowly, my senses returned, like vacationers creeping back home. The smell of disinfectant. The beep of machines. The cold bite of air conditioning. I cracked one eye open. Real blinding light. Not the type The Weekend sang. Brighter. People in white coats stood in a distant corner. And one of them looked my way. "She's not the one in a coma, Doc." "Just a head injury and bruises." “She simply can't afford these VVIP bills.” “Are you paying for her huge bills?" "Doesn’t matter. Maybe Crackstone’s team will pay for it.” As I heard footsteps approaching, I kept still. Like a sleeping dog waiting to be disturbed. “Hello, ma'am. I know you're awake. How do you feel now?” I kept mute. Thinking he would leave so I could have more time to process what was happening. "The paramedic said you, Herod Crackstone, and one other person had an accident. The other person passed away, unfortunately." "But were you all together?" I opened my eyes. It was a beautiful hospital space like I was in a spacecraft. A man stood there. Calm. A perfect gap in his teeth. "Can you speak, ma'am? What’s your name?" "Ana," I replied, voice low. He smiled and nodded. "Do you know that man? He's in a coma. You were found at the accident scene near his crashed Mclaren." A flash of memory: the news report. My brain flashed back. I smiled like I knew what I was doing. I had to answer him: the truth and continue living in my shadow, or a lie; and step into the premium luxury Hollywood presented me with. Maybe not all accidents are accidents in life. "That's my boyfriend– Herod Crackstone." I saw the doctor's eyes burning white and still, his mouth– wide. "Oh wow! … Ugh, ugh… we didn’t know you're the girlfriend he's been hiding from the media for years now." “We're still kinda private.” He raised his hands in surrender. “I'll be back, Mrs Crackstone.” He stepped out. Mrs Crackstone? That sounded like a name I could kill to bear. Who didn't know about Herod Crackstone in Hollywood? I was sure I couldn't afford the hospital bills at that point. And I overheard them saying VVIP. Someone had to pay for it. Not me, I didn't hit myself. I turned and faced the man in the distant bed. He looked quite untouched. Like someone wrapped in clean money and quiet power. I tried to reach out and gently touch his eyebrow but we were far apart. "Thanks for saving me. Or... letting me be found beside you." Then I heard more footsteps. Doctors. Marching in like stewards of the Most High on a Sunday morning during Mass. "We’ve been working tirelessly to keep you alive, ma'am. Thank goodness you’re awake." "Isn’t that your job?" I thought, without a second thought–still replaying their earlier conversation. "Is there anything we can offer you?" I tilted my head and sat upright. "I want to get up from this bed." "Count on us. Would you like a tour of the VVIP section? It literally has everything. Might be what you need to relax." I nodded. They left. I saw a new pair of white slippers by my bed, waiting like loyal guards. I gently walked to the side of the man in a coma for a closer look at his soul. The face of Herod Crackstone–my favorite TV role model. I stared at his peaceful face. The machines. The mysteries that lay ahead of me. And the possibilities. "Let me borrow your life," I left a whisper. Then I turned back, slipped into the white slippers, a nd stepped out like Hera on her way to conquer a war. This was not my usual minor acting role on small stages. A complex role. A new life. A new lie. Let the performance begin.