Bigstar

Spring 1994, Los Angeles, USA "Josie Horton!" "Look at the goddamn trouble you've caused me!" As her vision came into focus, Josie saw a man roaring at her. He appeared to be in his forties—an ordinary-looking white man with light brown hair, a bulky frame, wearing a black suit that suggested a corporate professional, but the cheap fabric and his obese physique betrayed his lack of success. Josie's mind automatically supplied the man's name: Richard "d**k" Good. He was Josie's agent. Currently, Josie was among the nameless actors at the very bottom of Hollywood's food chain. She glanced at the gesticulating agent and the shabby cubicle behind him reeking of disinfectant. The blue curtains and basic medical bed marked it as an ER bay. Her elbow stung with medicated road rash, while the IV site on her hand felt icy under the adhesive bandage. She raised an eyebrow imperceptibly. Minutes earlier, Josie had been in a country on the other side of the globe when—"BOOM"—a speeding luxury car collided with a truck broadsiding it. The expected agony never came. Opening her eyes, she had become Josie Horton—an American girl who held a winning life script but had squandered every advantage. Thank God, no broken limbs or disfiguring scars. The only question: Who was she? Was she "Josie" or "Josie Horton"? Regardless, being alive was glorious. Without lengthy introspection, the bedridden Josie embraced her new fate as Josie Horton's brief life unfolded before her: Josie Horton was sixteen, strikingly beautiful, but otherwise unlucky. At five, she witnessed her mother's suicide due to her father's chronic infidelity. Her maternal grandparents, devastated by their daughter's death, perished the following year. Mr. Horton's business subsequently expanded, and Josie moved from the Upper West Side to the Upper East Side. But the increasingly affluent life brought no joy. Her Upper East Side classmates sneered at her "Upper West Side" origins, her old friends drifted away, and her empire-building father ignored her school struggles. Her closest companions were nannies, her father's rotating assistants, and endless extracurricular lessons. Then in February last year, a sudden terrorist attack panicked New York. Mr. Horton, the Wall Street banker, faced raids by the DOJ, FBI, and IRS—assets frozen, himself jailed on multiple charges. Meanwhile, Josie was persuaded by her mother's friend Janet Mills to transfer from Manhattan to Santa Monica, fleeing New York's painful memories. There, she met the pimp masquerading as an agent now standing before her. Josie's gaze sharpened, locking onto d**k Good's face. d**k flinched under her oppressive stare as if throttled by an invisible hand, then roared louder to mask his unease. "Do you realize what you've ruined, Josie?" d**k loosened his tie, hands on hips. "You think opportunities fall from the sky? I begged countless calls to get you into Steven Seagal's party! All you had to do was drink—no one laid a finger on you—and look how you reacted!" He piled accusations onto her: "Storming out of the party, drunkenly crashing into a car, getting hospitalized, making me apologize at midnight—is this what you want, Josie Horton?" Normally, this tirade would leave the girl guilt-ridden. Today, she stayed silent. It was profoundly abnormal. "Ha." d**k heard a brief, cold laugh. He raised his brows impatiently, only to see Josie arch hers with a smile utterly divorced from naivety. Sharp. Aggressive. A blatant sneer. Josie's brows lowered, her arched eyelids and thin smile declaring: "Next time, save such 'opportunities' for Miss Jessica Good. I'm sure she'd gladly bed old men for a few lines in their films." Her words flowed slowly, her tone melodic and gentle. Dick stood frozen, questioning his hearing. For the first time, this i***t dared retort. Previously, she'd cower and obey his "suggestions" at the slightest raised voice. Without coercion, he'd already made her bleach her hair and starve herself. Reshaping her "ugly nose" was next. The sudden shift left d**k dumbfounded. Seconds later, rage erupted. "f**k! Do you know what the hell you're saying?" He unleashed a two-minute profanity storm before snarling: "How dare you speak to me like that, you little bastard? You think you're anything but a pretty face? Who do you think you are?" Propped on the bed, Josie tuned out the vulgarities, utterly calm. She waited expressionlessly until his tantrum ended, then fixed him with glacier-blue eyes—a bucket of ice water dousing his fury. Her voice remained even: "And who do you think you are, sir?" She lifted her gaze, staring directly. d**k's heavy breathing faltered, eyes widening. For a moment, he felt his darkest motives laid bare under that gaze, shrinking involuntarily. He averted his eyes hastily. This fool was entirely different. Dick tugged his tie again, muttering: "I'm your agent. You have to listen to me..." "Oh, you're fired." Josie gestured gracefully with her right hand. "Now please leave. Thank you ever so much." Dick should have been angrier. But meeting Josie's transformed gaze—sweet face now radiating "ruthlessness"—he inexplicably lost his shouting courage. He'd met stars, yet none chilled him like this girl. But why should Josie Horton be so arrogant? Because of that has-been model Janet Mills? Yet Mills showed little care, even hinting he introduce Josie to "bad boys"—suggestions he'd deflected. Good girls were easier to handle than cool ones. Thinking this, d**k attempted a conciliatory smile. "Hey, I admit I overreacted. My apologies, okay?" He softened, shrugging. "But don't you want Steven Seagal's new film? It's a blockbuster sequel's lead role—instant fame." Instant fame? Simplistic and insulting. "Understand this: I'm an actress, not a child p********e. You've enraged me beyond repair." Josie felt nauseated. "I won't waste time on your kind. My lawyer will handle termination." Dick's fake smile froze. He watched Josie tilt her chin, hands folded, face etched with arrogance—terrifyingly convincing. —But Josie Horton? Impossible! "An actress? So what? Everyone pays their dues!" d**k threatened: "You think I'm scared? Your contract's still mine! Want out? Pay a million!" Josie rolled her eyes openly: "A million? For pimping or shamelessness? You deserve nothing—that contract lacks my guardian's signature. Leave now, or get thrown out." Yes, under eighteen, Josie legally couldn't sign alone—a fact shady agencies ignored. Legally, the contract was void. Dick's face darkened, ready for another impotent rage. Josie gave no chance. She pressed the call button, stating coolly: "Don't look so shocked. I'm simply done. Surprise, asshole." Flipping him off, she felt her chest tension ease. Dick stood stunned. This defied everything he knew of Josie Horton. Footsteps approached—damn, the blonde bimbo meant it! He retreated, snarling: "This isn't over, Josie." Josie retracted her hand, sneering: "Get lost." Silence returned. A nurse glanced at d**k's fleeing figure before asking if Josie needed help. Josie requested a phone and, ideally, computer access for urgent emails. The ER's young doctor lent his brand-new IBM ThinkPad, granting Josie thirty minutes' access. Half an hour proved brief with dial-up's glacial speed, yet sufficient for Josie to grasp her situation—The Qiao family from her memories still existed, now led by an estranged uncle. Her original parents had died in a honeymoon plane crash, erasing her previous identity. Josie concluded she'd entered a slightly skewed parallel universe. Since arriving, she must adapt. Immediate problems demanded solutions: 1. She wore only a thin tank dress. Her phone (most valuable possession) and wallet were missing. 2. Though Mr. Horton was jailed, her mother's family trust ensured survival. But her current home housed uncomfortable housemates—needed relocation. 3. To continue acting, she required a new agent. 4. Most urgent: contact her lawyer, whose number she couldn't recall without business cards. Josie massaged her temples. The Qiao family's second daughter—waited on by bodyguards and maids until college—now vexed by trivialities! Plus, she was cash-poor. Yes, her trust fund held millions, but prohibited lavish spending before adulthood. Sky-high estate taxes necessitated trust funds. At six, Josie inherited $26 million—mostly inaccessible until 18/24, with minor portions managed (poorly) by her father. Now frozen amid his legal troubles. Sigh. Some "rich people" couldn't produce a penny from their pockets...