My Pop Star Best Friend Ghosted Me for 3 Years. I Infiltrated His Team for Revenge… And Uncovered a Deadly Conspiracy

The Dying Dolphin Theory

The cardboard cutout of Ryland Pierce stared at me with that signature smirk—the one that used to mean he was about to steal my fries, but now apparently meant he was ready to sell millions of records. I stood in the middle of the grocery store aisle, gripping a carton of milk so hard the plastic was starting to buckle.

"Look at him," I muttered to no one in particular, though a woman reaching for yogurt gave me a wide berth. "I have this theory that if you remove the background music he sounds like a dying dolphin."

It had been three years. Three years since Ryland left our tiny dust-speck of a hometown. Three years since he promised we’d always be close, only to vanish into the glitz of the music industry and stop answering my calls. Now, he was everywhere. His face was plastered on billboards, his voice infected every radio station, and here he was, blocking my access to the cereal aisle.

My sister, Sky, sighed from behind me. "Eva, please don't start. We just need eggs."

But I couldn't stop. The resentment was a living thing in my chest, hot and acidic. I looked at the cutout again. It was part of his "Summer Sweets" campaign. He looked perfect. Airbrushed. Fake.

"He's a liar," I said, my voice rising. "He's a complete fraud."

I didn't plan to do it. One moment I was standing there, the next I was tackling the cardboard Ryland. I heard a satisfying *crunch* as his two-dimensional head folded backward. I stomped on the glossy print of his expensive jacket, venting three years of ghosting into the grocery store floor.

"Eva!" Sky shrieked.

When I looked up, panting, I saw the manager. And worse, I saw a teenager with a phone, recording the whole thing. By the time I got home, the video was viral. By the next morning, my boss at the magazine called.

"We can't have employees assaulting promotional materials of national treasures, Eva," she said. "You're fired."

I sat on my couch, staring at my phone. I had lost my job, my dignity, and my emotional stability all in one day. And it was all Ryland Pierce's fault. But as I watched the video of myself stomping on his face, a darker, colder idea began to form. If he wouldn't talk to Eva, his old friend from the sticks, maybe he'd talk to someone else.

Becoming Leah

The plan was insane, but desperation is a hell of a fuel. I needed to get close to him. Not to stomp on him this time, but to look him in the eye and make him explain why he threw me away like garbage. I heard through the grapevine—or rather, a obsessively detailed fan forum—that Ryland was hiring a new assistant.

"You can't be serious," Sky said, watching me pull a wig out of a shopping bag. "You're going to stalk him?"

"It's not stalking," I said, adjusting the coarse, brown wig in the mirror. "It's an undercover investigation. I need closure, Sky."

I created a resume for "Leah," a frumpy, efficient, no-nonsense girl who had zero interest in pop music. I bought glasses I didn't need and clothes that were two sizes too big and purely beige. The interview was a blur of lies, but I got the job. Apparently, looking like you have no social life makes you a prime candidate for managing a celebrity's schedule.

The first day was a slap in the face. I walked into the studio, my heart hammering against my ribs, expecting him to recognize me instantly. I expected a gasp, a "Eva? What are you doing here?"

Instead, Ryland walked right past me. He looked through me like I was furniture.

"Coffee. Black. Two sugars," he muttered, not even glancing at my face.

I stood there, holding his schedule, frozen. He didn't know me. It wasn't that he was ignoring me; there was zero recognition in his eyes. He looked tired, thinner than I remembered, with dark circles under his eyes that makeup couldn't quite hide.

"Did you hear me?" he snapped, turning back.

"Yes, sir," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "Coffee."

I watched him walk away. The Ryland I knew—the boy who used to bike with me until sunset, the one who cried when his dog died—was gone. In his place was this cold, hollow stranger. But as I watched him rub his left arm, right over the spot where I knew he had a scar from falling off his bike in middle school, I realized something was wrong. He wasn't just a jerk. He was afraid.