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

The Escape from the Amusement Park

They didn't take us to a police station. They took us to an abandoned amusement park on the edge of the city. It was a rotting skeleton of joy—rusted rides creaking in the wind, faded clowns grinning maniacally from peeling posters. They shoved us into a maintenance shed and locked the door.

"Great," I said, kicking a rusty bucket. "Kidnapped by the music mafia. This is exactly how I imagined my reunion with you."

Ryland was sitting on the floor, head in his hands. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I really don't remember you, Eva. But… I feel like I should."

I sat next to him. "It doesn't matter right now. We have to get out of here."

"Why?" he asked hopelessly. "Lucky has my mom. He has everything. I can't fight him."

"Yes, you can," I said. "Because you're not alone anymore. You have me. And I'm really, really pissed off."

We found a loose grate in the back of the shed. It was tight, but we squeezed through, crawling into the damp darkness under the park. We emerged near the old Ferris wheel. The moon cast long, skeletal shadows through the metal beams.

"Wait," Ryland grabbed my arm. "Guards."

Two men were patrolling near the exit. We had to move. We scrambled up the structure of the Ferris wheel, the metal groaning under our weight.

"I'm afraid of heights," Ryland hissed.

"Since when?" I shot back. "You used to climb the water tower for fun!"

"Since I lost my memory!"

"Well, get over it!"

We shimmied across a support beam, dangling thirty feet in the air. Below us, the guards passed by, flashlights cutting through the gloom. We dropped down on the other side of the fence, rolling into the tall grass. We ran until our lungs burned, until the rotting park was just a silhouette behind us. We were free, but we had nothing. No phones, no car, and a pop star who didn't know who he was.

Ugly Girls are Invisible

We needed leverage. We needed proof. Ryland remembered something—Lucky kept a ledger. A physical book where he recorded the black money transactions. He didn't trust computers.

"It's in his home office," Ryland said. "But his house is a fortress. Biometric locks. Fingerprint scanners."

"We need his fingerprint," I said.

"How are we going to get that? Ask him nicely?"

"No," I said, a plan forming. "There's a gala tonight at his mansion. A pre-tour party. We're going to crash it."

"They'll recognize us instantly," Ryland argued.

"Not if we look like the help," I said. "And not if we look… unappealing."

I managed to steal some supplies from a 24-hour drugstore using the last of the cash in my pocket. I bought fake teeth, theatrical putty, and a dark brow pencil.

"This is ridiculous," Ryland said as I applied a massive, hairy mole to his cheek.

"Trust me," I said, shoving a set of crooked fake teeth into my own mouth. "Because ugly girls are invisible to Lucky. Trust me, you don't want to look pretty around him. He only sees what he wants to possess. If we look like trash, he won't even register our existence."

We infiltrated the catering staff. I was 'Brenda,' a server with a severe overbite, and Ryland was 'Jose,' a busboy with a unibrow and a slouch. It worked. We walked right past Lucky in the main hall. He looked right at me, grimaced in disgust, and looked away.

"Champagne, sir?" I mumbled, spraying a little spit.

"Get away from me," he sneered, wiping his sleeve.

Perfect.

Our target was a glass Lucky was holding. He was nursing a scotch, his fingers wrapped tight around the tumbler. I signaled Ryland. The plan was simple: bump and grab.