Director Vance shoved the documentary release contract into my hands. On his screen played hidden camera footage from our midnight rehearsal, showing me—driven to the edge by my skin-hunger syndrome—begging him for physical touch under his hallucinogenic scents. To protect my secret husband Julian’s nine-figure endorsement, I made my choice. I drafted the speech Vance demanded for the Cannes premiere. I would publicly announce our divorce and bear the devastating infamy of an ungrateful, cheating wife, sacrificing my acting career completely. The night before the premiere, Julian forced his way into my suite, revealing he had bought off Vance's assistant and knew about the extortion plot. But with my binding signature already in Vance's hands, stepping onto tomorrow's red carpet meant walking straight into a meticulously designed grave.