Hollywood is bleeding, p.1
Hollywood is Bleeding, page 1
Hollywood is Bleeding
HR PENROSE
Copyright © 2022 by HR Penrose
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editor: Zainab @ Heart Full of Reads Editing Services
Cover Design: Cassie Chapman @ Opulent Designs
Author Note
It is my responsibility as the writer of this story to inform you of content that may be triggering. But it is your responsibility as the reader to be aware of your limitations and anything that could negatively affect your mental health.
This book contains content such as: Graphic violence, swearing, sexual content, references to self harm and suicide, heavy themes of mental illness-bipolar disorder, kidnapping, forced proximity, captivity.
It is written in British English.
I’m going to make you happy.
But first I’ll make you strong.
-Life
Book Playlist
Linkin Park & Kiiara- Heavy
Goo Goo Dolls- Iris
Elton John- Your Song
Miley Cyrus- Unholy
Halsey- Graveyard
Pop Evil- Be Legendary
The Weeknd- Hurt You
Sickick- Kill Me Slowly
NF- Paralyzed
Mr.Kitty- Empty Phases
The Weeknd- Escape From LA
Andy Mineo & Lecrae- Coming In Hot
Maroon 5- Animals
Falling In Reverse- Popular Monster
Elley Duhe- Immortal
CHVRN- Delirium
Fat Joe- All The Way Up
Blackbear- Me & Ur Ghost
Unknown Brain- Control
HARLOR- Heart Games
The Rigs- All the King’s Men
PLAZA- Use Me
Michael Sembello- Maniac
Halsey- So Good
Brennan Savage- Bulletproof
Contents
Prologue
1. Paris
2. Paris
3. Paris
4. Reign
5. Paris
6. Reign
7. Paris
8. Reign
9. Paris
10. Paris
11. Reign
12. Paris
13. Paris
14. Reign
15. Paris
16. Reign
17. Reign
18. Paris
19. Paris
20. Reign
21. Paris
22. Paris
23. Reign
24. Paris
25. Reign
26. Paris
27. Reign
28. Paris
29. Reign
30. Paris
31. Reign
32. Paris
33. Reign
34. Paris
35. Paris
36. Paris
37. Paris
38. Reign
39. Paris
40. Reign
41. Reign
42. Paris
43. Reign
44. Paris
45. Paris
46. Reign
47. Paris
48. Paris
49. Paris
Epilogue-Reign
About the Author
Prologue
PARIS
Ever since I could remember, my peers had always pointed me out as different. The children and adults called me stupid because I couldn’t concentrate on school work. The bullying had extended into each foster home I lived in, before being shipped on to the next one, and the next.
Nobody wanted me.
Not one person wanted the girl whose temper and moods were unpredictable, swinging from one end of the spectrum to the other. They had labelled me as crazy because my brain functioned at a different frequency to theirs.
I was unloved.
At eighteen years old, I aged out of the foster system and was promptly shoved out the door with what few possessions I owned crammed into a rickety old backpack. I flipped the stuck-up couple and their teenage daughter my middle finger with a smirk at their shocked faces, strolling away with a skip in my step and nowhere to go. Not caring about their reaction, I was finally free.
Eventually, I lucked out. Somebody discovered me and threw me an opportunity, which I grabbed with greedy, desperate hands.
Working my ass off, I levelled up. Becoming notorious as one of the Hollywood princesses, a famed actress with more money than I knew what to do with, luxury dripped from my perfectly-shaped manicured fingertips. I became well known, coveted.
I was chasing the dream.
But the fairy tale had a few plot holes.
Everything came with a high price attached. The payment due?
My sanity and freedom.
Chapter 1
Paris
I closed my eyes. He held me tight against his body. Tears streamed down my face as my carefully layered makeup smudged his rumpled clothing. My hands knotted in his shirt, wanting to keep him there in the moment with me.
“I can’t do this anymore. It’s my fault.” His voice cracked, and he pulled away to glance at my face. Rough fingers feathered across my cheeks in an affectionate caress.
“And cut!” The director shouted.
I blew out a breath and stepped back from my co-worker Jared with a smile as I wiped the tears away. Crying on demand was a skill I excelled in. All I had to do was think about my poor chances in life before the age of eighteen years old and I was golden.
It probably wasn’t advised. But I was here, on an extensive set, earning myself more money than I could use up in ten lifetimes. It could keep the poorest parts of the state ticking over with luxury until hundreds of years in advance. I wasn’t going to complain.
If I could use what feelings evoked in me, to do my job, why shouldn’t I? I did my greatest work like this. It was why I was recalled time and time again, for a few different movies. But mainly, I’d done stints on some of the popular series that had aired over the years.
It had been eight years since my agent found me. I was living on the streets and using the soup kitchen for the homeless. The same soup kitchen I now funnelled healthy donations to, as a thank you for feeding me when my stomach clenched in pain from the lack of food I’d been deprived of. No job, no money. Nothing.
Out of nowhere, Henry had appeared like an angel, surrounded with heavenly light, and offered me a place to stay for the night. The next morning I’d woken up, eating the cooked food he’d plated up for me before I noticed he was checking me out. Naturally, my defence mechanism kicked in as I sneered, telling him I wasn’t paying with my body. I wasn’t that desperate, not yet. He had simply laughed.
“I don’t want your body, darling. Trust me, ” he said.
I glanced at him, noting the truthfulness pulsing through him. And gave him a look as if to say—well then, why were you checking me out?
“You have that vibe about you,” he said thoughtfully, scrutinising me like I was on display. “And the looks…”
Okay, crazy man, I obviously needed to leave before I got sold on the black market for a range of body parts. They’d probably make more on the organs individually.
“I’ve got an offer for you,” he ventured carefully, finally grabbing my attention.
Turned out he was a knight in shining armour, and I’d been his client ever since. I was now one of his top clients who earned him a ridiculous amount of money.
He was also gay, which I found out once he brought me to his home back in San Diego, and introduced me to his boyfriend, Enrico. It hadn’t taken long for him to become his husband. They’d married in an over-the-top wedding that’d cost a fortune.
I jolted from the memory. So much had changed, but it seemed like no time had passed at all. Eight years ago, he discovered me. Six years ago, I got my big break. I hadn’t stopped since.
“You alright?” Jared voiced kindly.
“Yeah. Sorry, head in the clouds. You know what it’s like,” I placated him, leaning up on my toes and kissing his cheek before I sauntered off to my dressing room.
He didn’t. In fact, no one knew how my mind worked. But I preferred it that way. Only Henry knew, because of the few times I’d needed him to get me out of tricky situations.
Maybe I’d find Jared later for a tangle between the sheets. Or maybe not. The last time I got involved with someone I worked with, it had gotten complicated. Their heart was broken, and it caused an undercurrent of awkwardness until I’d finished that job. Everybody had felt the tension. I’d promised myself from there on out that I wouldn’t complicate my career with personal entanglements.
“Did you get everything?” I asked the director in passing. He was renowned within the industry, one of the best, and classed as royalty even though he didn’t act.
“Yeah. All done, Paris,” he confirmed before shouting to the rest of the set, “It’s a wrap, people!” I whooped and high-fived one of the lighting technicians as he walked past. Loud cheering and shouts filtered into the air on set.
Season three of an ongoing series was complete. It was a romantic comedy, with a modern style theme and more issues than Vogue planted in the scripts. I loved it. They had contracted me for another season, but there was no confirmation yet on when that would be starting.
Shortly after a
Acquaintances, not friends. Never friends. Not a single one.
I was fine with that… most of the time.
Arriving back at my penthouse half an hour later, I greeted the doorman, who’d always given me grandpa vibes. Since I didn’t have one of those, I gravitated towards him and the kindness he bestowed upon me.
My personal bodyguards trailed me up in the elevator before sweeping my apartment and leaving to do whatever they did when they didn’t hover over me like an unpleasant smell. I knew I needed them around for security and protection, but it still chafed at my independence I vowed to myself.
After dropping my handbag on the couch, I kicked my flats to the side to deal with later. Strolling to the fridge, I took out a bottle of ice-cold water and walked across the room.
I slid the glass door wide and stepped outside to the balcony, placing the water bottle on the small table.
I rested my elbows against the toughened clear glass divider, which stopped me from falling hundreds of feet to my death. Only a minor item stood between me and a big fall, nothing really.
Jump… fall… end it.
I shook my head, trying to displace those thoughts, but they never left. Part of my mind always worked against me.
Bipolar Disorder.
A curse vested upon me. I always felt too much.
Closing my eyes for a moment, I breathed in the stifling heat of Los Angeles. The sun scorched my body, bathing me in its seventy degrees Fahrenheit temperature. I had a love-hate relationship with the weather, always wanting the opposite of whatever we were given.
As I opened my eyes, I took a moment to appreciate the view. This was why I’d chosen this apartment, apart from the fact it was an easy distance to most of my jobs. It was stunning. I could see for miles in the distance, even being able to see the Hollywood sign placed on the hills that overlooked LA. A prime location that, when I paid outright for it, nearly caused me to choke on the cost. To this day, it still felt like a dream I was going to wake up from at any given moment.
From the height where I stood, I could see people moving, going about their ordinary lives and daily routines. People could surround me consistently day in and out, but loneliness crept into my veins, trickling slowly through my blood—suffocating me.
No one understood. No one bothered to understand the real me. They saw what they wanted and glanced the other way when they witnessed things they didn’t approve of.
Judgement without knowledge was deadly, a silent sword cutting you on the inside. The weight of that judgement then got loaded onto your shoulders, and people expected you to carry the heavy load around every single day and not buckle under the intense pressure.
“Crazy bitch.”
“There’s something wrong with that one.”
“She’s broken. No one wants that.”
And the best one of the many opinions I heard consistently growing up before and even after diagnosis: “Positive thinking.”
Yes, because obviously, I’d never considered that myself. Clearly, scientific studies were wrong when there was a proven chemical imbalance in my brain. It couldn’t be cured, just medicated, and you had to learn to live with it.
Because thinking happily with positive thoughts cured mental illness issues. Assholes. A broken leg didn’t heal from those beliefs, so why did society think it was acceptable to claim that the largest and most complex organ in the human body—the brain—would be any different?
Yes, of course it works. I clucked my tongue on the balcony, then grabbed my bottle of water and took a refreshing sip.
It was always the Karens of the world. Sometimes, I felt a tinge of sympathy for the weight of expectation now given to a person named Karen. But I was positive that out there in the big wide world, they were gathering and fighting back with their own mini support groups with slogans about being singled out because of their birth name.
One day, they’d fight back publicly, rise and reclaim their name as something victorious. Something that would have the future generations naming their children after them with pride.
Until then… fucking Karens.
I returned to the living area, closing the glass door behind me and let the air-conditioned temperature soothe my skin. Then I made my way to the drawer of doom. Basically, a drawer that I threw all my essential items in. Most people had one, and if they didn’t, they were way too organised to be a part of my life.
Popping open the bottle lid, I shook two tablets into my palm, closing my fist around them before putting the lid back on. I shut the drawer, placing them on my tongue and downing them with the rest of my water.
I stuck out my tongue, shaking my head. I hated taking any type of medication, but from past experience, not taking it was throwing myself into the wilderness and taking months to trawl back through the overgrowth to make it back to safety. It wasn’t worth it.
I relied on the mood stabilisers; I wasn’t ashamed of that. I saw it in the same way as somebody with high blood pressure needed medication to reduce the effects. Still, my preference would have been a childlike liquid that tasted of strawberries or cherries.
With a few hours to spare before needing to get ready, I shuffled to the royal-blue crushed velvet couch and kicked up my legs next to me. Clicking buttons on the remote, I pulled up a supernatural series I hadn’t caught up on in a while.
“Blinds close,” I called out, and the blackout blinds slowly crept down the glass doors and windows, blocking the sun's reflective glare so I could enjoy the series in cinema style. Got to love modern technology.
I loved the robotic assistant that lived with me. It was fairly depressing that I enjoyed the company of a device that wasn’t a real person. But at least she was consistent, sometimes even cracked a few jokes. I named her Bestie… because, well, enough said.
A few hours later, my virtual assistant notified me of the time, and I groaned, clicking off the TV and reopening the blinds. I wandered into my bathroom, my reflection staring back at me from every angle.
Grabbing my skincare items from the mirrored cabinet, I placed them on the side for after-use, as I fingerprinted every few inches of the mirrored vanity that spanned one side of the bathroom. Dirtying it up.
My cleaner laughed often at my strange action, many times throwing the cloth at me to buff it out myself. Everybody had a stain attached to them somehow, no matter how easily it seemed to wash away.
Chapter 2
Paris
The Hollywood circle was at least eighty percent fake. People fawned over you, telling you how beautiful you were, then proceeded to turn around to stab you in the back.
I was escorted through the front of Revolution as my security cleared a path to the VIP area for our end of season wrap-up party.
They could get wild, out of control. Especially with most people taking a working breaking before moving on to their next job, or season to restart. So, for now, I was an open book and looking forward to a breather before the craziness started again.
The sound of my Louboutin heels clicking on the tiled flooring was unable to be heard, as the music pounded through multiple speakers in the club. Heads turned to look my way, recognising who I was as cameras flashed. I gave a polite smile, weaving my way up the stairs past the club guards who gave me a nod, allowing me and my personal guards through.
