No surprise the next day: Renee called again, sobbing so hard Joy could barely make out the words.
"Colin's breaking up with me."
Joy actually felt a wave of relief. "Good. Honestly? I'm happy for you. Get away from that guy."
"But Joy, I'm devastated… I feel so hopeless…" Renee kept repeating "hopeless" like it was the only word she knew. It broke Joy's heart to hear her like that.
"Hey, listen to me, Renee—"
"I don't want to listen! I love him, Joy. I don't want to break up!" Renee just cried harder, talking over anything Joy tried to say.
Joy pinched the bridge of her nose. There was no reasoning with her right now. "Where are you? I'm coming over. And tell Colin I want to see him too. We need to talk."
That's when Renee dropped her voice to a shaky whisper. "Joy… just give him the role. He's… he's shady. He might do something that hurts you if you don't."
Joy froze mid-step. "What the hell does that mean?"
Renee sniffled, barely holding it together. "I'm not saying this because he's dumping me. I swear. I'm scared he'll come after you."
Joy started pacing. "Renee, I've been in this business long enough. I don't have skeletons bad enough for anyone to grab. My only real mess was that crazy phase everybody already knows about."
"That… that's exactly it," Renee whispered. "That time."
Joy's stomach dropped. "He didn't even know me back then. How would he know anything unless you told him?"
"I didn't! I swear I didn't!" Renee protested, but she sounded guilty as hell. "But… he might've found something…"
Joy's voice turned ice-cold. "Found what, exactly?"
Renee was crying again. "He went through my old camcorder—the pink little Sony I hadn't touched in years."
Joy's blood ran cold. That pink camcorder. The one Renee used back when Joy was at her absolute lowest. Renee loved filming everything back then—parties, meltdowns, all of it. They'd both agreed years ago that thing was a ticking bomb and needed to stay buried.
"I told you to delete everything on that thing!" Joy snapped.
"I did! I thought I did… but Colin apparently took it to some data-recovery guy. He got something back. One video… of you."
Joy gripped the phone so hard her knuckles went white. "Which video?"
"That Christmas in Boston. You said you wanted to 'make memories.' You were… high out of your mind. You can't tell exactly what you took, but there are track marks on your arm…"
Renee broke down completely. "Joy, I'm so sorry. I think I'm starting to realize why he even got close to me in the first place."
Joy just stood there, numb.
She knew exactly what people already said about her—booze, DUIs, wild parties, trashing hotel rooms. Everyone had seen the photos. But drugs? That had always been rumor, never proof.
Because there'd never been proof.
Until now.
She'd been so young. Her adoptive parents died when she was little, her aunt and uncle basically parked her with nannies and forgot about her. Then at 16 she got thrown into Hollywood with zero guidance and all the money and access in the world. Of course she spiraled. Of course she tried stuff—behind Hughes's back, because even then he was trying to save her from herself.
She'd hated that version of herself. She'd worked so damn hard to kill that girl and build someone new. The comeback story. The American Dream.
And now Colin freaking Gallo had a video that could blow it all up.
She knew how this game worked. If she didn't play ball, that footage would leak. She'd end up like early-2000s Angelina—spending millions buying silence every time some old tape surfaced, constantly looking over her shoulder.
Right now, all he wanted was the lead role in her new movie.
Joy wasn't about to hand it over. She'd rather pay him off—a massive check, iron-clad NDA, the whole deal.
But first she needed to look this creep in the eye.
"Get him to meet me. Now," she told Renee. "And Renee? If he magically knew you even had old footage, it's because you let something slip. Think real hard about what you told him."
She threw on jeans and a hoodie and headed out.
Colin was already waiting at the café, looking way too smug, like he'd won before they even sat down.
The second the three of them were at the table, Joy locked eyes with him. "Colin, you're good. I'll give you that. You win this round."
He smirked, all cocky charm. "Honestly? Even I didn't expect Miracle Director to have this kind of dirt."
Joy wanted to reach across the table and slap that grin off his face, but she kept her voice steady. "So what's the price? Just the lead in my movie?"
He sipped his cocktail like they were discussing the weather. "For now."
Joy laughed, cold and sharp. "For now? Big appetite you got there. Let me be crystal clear—this is the one and only time you get to pull this card."
Colin just shrugged. "Your call."
Joy leaned forward, forcing a smile. "How about we do this a different way? I write you a very large check, you hand over every copy of that video, sign an NDA that'll ruin you if you breathe a word, and we never speak again. Sound good?"
He leaned back, amused. "You think I need cash?"
"If the number's high enough? Yeah, everybody does."
Colin actually laughed—like full-on, head-back laughed. It reminded her way too much of Hughes when he was about to destroy someone. "I don't want money, Joy. I want fame."
"Some things are too big to swallow, Colin."
He spread his hands, unbothered. "Your move."
Joy stood up. "I'll think about it."
"I'll be waiting," he said, still grinning.
She grabbed Renee, dropped her at home, then drove back to her place in the Santa Monica mountains alone.
The second the front door shut behind her, her legs gave out. She slid down the wall and sat on the floor, empty.
She was terrified.
Everyone knew the old Joy had been a trainwreck, but she'd rebuilt everything. People believed in the comeback. If that video got out, all of it would shatter. They'd whisper: Did she really get clean? Or is she still using in secret?
In America, you can survive a lot—booze, sex scandals, DUIs—but hard drugs? That's a character stain that never washes out.
She'd said goodbye to that girl. She never wanted to look at her again.
Now she had no choice.
The house was dark, night pressing against the windows. She sat on the rug, staring at nothing.
Eventually she dragged herself to the bar, poured a single glass of red—just one—and forced herself to breathe.
She let out a bitter laugh. "Guess God really doesn't let anybody off the hook. We all pay for the things we've done."
Fine.
She wasn't caving. Giving Colin the role would make her exactly like the girl she used to be—someone who ran, who compromised, who had no spine.
If he leaked the video, she'd face it. Head-on.
You mess up, you get clean, you keep walking forward—that's how life works. The only real failure is making the same mistake twice.
And Joy was done making the same mistakes.