Fame has a sound.
It's sharp and constant, like glass tapping against glass. Camera shutters snapping. Voices shouting your name as if they own it. Footsteps rushing toward you, not because they care, but because you are something to be captured.
I learned that sound before I learned how to grieve.
"Riele! Riele Anderson, over here!"
The doors of the airport slid open, and the noise crashed into me like a wave. Light exploded everywhere—white, blinding flashes that forced my eyes to sting. I lifted my chin instinctively, lips curving into the smile I had perfected over the years. The one that said I was fine. The one that said I was grateful. The one that said I was exactly who they wanted me to be.
Eighteen years old. International model. Orphan. Survivor.
A story they loved to retell.
I walked forward slowly, my heels clicking against the tiled floor. Every step felt rehearsed, measured. Cameras tracked me like predators, following the tilt of my head, the sway of my hair, the careful confidence in my posture.
No one asked how I was feeling.
They never did.
My aunt, Sandra, walked beside me, her hand hovering close to my elbow in case I stumbled. She wore her calm like armor—polished, strong, unshakable. She had learned, just like I had, how to exist in public without letting the cracks show.
"Just smile a little longer," she murmured without looking at me. "We're almost through."
Almost through.
Those words had followed me my entire life.
Almost through the interviews. Almost through the shows. Almost through the grief. Almost through pretending that losing my parents at six years old hadn't carved something hollow into my chest that never quite filled again.
We reached the car. A black SUV with tinted windows—my temporary escape.
The driver opened the door, and for a brief second, the noise dulled, as if the world had inhaled.
I slid inside and the door shut.
Silence fell so suddenly that it felt heavy.
My smile vanished.
My shoulders sagged, and I leaned my head back against the seat, closing my eyes. My reflection stared back at me from the darkened glass—flawless makeup, styled hair, skin untouched by exhaustion or pain.
A stranger.
"I can't do this anymore," I whispered.
The words came out before I could stop them.
Aunt Sandra turned to look at me, her expression softening. "Riele…"
"I mean it," I said, opening my eyes. My voice trembled despite my effort to steady it. "I can't keep pretending. They don't see me. They never have."
She didn't interrupt. She rarely did when she knew I was unraveling.
"They see a face," I continued. "A brand. A tragic little girl who grew up beautiful and strong. But that's not me. Thats just… something I wear."
The car pulled away from the curb, leaving the airport—and the crowd—behind. Los Angeles stretched ahead of us, wide and glittering, promising reinvention to anyone desperate enough to believe in it.
I laughed quietly. A hollow sound.
Funny how reinvention had always been forced on me.
My parents had been alive once.
I remembered my mother's laugh—warm, unrestrained. My father's hands, always steady, always sure. I remembered the night before their flight, how my mother kissed my forehead and told me she'd bring me something special from her trip.
They never came back.
The plane crash had been on every channel for weeks. Headlines. Speculations. Investigations. Sympathy that faded too quickly.
Aunt Sandra took me in after that. Her daughter, Vera, had been barely older than me. We grew up like sisters—close enough to share a home, distant enough to hide secrets from each other.
Vera didn't know she was adopted.
Some truths were buried for a reason.
"I just want to be normal," I said quietly. "I want to go to school without people whispering. I want someone to like me without already knowing my name."
Aunt Sandra exhaled slowly, staring out the window. "Normal isn't as easy as it sounds."
"I know," I replied. "But I want to try."
The city lights blurred past as we drove toward our new house, our new neighborhood, our new beginning. The move from New York to Los Angeles had been announced as a career decision. A strategic shift.
No one knew the real reason.
I reached into my bag and pulled out a folded document. My fingers trembled as I smoothed it open.
Enrollment papers.
A new name printed neatly at the top.
Ryerson Anderson.
Male.
Age: 18.
I swallowed.
"I don't want to go there as Riele," I said. "Not this time."
Aunt Sandra's eyes flicked to the paper, then back to me. "You are serious."
"I've never been more serious about anything."
She was silent for a long moment. The hum of the engine filled the space between us.
"You know this won't just be a disguise," she said finally. "It'll be a lie you have to live."
"I've been living a lie my whole life," I answered. "At least this one will be mine."
She studied me carefully, as if trying to see past the makeup, past the fame, past the carefully built image.
Past the girl who had learned too early how to survive loss.
"Ryerson," she said slowly, testing the name. "Your cousin?"
I nodded. "Transferred from out of state. Quiet. Ordinary."
Ordinary.
The word felt foreign on my tongue.
"What if you get caught?" she asked.
"Then I deal with it," I said. "But if I don't try… I'll disappear for real."
The car slowed as iron gates came into view. Tall. Imposing. The private academy loomed ahead, filled with students who didn't know me yet. Students who didn't care who I was—who wouldn't scream my name or demand my smile.
My heart began to race.
This was it.
I changed in the bathroom as soon as we got home. Clothes replaced with looser ones. Hair tucked away, hidden beneath a cap. Makeup wiped clean until my face felt bare and unfamiliar.
I stared at myself in the mirror.
Without the lashes, the gloss, the carefully sculpted features, I looked younger. Sharper. Harder to read.
I looked like someone else.
"Goodbye," I whispered to my reflection.
The next morning, I stood at the gates of the school, my backpack slung over one shoulder. My chest felt tight, my palms damp with sweat.
Laughter echoed across the courtyard. Lockers slammed. Conversations overlapped, careless and loud.
No one was looking at me.
No one cared.
Relief washed over me so fast it almost knocked me over.
I stepped inside.
"Hey, you are new, right?"
I turned.
A boy stood a few feet away, tall with dark hair and curious eyes. He smiled easily, like the world hadn't taught him to be cautious yet.
"Noah Rivers," he said, extending his hand. "You look lost."
I hesitated for half a second—then took it.
"Ryerson," I replied. "Ryerson Anderson."
The name felt strange. Powerful. Dangerous.
Something flickered in his eyes, something I couldn't name.
"Well," Noah said, "welcome to chaos."
I smiled.
A real one this time.
I didn't know then that this school would unravel every secret my family had buried. That the past I thought I'd escaped was already circling back. That the lie I wore like armor would cut deeper than the truth ever had.
I didn't know that a boy would fall for the girl I was hiding.
Or that another would chase a lie that would destroy us all.
All I knew was this:
Riele Anderson was gone.
And Ryerson Anderson had just walked into a story that would expose everything.