Off-Script

Evelyn’s POV

Los Angeles wasn’t what I thought it would be. That’s always how it is, isn’t it? The young, naive girl leaves home, thinking she’s going to be the first eighteen-year-old in history to find paradise. But it turns out the L.A. they sell you on social media doesn’t exist. Or if it does, I never found it.

What I did find was a cramped studio apartment in Koreatown with peeling paint on the walls and neighbors who loved to blast reggaeton at three in the morning. The bathroom sink leaked constantly, and no matter how tight I twisted the knobs, there was always that annoying drip-drip-drip. The air conditioner rattled like it might give up at any moment, and the windows didn’t open properly, which made the room unbearably stuffy most nights. Every time it rained, water pooled in the corner by the radiator, creating a little puddle that I always, inevitably, slipped on in the morning. The smell of takeout wafted in through the thin walls no matter how many sandalwood candles I burned, and the overhead light cast this sickly yellow glow that made everything, including me, look terrible.

But it was mine. I’d paid for it with my own money, earned on my own terms, and that was more than I’d ever had before. I hung a few thrift-store art prints on the walls to make it feel less depressing, tossed a brightly colored throw over the lumpy futon I called a couch, and convinced myself it was “bohemian chic.”

The first few weeks were harder than I’d expected. Influencing, as much as it seemed like just posing for photos and answering thirsty DMs, turned out to be a full-time hustle. I’d wake up early to chase the right morning light in my apartment, snapping dozens of photos to find the one that didn’t make my walls look as grimy as they were. Afternoons were spent editing—brightening my skin, softening my features, smoothing out the shadows under my eyes from long nights.

The captions were their own beast. Too funny, and I’d lose the sexy angle. Too sexy, and I’d look like I was trying too hard. I agonized over every emoji, every hashtag. The algorithm was fickle, like some invisible god who decided whether I’d get 10 likes or 10,000, and I spent hours watching YouTube tutorials on how to please it.

The influencer deals weren’t exactly pouring in. A boutique jewelry brand sent me a choker that turned my neck green, and a skincare company sent me samples so tiny they didn’t even last a week. One startup offered me $50 and a free bag of detox tea if I’d promote their product, and I took it. I wasn’t in a position to say no, even though it did kind of make me feel sick.

But none of it was enough to cover rent, let alone utilities or food. I could stretch a box of ramen for a week, eating it plain for dinner and sprinkling in an egg on special nights. The gas station on the corner sold two-for-one energy drinks, which became my breakfast more often than I’d like to admit.

OnlyFans was still what paid the bills. It wasn’t glamorous, but it worked. And if I’m being honest, I was good at it. I knew how to make people look at me—knew how to arch my back just enough, how to let my hair fall in a way that looked effortless but wasn’t. The camera liked me. Or maybe just the men who watched did. Either way, they paid.

At first, I told myself it was temporary. Just until the influencing side took off. But the money came faster on OnlyFans, and the bills didn’t stop. So I leaned into it. I started posting more, investing some of the cash into better backdrops and cheap lingerie that looked expensive when the lighting was right. I set up a ring light in the corner of my room, positioning it just so to blur out the water stains on the wall behind me.

It felt degrading sometimes—posing for men who called me names in the messages they paid extra to send, or who asked for things I’d never even heard of. But I was willing to do whatever it took. Because even when it felt like a lot, it still felt like forward motion. And that was the only direction I was interested in.

The hardest part was keeping the two sides of my life separate. Influencing and OnlyFans. The girl who posted quirky stories about her day and tagged brands couldn’t be the same girl whispering dirty words to a camera for tips. So I built a wall between them. Separate accounts, separate photos, separate me.

Still, there were nights when I’d sit on the lumpy futon I called a couch, scrolling through Instagram, wondering if I’d made a mistake. The girls I followed—models, influencers, actresses—they all seemed like they were living in a different city than I was. They were eating at Nobu, lounging poolside in Malibu, posting stories from rooftop bars with twinkling lights and sweeping views of the skyline.

Meanwhile, I was eating ramen straight out of the pot—because why dirty a bowl?—and angling a cheap lampshade I’d found at a thrift store to soften the yellow glare of the overhead light. But giving up wasn’t an option. I’d already left everything behind—my family, the Bronx, the girl I used to be. I couldn’t go back, so I leaned in harder.

I learned how to sew. Not well, but enough to turn hand-me-downs and clearance-bin finds into outfits that looked intentional. A cropped hem here, a few sequins stitched there, and suddenly a ten-dollar dress could pass for vintage couture in a grainy Instagram post. I told myself it was creative. Really, it was a strange form of survival I was just starting to understand.

I learned how to fake angles in my apartment, too. That peeling corner of the wall by the window? It became an “urban chic backdrop.” The one shelf in my kitchen that wasn’t cluttered with mismatched mugs and instant noodle packets? I styled it into a minimalist corner for product shots. The trick was never showing too much, cropping the frame just so, leaving the rest to the imagination.

Slowly but surely, my work began to pay off. A skincare brand sent me their full product line, and I posted an unboxing video that racked up a thousand likes in a day. One of my selfies went semi-viral—semi being the keyword—and an indie magazine account followed me. A producer’s assistant DM’d me once. He wasn’t offering me work, but he was offering drinks, and that felt close enough to progress.

Then came the email.

It hit my inbox late one evening, after I’d spent an hour debating between two almost identical shots of myself for my next post. The subject line read, Collaboration Opportunity. At first, I thought it was another pitch from a small boutique or one of those rip-off subscription-box companies. I got plenty of those. But when I clicked it open, the sender’s name made me sit up straight: La Perla Marketing Team.

Dear Evelyn Hugo,
We’ve been following your profile and love your aesthetic. We’re currently seeking fresh faces to model our upcoming line and think you’d be a perfect fit. Please let us know if you’re interested, and we can arrange a call to discuss further details.

Best regards,
The La Perla Team

I read the email three times to make sure I wasn’t imagining it. La Perla. Not some no-name startup with cheap fabrics and bad lighting—La fucking Perla. I couldn’t even afford their clothes and they wanted me to model.

Holy shit.

I didn’t even let myself hesitate. I hit reply, my fingers flying over the keyboard. It was stupid but I didn’t even reread the email for typos. I just wanted to reply as quickly as possible. 

The next morning, I got a reply with details for a Zoom meeting with their team. I spent the rest of the day preparing like I was walking into an actual audition. What do you wear to a meeting with La Perla? How do you look polished but approachable? Sexy but not too much? My closet didn’t exactly scream “luxury lingerie model,” but I pulled together what I could.

When the time came, I sat in front of my laptop, my hair smoothed to perfection. I’d chosen a tailored black blouse with a neckline that dipped low enough to hint but not give too much away—bold but still careful.

By the time the call ended, I’d agreed to an initial shoot in their L.A. studio. They’d handle hair, makeup, and styling, and I’d be paid more for one day of modeling than I’d made in the past three months combined.

I hung up and stared at my reflection in the black screen of my laptop. I could hardly breathe. This wasn’t just a collaboration. This was validation. Proof that all the nights of editing photos and hustling for attention hadn’t been for nothing.

Evelyn Hugo was finally becoming someone worth noticing. 

•••

The La Perla photoshoot was the first time I had stepped inside the world I’d spent so long staring at from the outside. The studio was impossibly bright and everything was clean and sharp, from the crisp white walls to the polished concrete floor. People dressed in all black moved with purpose, adjusting lights, straightening hangers, clicking pens against clipboards.

I was led to a makeup chair, where a woman with purple hair and silver rings on every finger worked on me like I was a human canvas. Her hands were gentle but quick, painting my skin with precision that felt almost surgical. Another assistant fussed over my hair, teasing it into soft waves that brushed against my shoulders. When the stylist arrived, she held up a delicate set of green lace lingerie—barely there, impossibly expensive. I slipped it on and caught my reflection in the mirror.

For a second, I didn’t recognize myself.

“You’re up,” someone said, and suddenly, I was standing in front of a camera the size of a small suitcase. The photographer, a wiry man with glasses perched on the end of his nose, barely seemed to notice me at all.

“Alright,” he said, barely glancing up from his monitor. “Show me something.”

The first few clicks were painful. My body felt stiff, my movements awkward, like I’d forgotten how to stand. But then I remembered all those hours in my apartment, posing in the dim light of my thrift-store lamp, angling my chin to catch the softest part of the glow. I let my shoulders relax, tilted my head, and found that place in my mind where confidence lived. Where Evelyn Hugo lived.

“Ah,” the photographer said. “Yes, there. Hold that. Perfect.”

The camera clicked in rapid bursts, each flash burning the air around me. I arched my back slightly, let my hair fall forward, then looked directly into the lens. His tone shifted as the shoot went on, his instructions more like encouragement. “Good. Beautiful. Don’t move.”

When it was over, I was sweating. The studio lights were as hot as they were bright. The photographer gave me a nod, the closest thing to approval I figured he ever offered, and said, “You’ve got a look, kid. Don’t waste it.”

•••

The photos dropped a week later. I opened the file on my phone, and there I was.

The lingerie, delicate but structured, didn’t just fit me—it defined me. My body looked intentional in a way I’m not sure it ever had before, outside of my own mind. I swiped through the images slowly, one by one, studying every pixel. I wasn’t surprised by how good they were—not really. I knew I was stunning. I’d known that for a long time.

But seeing it so plainly, so polished and undeniable, still made me pause. There’s a difference between knowing and seeing it reflected back at you, stamped into permanence.

I forwarded the images I wanted to post to the La Perla team and waited for their approval, though I knew there wouldn’t be much critique. Then, I posted a single image to Instagram with a simple caption: For you.

The likes came first, ticking upward faster than I could refresh. Then the comments rolled in—compliments, fire emojis, people tagging their friends and writing things like, “This is the energy I need in my life.” A handful of small accounts reposted it to their stories, then a mid-tier fashion page reshared it with a caption that read, “The next big thing?”

By the next morning, my follower count had jumped by 15,000. Brands started appearing in my DMs. A swimwear line offered me a campaign shoot in Malibu, and an indie jewelry brand wanted to send me pieces for free “to keep the aesthetic going.” Even La Perla sent a follow-up email, hinting at future collaborations.

It was working.

But with the attention came the inevitable.

The comments about my body started almost immediately. People couldn’t stop talking about my chest.

“They don’t make women like this anymore,” one wrote. “Modern-day Sophia Loren,” said another. Then there were the snipes: “It’s all Photoshop.” “She’s trying too hard.” “I’m so over influencers like this.”

I read every comment, even the mean ones, but they didn’t cut me up. The way I saw it, they were all saying the same thing: they couldn’t stop looking.

And I liked that. I liked the way they couldn’t pull their eyes away, even if some of them pretended they wanted to. I liked the power in it, the way I controlled the narrative without even trying. Every like, every comment, every repost wasn’t just attention—it was proof that I was on their minds.

I’ve never been one for alcohol or smoking or drugs. But I was addicted to the attention. I can say that now, looking back on my younger years. It was a true addiction.

I posted more shots from the photoshoot. The captions stayed simple: A glimpse, or Stay tuned. My Stories became a curated mix of behind-the-scenes peeks and casual moments—coffee on my windowsill, a walk through Griffith Park, a low-cut top catching the last bit of golden hour.

The brands kept coming. By the end of the month, I was signing a small modeling contract with a local agency. It wasn’t high fashion, but it was steady work—catalog shoots, e-commerce campaigns, paid gigs that let me start saying no to the lowball offers.

The money started to make a difference. I upgraded my futon to a real couch, replaced my cheap ring light with a professional setup, and bought a few new outfits that didn’t feel like patchwork attempts at looking expensive.

But more than that, the shift in perception was what stuck with me. People weren’t just looking anymore—they were watching, waiting to see what I’d do next. My follower count passed 100,000, then 120, and suddenly my DMs weren’t filled with just brands and thirsty strangers. They were filled with opportunities.

I would sit on the edge of my bed late at night, the glow of my phone lighting up my face, scrolling through comments, refreshing the stats, watching the numbers climb like they were hooked directly to my bloodstream. It felt like proof that I wasn’t stuck anymore, that I was moving forward, even if the movement was only in pixels and digits.

The buzz from a single successful post could carry me for days. But the crash came just as quickly when a photo didn’t perform as well, or when someone I admired online didn’t follow me back. The algorithm was a fickle god, and I was its most devout worshipper, offering it everything I had: my time, my body, my image.

I think that’s what separated me from everyone else trying to do the same thing. People would say it was my face and my body that got me my stardom. And sure, those things didn’t hurt. But I think it was more rudimentary than that. I was willing to give the star machine everything I had. There was nothing I wouldn’t sacrifice. That was the real difference.

I was no longer the girl who had been born to Cuban immigrants in a shitty neighborhood in the Bronx. I was Evelyn Hugo – the woman who makes your dreams come true. The woman with a body most women couldn’t even imagine. The image I was creating wasn’t real. But that didn’t matter.

The truth was, the image gave me freedom. It let me rewrite my story. The awkward kid with greasy hair and hand-me-down clothes? She didn’t exist anymore. I’d buried her somewhere along the way and had the tombstone to prove it.

•••

A year after my big move to Los Angeles, I had over a million followers, a team of stylists, and a publicist who emailed me three times a day. My apartment in Koreatown was a memory; I’d upgraded to a one-bedroom in West Hollywood. I considered deleting my OnlyFans account but decided to keep it, since it still gave me a nice little nest egg every month, and my subscribers hadn't made the connection between the girl posting nudes and the real Evelyn Hugo. The extra money mostly went to handbags and shoes.

I spent my days on set or at fittings, my nights at events and parties with open bars. I learned how to work a room, how to tilt my chin at just the right angle so I’d end up in the background of a paparazzi shot.

The growth wasn’t accidental. Every piece of my life had been designed with precision. The morning “candids” sipping coffee by my window were planned with my photographer-slash-assistant, Lily, who knew exactly how to catch the light that bounced off the marble counter I didn’t even clean myself anymore. My Stories were a blend of curated chaos: an unmade bed with just enough rumpled sheets to look seductive, a designer gift bag on my doorstep, a 2-second boomerang of me laughing, glossy-haired, at a rooftop brunch.

Followers ate it up. They tagged their friends, left comments like “living the dream,” and saved posts to use as inspiration for lives they weren’t living. That’s what it was, after all: selling a dream.

Of course, the reality wasn’t quite as dreamy.

My new apartment was miles better than Koreatown, but it wasn’t the sprawling penthouse my feed suggested. It had the right details, though—floor-to-ceiling windows that let me pretend I had a view worth bragging about and a minimalist kitchen with sleek black cabinets that photographed beautifully.

The truth was, I still spent my days grinding. My mornings started early with emails to brands and back-and-forths with Lily about our next shoot. Afternoons were packed with meetings—“opportunities” my publicist, Andrea, insisted I take, even if they were barely worth the time. Evening events required hours of prep: facials, hair touch-ups, fitting after fitting until the zipper lay flat and perfect.

And the work didn’t stop when the cameras did. After every event, I’d go home, peel off the false lashes, and scroll through tagged photos to pick the most flattering ones to share. The ones where the light caught my skin just right, where the dress hugged my body like it had been painted on. I had to control the narrative—always.

It would’ve been overwhelming—probably would’ve chewed me up and spat me back out—if it wasn’t in my nature to crave this kind of work. To crave the attention, the stardom.

There was something about seeing my own name, my own face, reflected back at me in the comments, in reposts, in articles dissecting what I wore and how I looked. It was a distilled version of fuel for a woman like me. 

But craving the spotlight meant learning how to live with its heat.

A popular influencer – I think her name was Sophia – posted a video breaking down my “rise to fame,” calling me a product of plastic surgery and professional editing. It was dripping with envy in a way that was almost flattering. Then there was the tabloid article claiming I’d “snubbed” another model at an afterparty, a headline as fabricated as the party itself.

Andrea told me to ignore it. “The more they talk, the better,” she said. “The moment they stop talking, that’s when you should worry.”

And so I kept going. Every public appearance became an opportunity to shape how the world saw me, and I never let one go to waste. 

•••

I had just turned twenty when I got a deal with a skincare brand – Solace Skin. It wasn’t big, but it was big enough. They wanted to be luxury but didn’t have the guts to go all the way. Their pitch was something about “modern intimacy,” whatever that was supposed to mean. They hired me to be the face of it. My picture would sell their creams and serums to women who wanted to believe they could look like me. They called me “the most beautiful woman in the world.” I didn’t care what they called me, as long as they paid.

The shoot was sprawling, with multiple setups: soft-focus shots of me holding a jar of their moisturizer, artfully blurred close-ups of my hands running along my collarbone, and the big group scene—their “vision of modern beauty.” That’s where I met Celia St. James.

She walked onto the set with the kind of presence that filled the room before she even said her name. Celia St. James. I knew exactly who she was. Everyone did. The Disney star turned actress. The girl next door trying to shed the label. Her reputation preceded her: beloved by fans, underestimated by critics, and on every tabloid’s radar the moment she stepped out without makeup.

She wasn’t as tall as her Instagram made her seem, but everything else about her was as polished as you’d expect. Her red hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, one of those effortless styles that probably required an hour and three people to achieve. Her skin glowed like she drank nothing but artisanal water, and her pale pink wrap dress looked both simple and impossibly expensive.

It’s strange to think about it now, but back then, there wasn’t a single ounce of attraction. Not that she wasn’t attractive—of course she was. Objectively, anyone with eyes could see that. But I was far from accepting that I could be attracted to women.

I mean, I was perfectly content with the steady rotation of men who came and went from my bed, each of them serving a purpose as temporary as I needed them to be. They were simple, predictable. A means to an end, a way to feel desirable without thinking too hard about it. And that’s what attraction meant to me then: desire without complication.

Celia didn’t fit that mold. There was nothing simple about her.

If anything, she was the kind of woman who unsettled me—not because of her beauty but because of what it seemed to imply. She carried herself with a quiet confidence, a kind of self-assuredness I didn’t trust. She didn’t have to try to command the room; it just happened, like gravity bending toward her.

Looking at her then, I didn’t think, she’s beautiful. I thought, she’s dangerous.

“Celia St. James,” she introduced herself to the group, her Southern accent soft but unmistakable. She smiled as she shook hands, but it was the kind of smile that stayed on her lips and went no further. Practiced, polite, like she knew people expected it and didn’t want to disappoint.

She was the kind of girl who’d clawed her way to the top but still acted like her place there was ordained. The kind who thought her brand of ambition was purer, more deserving, than anyone else’s.

Fucking white bread princess. 

I hated her.

The shoot director started arranging us into groups, pairing models and actresses into staged scenes of casual intimacy. Two of us chatting over mocktails. Three pretending to admire the same lipstick. It was all supposed to feel aspirational but relatable, like we were just a group of friends who also happened to be flawless and famous.

Naturally, Celia and I were paired for the final setup. I was dressed in a black slip dress while she wore that pale pink wrap dress, her freckles visible through the sheer fabric.

The stylist stepped back, squinting at us like we were a painting she wasn’t quite satisfied with. “Closer,” she said, motioning with her hands. “Evelyn, can you turn toward her? Perfect. Now, Celia, a little softer with the smile—think wistful, not toothpaste commercial.”

I shifted, turning toward Celia just enough to make it look like we were in on some shared secret. Her perfume—light, floral, expensive—brushed past me, and I could feel her gaze on me even when she wasn’t looking directly at my face. It felt stifling – pressed.

The photographer clicked his camera furiously, stepping closer, then further, crouching, angling. “Yes, yes, that’s it! You two look incredible together.”

I held the pose, my body angled just enough to highlight my shoulders and neckline. Celia was good—annoyingly good—at looking like she wasn’t trying. Her smile was faint but deliberate, her hands resting lightly on her waist, her head tilted like she was in the middle of some daydream.

“Perfection,” the photographer said, stepping back to review the shots. “That’s a wrap for this setup.”

I exhaled, stepping away from Celia, the tension in my back loosening as an assistant rushed forward. Celia smoothed her dress and walked to the edge of the set. She grabbed a water bottle and took a slow sip.

I grabbed my bag and was heading for the door when I heard her voice, aimed squarely at me.

“Evelyn, right?” she said. I noticed her cute little accent was gone. I wondered if it had been all for show.

I turned, forcing a polite smile. “That’s me.”

She walked over. Her posture was perfect in that way only actresses and ballerinas seem to master. Up close, she was undeniably pretty – if a little girlish with those big blues and ski-slope nose. 

“You’re good at this,” she said, gesturing vaguely to the empty set behind us. “The modeling thing. Very… controlled.”

“Thanks,” I said flatly.

“I’ve seen some of your other shoots.”

“Yeah?”

She tilted her head, studying me like I was a puzzle she didn’t feel like solving. “It must be nice,” she continued, “not having to do much beyond standing still and looking pretty.”

The smile I’d been holding in place wavered. “Excuse me?”

“You know,” she said, her voice casual, her tone anything but. “No script. No lines to memorize. Just angles and light.”

I set my bag down, my smile long gone. “It’s a little more complicated than that. But I wouldn’t expect you to get it.”

Her expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—interest, amusement, maybe even irritation. “Oh, I get it,” she said. “It’s pretending. Same as acting. Only with less substance.”

I laughed, sharp and humorless. “Pretending? You think that’s all this is? At least I’m not out here memorizing someone else’s words and calling it art.”

Her lips curved into a tight smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. “At least my pretending tells a story,” she said. “You’re decoration.”

The words were a slap across the face. In the Bronx, I probably would’ve clocked her. But I was a successful model with a career, a life. I reigned myself in.

“Maybe,” I said, stepping closer. I towered over her by at least half a foot in my heels. “But at least I’m not out here acting like Mickey Mouse didn’t hand me my spotlight.”

Celia’s mouth twitched, almost like she was going to smile, but it didn’t happen. Instead, her eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head. “Is that what you think? That this was handed to me?”

“Wasn’t it?” I asked. "Disney gave you a career. All you had to do was sing some songs and smile for the kids.”

She laughed, a sound so polished it almost felt rehearsed. “If you think that’s all it takes, you’re even more naive than you look.”

My pulse quickened, and my fingers tightened around the strap of my bag. I opened my mouth, the comeback forming on the edge of my tongue—something sharp, something that might have burned bridges I didn’t even have yet. But before the words could escape, an assistant swooped in, clipboard in hand.

“Celia,” she said, barely sparing me a glance. “They need you at the makeup station. Something about continuity for the close-ups.”

Celia turned to her with that same polished smile she’d been using all day, the one that softened her edges and made people forget how sharp she could be. “Of course,” she said sweetly, as if she hadn’t been cutting me down with a precision that could rival a scalpel just seconds earlier.

She started to walk away, but not before glancing over her shoulder at me. Her blue eyes glinted, sharp and cool, and her voice dropped just enough to make sure only I could hear. “It was nice to meet you, Evelyn Hugo.”

As I walked out to the parking lot, I balled my fists so tight that I felt the sharp snap of a nail breaking. The pain was small but sharp, and it made me stop for just a second, staring at my hand like it wasn’t even mine. I should’ve cared—I always cared about my nails—but all I could feel was this rising, buzzing frustration that wouldn’t let me go.

L.A. was a nasty place, I knew that. People smiled while they twisted the knife, and you learned to do the same. I’d been knocked down before, sure. This town made sure of that. But no one had ever tripped me up as badly as Celia St. James just had.

No one knocked me off balance. No one.

And yet, this little Disney bitch with her mosquito bite tits and her soft voice had managed to do it in just a few stray remarks. 

Fuck her.

The parking lot was mostly empty. I unlocked my car, yanked the door open, and dropped into the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel till my fingers turned white.

What the hell was it about her?

It wasn’t like I hadn’t dealt with actresses before. They were all the same—perfectly poised, practiced charm, full of themselves but pretending not to be. I could handle them.

But Celia St. James was different. She didn’t just piss me off—she rattled me, in a way I couldn’t quite explain. It wasn’t just what she said, though that was bad enough. It was the way she said it, with that calm certainty, like she knew something I didn’t.

I hit the steering wheel, the sharp thud echoing in the car.

You’re decoration.

Who the fuck says that to someone?

She’d said it so casually, like it was a fact, not an insult. Like my entire existence, my career, everything I’d worked for, was nothing more than something you could hang on a wall and forget about.

I gritted my teeth and started the car. My broken nail caught on the leather of the wheel, and the sting felt like a reminder.

If she thought she could waltz into my world and dismiss me like that, she had another thing coming.

Because here’s the thing about me: I don’t stay off balance for long.

And Celia St. James was about to find out just how far Evelyn Hugo could go when someone decided to push her.