The Top Actress Who Roasted Her Sugar Daddy Live

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While ghosting my billionaire fianc, I accidentally-on-purpose beat up his childhood sweetheart.

Overnight, my reputation burned to ash. The internet was flooded with fake receipts and hate comments.

Meanwhile, Ethan Sterlingthe man whose fake ring I worewas dead silent. Like, actually vanished.

Fueled by rage and vodka, I fired up a livestream and dragged his name through the mud until I hit the trending page.

"Ethan Sterling? Yeah, we dated. It was... underwhelming."

"And for the record, I dumped him."

I leaned into the camera, giving a messy, provocative smirk. "Honestly? Its not a big deal. Hes just old. And the sex? A disaster. Zero out of ten stars. Like sleeping with a dead fish. Ladies, take my advice: find yourself a young, energetic 'Golden Retriever' boyfriend. Someone with stamina."

The comments sectionThe Chatwent feral. They called me insane for coming after the head of the Sterling Empire.

I didn't care. I ended the stream with a middle finger.

Moments later, the high-security electronic lock on my apartment door didn't just unlock; it screamed. A piercing alarm signaled a military-grade hack. The bolt slid back with a mechanical thud.

Ethan Sterling stood in the doorway.

He wasn't the polished CEO I knew. Fresh blood stained his white dress shirt. He looked pale, shaking, like a demon who had just clawed his way out of hell just to find me.

His eyes were red-rimmed and terrifying.

He kicked the door shut, loosening his tie with a trembling hand as he stalked toward me. I backed up until my shoulder blades hit the cold wall.

He slammed his hand against the plaster next to my ear, trapping me in the corner, ignoring the blood seeping through his bandage. His voice was a dangerous, gravelly rasp.

"Bad in bed? Looks like I was too much of a gentleman before." He leaned in, the scent of antiseptic and iron overwhelming my senses. "You think thats a delusion you can afford, Scarlett?"

Chapter 1

I am the entertainment industrys reigning "America's Sweetheart."

Pure face, sugary voice, a heart of gold. I donate to charities, I rescue stray cats, and I never, ever swear.

I spent three painstaking years building this brand.

It took exactly one night to burn it to the ground.

Chapter 2

We were filming a high-budget fantasy epic.

The conditions were brutal. Dead of winter. Wires dug into my waist as I flew around in a flimsy silk dress. I had multiple underwater scenes scheduled in a freezing tank.

Work was already hell. Then, she showed up.

I was in the makeup chair when I saw Peter Hall, our director, practically tripping over himself to usher a woman onto the set.

Vintage Chanel. Red soles. Face beat for the gods. Peter didn't just give her a tour; he wiped down his own chair for her like a maid.

"Ms. Peterson," I heard the whispers. Sloane Peterson. The representative for the new investment firm backing the film.

I didn't pay her much attention. I had a job to do.

Then the cameras rolled. And my personal hell began.

"Cut. Again."

If I was messing up the blocking, I would have done a hundred takes without a complaint. Thats the job.

But this wasn't about the job.

Someone wanted to watch me suffer. They wanted to see me shivering in thin silk, suspended in the air until my ribs bruised.

By the tenth take, I knew.

I pulled out my phone, hit the record button, and held it up openly.

"Peter," I called out, my voice dripping with ice. "Are we trying to get a usable shot, or are you just trying to be a corporate lapdog?"

The set went silent. Peter turned beet red.

I finished the scene. I did twenty-three takes in the snow. I kept every second of the audio recording.

Finally, they swapped in a stunt double. She nailed it in one go.

Peter wouldn't look me in the eye. "Take five, Scarlett."

My assistant, Mia, rushed over and wrapped me in a down parka that felt like a heaven-sent embrace. As we walked past the monitors, Sloane Peterson leaned back in her stolen chair. She looked me up and down like I was a piece of discount furniture.

"They really let any trash into Hollywood these days," she drawled.

My teeth were chattering too hard to retort. I didn't know who she was, and in this town, you don't bite until you know if the other dog has rabies.

Back in my trailer, I thawed out while Mia frantically texted her contacts to find out who the hell Sloane Peterson was.

Before we got an answer, I was called back. The water scene.

Same script. Different torture.

No matter how I delivered the lines, no matter how perfectly I hit my marks, the verdict was always the same: "Cut. Wrong. Do it again."

I saw the relief in Peters eyes on take three. He wanted to call "print." But Sloane whispered something, and he swallowed his spine. "Emotion isn't there. Reset."

This scene was a close-up. No stunt double.

By the time I dragged myself out of the tank for the twelfth time, the world was spinning. I was hypothermic, exhausted, and done playing the victim.

I refused to get back in the water.

Dripping wet, I marched straight up to Sloane.

Peter, sensing the nuclear radiation radiating off me, cleared the set immediately.

I kept my voice steady, professional. "Ms. Peterson. Have I done something to offend you?"

Sloane didn't even stand up. She looked at her manicured nails, bored. "You? You aren't important enough to offend me."

I let out a sharp, cold laugh. "Then why the games? Why the retakes? I can handle the cold, but you're burning money. You're wasting the crew's time. You're wasting your budget."

Sloane finally looked at me. Her eyes were full of venom.

"Scarlett Jones. You really do have a mouth on you." She stood up, stepping into my personal space. "Don't try to play the victim with me. I'm not bullying you. You're just bad at your job. We're re-shooting because you're incompetent."

She smirked, a cruel, twisting thing.

"True talent and industry plants... there's always a divide. Especially with women like you." She paused for effect, her voice dropping to a whisper meant only to humiliate. "I wonder how many men you had to sleep with to get this role?"

Snap.

The air left the room. Villain? Fine.

"You think"

Before I could finish, Sloanes hand lashed out. She slapped me across the face. Hard.

The sound echoed in the empty studio.

I stumbled back, cheek stinging, but adrenaline flooded my system. She raised her hand for a second strike.

Not today, Satan.

I caught her wrist in mid-air. My grip was iron.

Sloanes eyes went wide. She tried to yank her hand back, but I didn't let go. I stepped in, eyes locking with hers, and swung my free hand.

CRACK.

I backhanded her. It was a solid, tactical strike that sent her stumbling backward, clutching her face. A perfect red imprint bloomed on her expensive foundation.

"You you hit me?!" she shrieked, voice cracking. "Scarlett, you dare touch me?"

"Self-defense, honey," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "And since your mother clearly failed to teach you manners, I'll step in."

I pulled my wet robe tighter around me, towering over her.

"This is a film set, Ms. Peterson. Not your kindergarten. If you open your mouth to disrespect me or my crew again, I won't just slap you."

I leaned in, whispering the final warning. "I'll break you."

I turned to leave. Sloane, humiliated and screeching, lunged to grab my hair. I sidestepped effortlessly. She tripped over a cable and went down hard on the concrete, screeching like a banshee.

I didn't look back.

By the time the paramedics arrived for her "injuries," Mia came running back to the trailer, her face pale.

"Scarlett... I found out who she is."

Thats when the other shoe dropped.

Sloane Peterson isn't just an investor. Shes Ethan Sterlings childhood best friend. The one who just moved back from Europe.

And Ethan Sterling?

Hes my boss. My fake fianc. My contract owner.

And I just declared war on his favorite person.

Chapter 3

Three years with Ethan Sterling, and I had never heard a whisper about a "childhood sweetheart."

Now, looking at the chaos on set, I was confused.

I pulled out my phone and dialed him.

Straight to voicemail.

I tried his assistant, Mia. No answer.

I opened our text threadhabit, checking for those three little dotsand saw our history. The last message was from two days ago.

Right. I forgot.

Before I flew out for this shoot, Ethan and I had the biggest fight of our relationship.

I had just finished a brutal press tour and finally had two days off. We were at his penthouse.

Ethan hadn't touched his dinner. He kept checking his pocket. The silence in the penthouse was loud enough to choke on. He poured the wine, eyes locked on me. Hungry.

But instead of taking me to the bedroom, he started talking about "the future."

"Scarlett," he had said, his voice unusually soft. "I want to end the contract."

My stomach dropped. I thought he was firing me.

"I think its time we move to the next stage," he continued, reaching for something in his pocketa ring box, I realized later. "I don't want to hide anymore."

Panic, cold and irrational, seized me. I cut him off before he could finish.

"Ethan, look at the agreement," I said, my voice sharp, defensive. "Article 4, Section 2. We are business partners. You don't get to dictate the terms of our relationship just because you're bored. You have no right to interfere with my life or my career."

His hand froze halfway out of his pocket.

The vulnerability in his eyes died. Ice took its place.

"Is that all this is to you?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "A business transaction? Just ink on paper?"

"It keeps us safe," I shot back, terrified of what would happen if I let the walls down. "Stick to the deal, Mr. Sterling."

That sentence was a knife. I saw it land.

He didn't yell. He just looked at me like I was a stranger, nodded once, and walked out the door.

That was two days ago.

Now, sitting in my cold trailer, regret gnawed at my gut. I usually had the patience of a saint with everyone else, but with Ethan, I was a walking defensive perimeter.

I stared at the black screen of my phone.

Usually, he wouldn't let a fight last overnight. He was the one who fixed things. He was the one who chased.

But this time? Silence.

A nasty feeling settled in my chest. Not anger. Fear.

I dialed him again. Voicemail.

I opened our text thread and typed, my fingers trembling slightly.

Ghosting me? Feeling brave today, are we?

I accidentally beat up your childhood bestie. Thoughts?

No "Read" receipt. Nothing.

Fine. If he wanted to play games, I could play too. I tossed the phone aside and forced myself to sleep.

Chapter 4

I was woken up by a ringtone that sounded like a death knell.

It was Chloe, my agent.

"Scarlett Jones!" She screamed so loud I had to hold the phone away. "Since when are you enemies with the Peterson family?"

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. "Who?"

"Sloane Peterson! The investor! They are launching a full-scale nuclear attack on your career. Do you understand? They want you erased."

"You have got to be kidding me."

"Check Twitter. Check TikTok. You're trending, and not in the good way."

I opened the apps. It was a bloodbath.

#ScarlettJonesExposed was the number one trend.

The "receipts" were everywhere. Fake screenshots calling me a diva. Anonymous "insiders" claiming I was a high-end escort. Videos of me "rolling my eyes" taken completely out of context. They called me a gold digger, a pick-me girl, a fraud.

It was a coordinated smear campaign.

I gave Chloe the short version of what happened on set.

There was a long silence on the other end.

"Okay," Chloe sighed, the fight draining out of her. "The fake stuff, we can sue for defamation. But the industry blowback? Scarlett, I've had five brands call to cancel contracts this morning. Scripts are being pulled. Sloane Peterson isn't just mad; she's trying to starve you out."

"We're a small agency, Scarlett. We can't fight old money like the Petersons." Chloe hesitated. "What about Mr. Sterling? Can you call him?"

I stared at the ceiling, feeling a headache building behind my eyes.

"Can't."

"What do you mean, 'can't'?"

"We're... on a break. Cold war. And considering I just slapped his beloved childhood friend, I'm pretty sure he's not going to be my knight in shining armor today."

Chloe groaned. "You pick the worst times to have a relationship crisis."

After she hung up to do damage control, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

This wasn't my first time facing a blacklist.

Chase Hudson. Trust-fund parasite. Three years ago, I wouldn't sleep with him, so he tried to bury me. Rumors. Blacklists. Cornering me in dark corners.

I was young, broke, and angry. I decided if I was going down, I was taking him with me.

I didn't cry. I went shopping.

I bought a black tactical hoodie, a telescoping police baton, and military-grade pepper spray. I stalked Chase for three nights until I learned his routine.

On a rainy Tuesday, outside a private club, I caught him alone in a dark alley.

I didn't use a "sack." Thats for cartoons.

I blinded him with a strobe flashlight, sprayed him, and took his knees out with the baton. It was cold, precise, and violent.

While he was on the ground, weeping and begging, I pulled out my phone. I recorded him admitting to drugging girls and bribing casting directors.

"Smile, Chase," I had whispered. "This is your insurance policy."

I pocketed the phone, feeling a rush of dark adrenaline. I turned to leaveand froze.

A Maybach was parked at the mouth of the alley. The window was rolled down.

Ethan Sterling was watching me.

He was leaning against the leather seat, shirt collar unbuttoned, a cigarette unlit in his fingers. He didn't look horrified. He looked... amused.

"Nice form," he called out, my voice smooth as velvet.

I knew who he was. Everyone knew Ethan Sterling. He was the apex predator of the business world.

Most girls would have run. Adrenaline flooded my veins. Blackmail is just a shield. I want a sword.

I walked right up to his car window.

"Mr. Sterling," I said, breathless but steady. "You have a problem. Your mother is trying to marry you off to heiresses you hate. I have a problem. I need a shield."

Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"I'm proposing a contract," I said. "Fake dating. I play the role of the devoted fiance. I scare off the matchmaking attempts. You provide the resources and the protection."

I leaned in, meeting his gaze. "And one rule: No sex. Unless we both want it. Strictly business."

Ethan looked at me for a long moment, studying my face, the bat still in my hand.

"Deal," he said.

He fixed everything.

He didn't just make a phone call. The next day, Chase Hudsons family company was raided by the FBI for fraud. Chases father, Robert Hudson, personally dragged his son to my film set.

Ill never forget it. Robert kicked the back of Chase's knees, forcing him to kneel in the dirt in front of the entire crew and apologize to me.

Ethan didn't even show up. That was the point. He didn't have to.

That was the power of being Ethan Sterlings fiance.

For three years, he gave me the world. He told me, "Scarlett, don't play the martyr. Use my name. Use my jets. If you don't use the power I give you, you're not noble, you're just stupid."

He was proud to have me.

But now?

Now the phone was silent. The "fake" fianc who had become my real safety net was gone.

And I was starting to realize just how much I needed him.

Chapter 5

Maybe the cold. Maybe the rage. But the room spun.

I rotted in bed all day. By the time I got up, the sun had died.

I called Ethan again. Straight to voicemail.

I checked my DMs. Nothing.

Finally, I made the mistake of opening social media.

My agency had released a statement earlier that daystandard legal jargon, denying everything. It should have calmed things down.

But Chase Hudson had just gone live.

I watched the recording. Someone in the comments asked about me, and Chase, looking smug in his designer hoodie, decided to play dirty.

He didn't say my name, but he didn't have to. He spun a story about a "certain actress" who tried to seduce him years ago and failed, so she latched onto a bigger wallet.

"But hey," he laughed, checking his reflection in the camera. "Looks like Big Wallet is getting married to someone in his own tax bracket. Guess she got kicked to the curb."

A dozen verified accountsactors, singers, influencersliked the stream.

The internet took the bait.

User1: Im gonna vomit. I actually thought Scarlett was innocent. Total fraud.

User2: LMAO you think anyone in Hollywood is actually a virgin? She belongs to the streets.

User3: Scarlett Jones needs to be deported from the industry.

User4: Who was her sugar daddy? Imagine paying for that.

User5: Homewrecker energy. Gross.

My blood pressure spiked so high I could hear my heartbeat in my ears.

Chase Hudson. That spineless, trust-fund parasite.

He saw Ethan was silent. He smelled blood in the water. He thought my protection was gone, so he decided to finish what he started three years ago.

Okay.

Good.

If he wanted a show, Id give him a blockbuster.

He forgot one thing: I still had the video. The one from the alley. The one where he was crying and admitting to crimes that would put him in federal prison.

I wasn't just going to sue him. I was going to ruin him.

But first, I had one loose end to tie up.

I opened my text thread with Ethan. My fingers flew across the screen.

Ethan Sterling. You have some nerve playing dead.

Just so were clear: Im dumping you.

Block. Delete.

I tossed the phone onto the bed. Then I grabbed my iPad, set up my ring light, and hit "Go Live."

Chapter 6

Thanks to Chase, my name was already trending. The second I went live, the viewer count exploded.

10k. 50k. 100k.

The comments rolled in so fast they were a blur.

The Chat: Shes actually live?? Is she selling skinny tea?

The Chat: The audacity. Cancel her.

The Chat: Scarlett, explain the sugar daddy!

The Chat: Why is she quiet? Cat got her tongue? Or did her lawyer mute her?

I watched the number hit the room cap. I smiled. It wasn't my usual "Sweetheart" smile. It was sharp, cold, and a little unhinged.

"Hi everyone. Im Scarlett Jones."

I leaned back in my chair, swirling a glass of water like it was vodka.

"Just a quick disclaimer for the stream tonight. No, Im not selling anything. Im not here to apologize. Im here to burn the house down."

"Im about to drop some massive industry tea. After this, Ill probably be blacklisted forever. So, listen closely."

My expression hardened. "Also, for legal reasons: If I am found dead tomorrow, please call the police. I am very happy and have absolutely no intention of un-aliving myself."

The chat paused for a millisecond.

"Let's start with the star of the hour: Chase Hudson."

I picked up my iPad and turned the screen toward the camera.

"You guys love him, right? Rich, handsome, bad boy? Well, let me show you the real Chase."

I played the video.

It was grainy, shot in a dark alley, but the audio was crystal clear. It was Chase, snot running down his face, admitting to drugging a casting director's assistant.

I paused it and held up a series of screenshots.

"Here are the receipts. Timestamps included. He has a habit of slipping things into girls' drinks. He has powerful friends covering for him. I reported this to the police three years ago, but money talks."

"He said I tried to seduce him? Please. I have 20/20 vision. Why would I go for a guy who needs to drug women to get laid?"

I swiped to the next photoa medical report Chase had tried to bury.

"And for the record, Chase... maybe fix that urinary tract infection before you come for me. Its embarrassing."

The Chat went nuclear.

The Chat: NO WAY.

The Chat: SHE BROUGHT RECEIPTS.

The Chat: The UTI comment I am deceased.

The Chat: This is the best night of my life.

I tossed the iPad onto the desk.

"Okay, enough about him. Hes boring. Whos next?"

I pulled up the list of celebrities who had 'liked' Chase's hate stream.

"Lets see... ah, Pop Star Ryder. You know, the one with the 'innocent, oblivious boy' image?"

I looked dead into the lens.

"Ryder, does your fanbase know you forced your ex-girlfriend to get three abortions? Does she know you gaslighted her into therapy while you were sleeping with her stylist? You're trash."

I swiped.

"Actor Liam. The brooding, deep artist." I laughed. "Liam, honey, you can come out of the closet. We all know. But maybe stop forcing your young male assistants into your little 'dungeon' playdates. Its a lawsuit waiting to happen."

I swiped again.

"Starlet Bella. Everyone thinks she took a break to 'study acting' in Europe. Incorrect. She was hiding a pregnancy. Two kids, actually. Different dads. No judgment on the kids, but maybe stop lecturing women on purity culture when your own life is a soap opera."

I kept going. I didn't stop.

"Vincent Gallo... cheating on your pregnant wife with a mother-daughter duo in Thailand? Classy."

The internet was melting down.

The Chat: I AM SCREAMING.

The Chat: Scarlett woke up and chose violence.

The Chat: Is this legal?? Can she say this??

The Chat: Ryders fans are crying rn.

The Chat: Wait, I see people unliking Chases post!! Theyre scared!!

I saw that comment and grinned. I held my phone up to the camera again.

"Oh, don't bother unliking it now. I already screenshotted everything. You can't run."

I rested my chin in my hand, staring into the soul of every celebrity watching.

"My life philosophy is simple: If Im not happy, nobody sleeps."

I made a finger heart, winked, and dropped the bomb.

"If you mess with me, prepare to get burned. XOXO."

Chapter 7

Thirty minutes later, I owned the internet.

The top twenty trending topics were just my name followed by a different celebrity victim.

#ScarlettExposesRyder

#ScarlettJonesMeltdown

#ChaseHudsonReceipts

It was a massacre. The first of its kind in Hollywood history.

Mid-stream, my phone vibrated so hard against the desk it nearly fell off. My agent, the PR crisis team, lawyers from three different major studiosthey were all blowing up my line.

I didn't answer a single one. I turned the phone off.

Let the sky fall. Today, I was writing the script, and if I wasn't getting a happy ending, I was making sure everyone else got a tragedy.

I watched the viewer count tick higher, feeling a dark sense of satisfaction. But then, the tide turned.

The bots arrived.

Suddenly, the comments shifted from shock to a coordinated attack. They were trying to pivot the narrative, to bury the Chase Hudson scandal by attacking my personal life.

The Chat: Okay, you exposed everyone else, what about you?

The Chat: Who is backing her? Shes too confident.

The Chat: Show us your Sugar Daddy!

The Chat: Scarlett Jones x Ethan Sterling. Confirm or Deny.

The Chat: ETHAN STERLING. ETHAN STERLING.

I rested my chin in my hand, reading the wall of text. They thought dropping Ethans name would scare me? They thought Id shake in my boots because hes a billionaire?

Please. He was the one ignoring me. He was the one letting his childhood friend bully me.

Id drag him down to hell with the rest of them.

"Ethan Sterling?" I read the name out loud, letting a lazy, bored smile curl my lips. "Yeah. We talked. We dated. It was... underwhelming."

The chat froze for a split second, then exploded with question marks.

I shrugged, looking straight into the lens. "Hes an ex now. And for the record, I dumped him."

I leaned in, whispering like I was sharing a secret with a girlfriend at a sleepover.

"Honestly? Its not a big loss. Hes old. And the sex? A disaster. Zero out of ten stars. Like sleeping with a dead fish."

I laughed, a sharp, cruel sound.

"Im done with the billionaire CEO aesthetic. Ladies, take my advice: find yourself a young, energetic 'Golden Retriever' boyfriend. Someone with stamina. Someone who doesn't need a nap after three minutes."

The internet broke.

The Chat: DID SHE JUST SAY ETHAN STERLING IS BAD IN BED???

The Chat: My jaw is on the floor.

The Chat: She has a death wish. That is the most powerful man in New York.

The Chat: She just rated a billionaire 0/10. I am screaming.

The Chat: RIP Scarlett. Nice knowing you.

I watched the chaos for another ten seconds, but the adrenaline was fading. I felt hollow.

I had burned the bridge. I had nuked the bridge.

"Alright, I'm bored now," I said. "Goodnight, haters."

I ended the stream without a second glance.

Chapter 8

The silence in the apartment after the livestream was deafening.

The adrenaline crash hit me hard. I looked at my dark phone. Still nothing.

I realized I had turned it off. I reached for it to call Chloe, my agent, when a noise stopped me.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

It wasn't a knock. It was the high-pitched electronic screech of my smart lock being overridden.

ERROR. SYSTEM OVERRIDE.

I froze. My door didn't just open; the bolt retracted with a violent mechanical thud, and the heavy door swung inward.

Ethan stood in the hallway.

But this wasn't the polished, untouchable CEO I knew.

He looked like he had just walked out of a war zone. His white dress shirt was torn at the shoulder and stained with fresh, blooming red blood. His face was ghostly pale, sweat matting his dark hair to his forehead.

He looked terrifying. Like a demon who had crawled out of the grave just to find me.

His chest heaved. His eyes were bloodshot, locked on me with a predatory intensity that made my knees weak.

He stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him. He didn't say a word. He just started ripping his tie off as he stalked toward me.

"Ethan?" My voice trembled