Blurb：
Paige Connolly is Hollywood’s favorite punchline—until her cursed kindness turns toxic. When bullied star Jett Dawson and his girlfriend Lacey Montgomery humiliate her at the Lumina Awards, Paige unleashes the **Connolly Curse** with a single, venomously sincere wish. Overnight, Jett’s career implodes, Lacey’s reputation drowns in scandal, and Paige discovers her **"blessings"** are weapons. Now, thrust into a cutthroat reality show with her treacherous ex Finn Carter, Paige must weaponize her curse while hiding her power. But as viral showdowns and disasters pile up (#FinnNeedsTheBestMeds, #LaceyPoopsTheParty), the line between vengeance and survival blurs. Can Paige control the chaos—or will Hollywood’s most dangerous secret destroy her first?
Content：
§PROLOGUEIn Hollywood, they call it the Connolly Curse.
It’s a whisper in green rooms, an urban legend traded over overpriced cocktails at the Chateau Marmont.
The story changes with each telling, but the core of it remains the same.
Get a sincere blessing from Paige Connolly, the industry’s resident doormat, and your life will spectacularly implode.
The last director she wished “break a leg” to on his opening night?
He slipped on a spilled soda in the theater lobby and broke both of his.
The starlet she genuinely congratulated for landing a coveted role?
A deep-fake scandal erupted that very night, forcing her to drop the project and go into hiding.
It’s a joke, of course. A coincidence.
But in a town built on superstition and desperate for patterns, the legend grows.
And the first rule of the Connolly Curse is: you don’t talk about the Connolly Curse.
The second rule is: you pray she never, ever wishes you well.
§01
The flashbulbs were a declaration of war, and I was losing.
Another Tuesday, another premiere. Another chance for Paige Connolly to be professionally invisible.
My agent, Brenda, had secured the ticket to the Lumina Awards with the tenacity of a bulldog fighting over a steak.
“This is Jett Dawson’s night, Paige,” she’d hissed over the phone. “He’s a lock for Best Actor. Every producer in town will be there. You will smile, you will clap, and you will not, under any circumstances, genuinely wish anyone well. Got it?”
I got it. I was an expert in getting it.
I wore a rented dress that was a size too small and shoes that felt like medieval instruments of torture. My job was to be part of the background scenery. A living, breathing set decoration.
Then I saw her. Lacey Montgomery. The Belle of Buckhead. The industry’s reigning It-Girl.
And she was wearing my dress.
Well, not *my* dress. Hers was undoubtedly couture, tailored to perfection by hands that probably earned more than I did in a year. Mine was a knock-off from a rental service called ‘Borrowed Glamour’. Close enough to be an imitation, far enough to be an insult.
The cameras, like sharks smelling blood, went wild.
Tomorrow, the headlines would be brutal. The side-by-side photos. The cruel captions. ‘Who Wore It Better?’ as if it were ever a real question.
I felt the familiar, dull ache of humiliation settle in my stomach, a cold, heavy stone.
I was turning to find the darkest corner to melt into when a solid wall of muscle and ego slammed into me.
I stumbled, my ankle twisting, a sharp pain shooting up my leg.
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The End