I was officially the laziest actress in the industry. The tabloids loved to hate me; out of every ten behind-the-scenes clips leaked from my movie sets, nine of them showed me curled up somewhere, fast asleep. When I got dragged onto a rustic farming reality show, I spent the entire time masterfully avoiding any actual labor. The internet had dragged me onto the trending topics more times than I could count. [This girl has zero work ethic. Kick her out of Hollywood already.] [Rumor has it she had a kid with some seventy-something billionaire, but he kicked the bucket before she could even secure a prenup settlement.] [Yep, someone analyzed her kid’s profile. He looks exactly like the late Mr. Abernathy.] That was my life until I finally dragged my absolute terror of a son onto a parenting reality show. The live stream had barely started when he snatched every toy in sight and smashed three expensive production cameras. Before I could even open my mouth to discipline him, he pulled his usual stunt, turning on the tears to make himself the victim. “It’s only because you never let me play with toys at home! I couldn’t help it…” “Nobody loves me at home, and now you won’t even pretend for the cameras?” “Are you going to hit me in front of everyone? Is that it?” Staring at his familiar little theatrical routine, I let out a long, weary sigh. “You smashed your grandfather’s nine-figure antique Ming vase, and used a multi-million-dollar Monet sketch as scratch paper.” “Your grandmother has a heart condition and needed her nap, yet you blasted monotone Gregorian chants on a loop right in her ear.” “Your dad was rushing to catch an international flight, and the second he cleared airport security, he opened his carry-on to find you’d swapped his clothes for live goldfish from our backyard pond.” “And this morning, before we left, you squeezed a whole tube of mint toothpaste into my breakfast sandwich.” “Milo, tell me—does a kid like you really not deserve a time-out?” If his father weren’t ridiculously wealthy and competent, this little terror would have bankrupted me ten times over. … “Milo, if you climb over my shoulders one more time, I swear I’m tossing you out the window.” Our luxury van was gliding smoothly toward the filming location for Growing Up Together, a parenting reality show. Today’s shoot was hosted at the home of my arch-rival, Celine. My six-year-old son was currently treating me like a human jungle gym, scaling my torso for his eighteenth successful summit of the afternoon. “You’re lying, Mommy. This is the interstate. Littering is a heavy fine,” Milo retorted in his sweet, baby-pure voice, pressing his tiny thumb directly into my temple. I could feel a vein throbbing in my forehead. From the front passenger seat, my manager, Theresa, turned around. “Deborah, you’re trending again because of the kid’s mystery dad.” She shook her head. “If these people actually knew who you married, their jaws would drop. Half of Hollywood’s distribution and media networks are literally under his name.” I casually scrolled through my phone. Sure enough, someone had just posted a thread claiming my debut was funded by an ancient sugar daddy. They mocked me, alleging that after I got pregnant, the old guy died and left me penniless. The moment the van pulled up to the filming villa and the doors slid open, Milo launched himself out like a heat-seeking missile. Two other families had already arrived. Celine, America’s sweetheart and my resident nemesis, was gently holding her son Parker’s hand. The other group was Chelsea, a washed-up indie singer, with her quiet daughter, Lucy. The live comment feed erupted the second my face appeared on screen. [The Lazy Queen of Hollywood has arrived! How does she have the nerve to be on a parenting show? Does she even know how to mother?] [Five bucks says she finds a couch and passes out within ten minutes.] [Someone ask Deborah how old the baby daddy was! Is he officially in the grave?] I ignored the noise. My only goal was to find some shade and relax, but my son had other plans. Right as Celine was smiling warmly at the camera, explaining how remarkably mature and helpful her little Parker was, Milo charged. In one swift motion, he snatched the limited-edition Transformer right out of Parker’s hands, then swiped the porcelain doll Lucy was cradling. Both kids froze in shock before bursting into tears. Immediate chaos ensued. Milo wasn’t done. Brandishing his stolen loot, he tore through the courtyard. A cameraman tried to dodge but got clipped, tumbling to the ground. His high-end camera crashed onto the concrete, the lens shattering into a spiderweb of cracks. Then Milo pivoted toward a heavy jib camera, grabbing the loose cables and swinging from them like Tarzan. Creeeak—crack! Camera number two went dead. Our director, Director Moore, looked like he was about to have a stroke; his face was a deep, mottled purple. The comments were going ballistic. Celine immediately dropped to her knees, pulling a sobbing Parker into her arms. “Deborah, I know boys will be boys, but you can’t just let him run wild like this,” she said, her voice dripping with maternal concern, though her eyes danced with absolute glee. “Oh dear, what are we going to do? Director Moore’s gear is imported and incredibly expensive. You…” She trailed off, heavily implying I couldn’t afford the bill. She glanced at my calm expression, pretending to be deeply worried on my behalf. “Director Moore, let me cover the damages for Milo. He’s just a child, but as parents, we have to take responsibility.” Director Moore gave me a hesitant look. The live chat was practically catching fire. [Celine is such a class act! Look at Deborah just standing there like a statue. Is she too embarrassed to speak?] [If you’re broke, just say so. Someone offers to pay your tab and you don’t even say thank you? Unbelievable.] [Whatever money she got from that dead old guy is probably running dry. No wonder she’s clutching her purse.] Before I could even open my mouth, Milo, the little drama king, executed a perfect slide-tackle onto the grass right in front of me, big fat tears instantly welling up in his eyes. “Mommy, it’s only because you never let me play with toys at home! That’s why I lost control… Nobody loves me at home. Are you not even going to pretend for the cameras? Are you going to hit me in front of all these people now?” With that single monologue, he successfully painted me as the ultimate wicked mother of the century. The live feed went into a total frenzy. [That poor baby! His natural instincts have been totally repressed. No wonder he snapped.] [I knew Deborah was trash! This is emotional abuse! Production needs to call Child Services!] [Honestly, I’m starting to believe those rumors. She kept the kid, but the dad is clearly… well, out of the picture. We all know how it goes.] Celine looked at me with deep, performative pity, stepping forward as if to shield Milo. “Deborah, he’s just a little boy. Don’t scare him. Let’s talk about this calmly.” She leaned in, dropping her voice so only I could hear. “And about the equipment… if you’re actually struggling financially, just let me know. I won’t make a scene.” I let out a dry laugh and took a step back from her cloying perfume. “Keep your charity, Celine. Go worry about your own kid.” I looked down at the little monster currently wrapping himself around my leg, wailing like he was being tortured, and exhaled a long, heavy sigh. “Milo,” I said, my voice carrying clearly across the quiet lawn. “You smashed a nine-figure antique vase in your grandfather’s study, and used an original Monet sketch as drawing paper. Your grandmother needed her afternoon nap for her heart condition, and you blasted monotone Gregorian chants on a loop right next to her ear, nearly sending her to the emergency room. Your dad was rushing to catch an international flight, and the moment he cleared airport security, he realized you’d emptied his carry-on and replaced his entire wardrobe with live goldfish from our backyard pond. And this morning, before we even stepped out the front door, you squeezed an entire tube of mint toothpaste into my breakfast sandwich. So tell me, Milo—does a kid like you really not deserve a time-out?” With every sentence, Milo’s sobbing slowed, his theatrical little face freezing inch by inch. The comments section instantly flipped. [I take it back. If my kid did that, I’d ground him until he was thirty. Not even Jesus could save him.] [Suddenly, Deborah’s chronic fatigue makes complete sense. If I had to deal with this kid every day, I’d choose to be unconscious too.] [Wait, hold on. Is she just making up this crazy rich lifestyle to save face? It sounds like a bad movie script.] [Exactly. And pretending the dad is alive and wealthy? Did she find an even older, richer sugar daddy? Bold lie to tell on live TV. Grab the popcorn, guys, she’s going down.] Ignoring the swirling storm of skepticism, I calmly reached into my designer tote, pulled out a matte black card, and handed it directly to the director. “To cover the cameras. Keep the change.” Director Moore looked down, his hand freezing mid-air. Celine’s eyes darted to the card, and she let out a sharp gasp. “Deborah… is that a Centurion Black Card? How on earth did you get one of those?” Seeing her transparent shock, I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Why? Am I not allowed to have one?” She was obviously dying to imply I’d slept my way into securing the black card from some anonymous old benefactor. But with millions watching live, she had to play nice. “Oh, nothing… I was just… surprised.” The chat was still spiraling, trying to dissect my connection to the ‘elderly billionaire’ I’d been photographed with months ago. What connection? He was my husband’s uncle. They shared genetics—of course they looked a bit alike. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from my husband: This low-budget show is treating you like a punching bag. Want me to fly in and shut them up? I smiled faintly and typed back: No need. I brought our marriage certificate in my bag. I’ll blind them with it when the time is right. A pale Director Moore cleared his throat and waved his hand to resume filming. The first challenge was announced: “The Ultimate Scavenger Hunt.” The production crew had hidden ingredient cards all over the sprawling estate. Each family had to follow clues to find three cards, which would determine their dinner. “Alright, kids! Let’s find what we’re eating tonight!” the host cheered. Quiet little Lucy clutched her father’s hand tightly. Parker, on the other hand, puffing out his chest like a miniature gentleman, turned to Celine. “Mommy, you rest here. I’ll handle this.” Celine immediately flashed a touched, teary-eyed smile for the lens. “My sweet Parker is always so thoughtful. He’s been taking care of me since he was a toddler.” The live chat swooned. Beside me, Milo’s eyes glazed over for a split second before the mischief reignited in his chest. Completely ignoring the rules of the game, he started leaping over patio furniture and tearing through decorative planters. I didn’t bother chasing him. Instead, I strolled over to a cushioned chaise lounge in the shade, slipped on my silk sleep mask, and drifted off. In my world, sleep was the ultimate priority. [And there it is. Deborah’s signature move.] [Did she seriously just take a nap? Is she leaving her kid unsupervised?] [I know her son is a handful, but this level of checked-out parenting is wild.] I was just about to cross the threshold into deep sleep when Celine’s high-pitched shriek startled me so badly I nearly slipped off the lounge chair. “Milo! Oh my god, why are you digging up those imported Dutch tulips?!” I pushed up my sleep mask. My darling little terror was sitting in a freshly dug pit in the middle of Celine’s pristine flowerbeds, holding a plastic trowel. Parker was standing nearby, tears streaming down his face. “Mommy, I just told him he shouldn’t dig there… and he pushed me and destroyed the flowers!” Milo tossed the trowel aside, crossing his arms stubbornly. “He’s a liar! He told me to dig here! He said there was pirate gold buried under the roots!” “I did not!” Parker sobbed louder. “Did too!” Celine gathered her weeping son into her arms, shooting me a look of pure, icy condemnation. “Deborah, these tulips are incredibly rare. How am I supposed to explain this to my husband?” The comments were merciless: [Lol, Celine is basically asking: Can you even afford these?] [Deborah got caught slipping. Slack off all you want, but this is gonna cost her a fortune.] [This is so embarrassing. She should just pack up and leave the show.] Watching this overly dramatic display of maternal martyrdom, I felt a migraine coming on. I walked over to Milo and looked down at his dirt-streaked face. “Milo, look at me. Did he really tell you to dig here?” Milo nodded vigorously, his bottom lip trembling. “He did!” For all his chaotic energy, Milo never lied about his pranks. I turned to the crew, raising an eyebrow. “Director Moore, do me a favor. Pull the footage from the security camera pointing at this corner of the garden.” Celine’s expression shifted, the maternal warmth faltering for a fraction of a second. “Deborah, really? Are you saying you don’t trust my son—or me? It’s just kids playing. There’s no need to make a federal case out of it. Let’s not ruin the mood.” I completely ignored her, keeping my gaze fixed on the director. Moore hesitated. On one hand, he didn’t want to cause a rift on set; on the other, his phone suddenly buzzed with an incoming text. He looked at the screen, and his face instantly drained of color. “Bring over the playback monitor,” he barked. “Let’s see the footage.” Within seconds, the high-definition playback revealed the truth. Parker had pulled Milo over to the corner of the garden, pointed at the tulips, and whispered something about buried treasure. Then, he had physically handed Milo the trowel before stepping back to watch the destruction with a smug grin. The evidence was undeniable. A heavy silence fell over the lawn. Celine’s expression turned utterly rigid, while Parker’s eyes went wide as he realized he’d been caught. The live feed went wild. [Oh my god! Plot twist of the century! The angel child is actually a little schemer?] [Jesus, the kid definitely learned that from his mother. How can a six-year-old be that manipulative?] [You hit the nail on the head. Celine’s whole saintly mother routine is starting to look super fake.] I turned back to Celine, keeping my voice level and cool. “Still want an apology? Because from where I’m standing, your kid’s got some pretty impressive acting skills for his age.” Celine faltered, her body swaying slightly before she forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. “It’s a misunderstanding… just a silly little joke. Parker didn’t mean any harm.” As she spoke, she subtly but sharply pinched her son’s arm under her cloak of comfort. Parker immediately wailed, tears cascading down his cheeks. “Mommy, I’m sorry! I just wanted to play treasure hunt with Milo! I didn’t know they were expensive flowers! I’m sorry, Milo!” The two of them deserved an Academy Award for their synchronized damage control. I let out a soft snort, not even bothering to call them out. Kneeling in the dirt, I brushed a stray curl off Milo’s forehead. The little terror was actually looking genuinely hurt for once, his eyes rimmed with red. “Alright, tough guy, drop the act. If you want to cry, just cry. No one’s going to tease you.” The moment the words left my mouth, Milo’s face puckered, and he let loose a siren-like sob that echoed off the hills. With practiced ease, I pulled a pair of noise-canceling earplugs from my pocket and popped them in. The production crew looked like they wanted to jump into a lake. The drama finally petered out when Milo cried himself to sleep on my shoulder, and the afternoon wrap-up was hastily cut short. By dinner, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense. Thanks to Milo’s unscheduled gardening session, our sole bounty for the night was a single card labeled “Boiled Greens.” Celine’s table boasted a massive “Maine Lobster,” while Chelsea and her daughter had scored a thick “Ribeye Steak.” The lobster and sizzling steak sat proudly in the middle of the dining hall, while a pathetic bowl of unseasoned boiled kale sat in front of us. Milo, having finally woken up from his nap, stared at the feast next door, then down at our greens, his little face collapsing. Without a word, he slid off his chair and bolted toward the next table, his little hand reaching straight for Parker’s lobster tail. Celine snatched the plate away, her brow furrowing as she adopted her best lecturing tone. “Oh, Milo, sweetheart, we don’t grab. But then again, I suppose children from single-parent homes miss out on certain boundaries. It’s hard raising a boy without a father figure around.” She sounded like a concerned aunt, but her eyes were venomous, stabbing directly at my supposed status as a struggling single mother. Parker joined in, holding up a piece of meat. “I found this. You didn’t get one, so you can’t have any.” Milo’s cheeks flushed a furious crimson. “I am not! I have a dad! He’s super tall and handsome and rich!” Celine let out a soft, mocking chuckle. “Deborah, dear, teaching children to lie isn’t a great habit. We all know how tough it is being a single mom, but feeding him fantasies just to protect his pride isn’t healthy.” Parker chimed in. “Liar! If your dad is rich, why are you eating grass?” Milo’s chin trembled, on the verge of another epic breakdown. But right before the waterworks started, the heavy French doors of the villa swung open. My personal assistant marched in, carrying a massive, insulated catering chest, followed by two professional chefs in crisp white coats. “Ma’am, your late dinner order has arrived,” my assistant announced calmly. The chests were popped open, revealing layers of shaved ice packed with giant King Crab legs, fresh Maine lobsters, and geoduck. I casually picked up a crab leg that was nearly the length of my forearm, turning it slowly in front of the primary camera lens. “My husband was worried his son wasn’t getting enough protein,” I said smoothly. Milo’s tears vanished instantly as he grabbed a massive lobster claw and began happily gnawing on it. The comments immediately caught fire. [She is putting on such a show. There is no husband. She’s just a mistress trying to save face.] [The paparazzi have literally never caught her with a man. She’s building a fake persona for the show.] [If he actually exists, show us! Stop hiding him behind catering boxes.] Right on cue, a deep, rhythmic thrumming echoed from the clouds. A sleek, private helicopter descended over the resort’s manicured lawns, its blades whipping up a mini-tempest. The cabin door opened, and a man walked out—a man whose face was usually reserved for the covers of Forbes and the Wall Street Journal. He squinted against the sun, his eyes locked onto our table. “Who said you could talk down to my family?”
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