Chapter 1: Last Chance in the Spotlight

I’m the most notorious female celebrity online. No joke. If you Google my name, all you get are think pieces, memes, and hot takes about how I’m either a misunderstood genius or an absolute trainwreck. No middle ground. Sometimes I wonder if my face pops up more in snark forums than in fan edits. Honestly, just thinking about it makes my stomach twist.

My agent gave me an ultimatum: either go on a reality talent show and win the whole thing, or get out of the business for good. That hit like a truck. She said it like she was throwing me a life preserver, but it felt more like she was daring me to fail. I knew what she really meant. Prove you’re worth the trouble. Or you’re done.

On my first day at the show, I sang a classic Broadway number—think Rodgers & Hammerstein, old-school vibes—and nearly brought the whole audience to tears. Or at least, I saw more than a few people dabbing at their eyes.

I didn’t just sing—I poured every ounce of heartache and hope I had left into that song. You know that hush, when everyone just... stops breathing? That. For a second, I forgot about the cameras, the critics, and the insane stakes. I just sang. And for once, that was enough.

On the second day, during the Twitch-style segment, I transformed into a gaming queen and carried my teammates to victory.

Honestly, I just let my gamer side show, rocking my lucky hoodie. The chat went wild as I called out pro-level plays and snatched the win with a clutch move. Even the hosts looked lost, trying to keep up with the gamer lingo. My teammates cheered, and for once, the comments were more awe than sarcasm.

On the third day, for fan interaction, I literally brought out a chalkboard and taught college-level SAT English questions live. Yeah, I actually did that.

The producers thought I was nuts. But I figured, if I was going down, I’d go down swinging—chalk in hand. I doodled grammar tips and broke down reading passages. I mean, who even does that? They were so confused, they actually listened. Some even took notes.

My haters: “Sis, we’re here to roast you, not to study for finals.”

I could practically hear them sighing into their Red Bulls. But hey—at least I was original.

In the end, on the night the lineup was announced, I said I’d be leaving showbiz soon. I paused, letting the words hang in the air.

I kept my voice steady, but my hands were shaking. I watched the shock ripple through the crowd, the mentors, even the backstage crew. The air felt electric, like everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Viewers lost it, and even the haters got emotional.

There were live reactions streaming in—some people were legit crying, some were rage-tweeting. Even the snarkiest bloggers were stunned.

At the same time, two trending topics shot up the charts:

#HollywoodNeedsAutumnBlakeLikeAmericaNeedsBaseball

#EveryoneBeggingAutumnBlakeToComeBack

I’d never seen my name next to baseball before. My phone was blowing up with notifications, and for once, the hashtags weren’t all insults.

“Nothing she acts in ever feels real! Her delivery is so awkward!” My agent glared at the flood of negative reviews online. She slammed her laptop shut.

She muttered under her breath about ungrateful fans and clueless critics. The screen reflected in her glasses, making her look more like an evil mastermind than any TV exec I’d ever seen.

“Fake relationships, fighting for screen time, and not a single ounce of real talent. What am I supposed to do with you?” She didn’t stop to breathe. “Your reputation was already in the gutter, and now you’ve pissed off Ethan Ford and Mariah Lane’s shippers. Everyone’s teaming up to trash you.”

She tossed a stack of printouts onto her desk, every page worse than the last. It was like a highlight reel of my worst moments.

“Give me one more chance, Ms. Collins.” I bit my lip, my voice barely steady.

I could hear the desperation in my own voice. My heart was pounding, palms sweaty. I stared at her, hoping she’d see how much I meant it.

She tossed a yellow folder at me. “Either take this show, debut as the center and number one, or quit. Your choice.” She cut me off before I could answer. “Get ready for a nine-to-five.” No room for discussion.

She didn’t even look up, just kept typing. The message was clear: this was my last shot, and there’d be no second chances. No pressure, right?

I held the folder tight, the edges digging into my fingers. I told myself this was it—no more excuses, no more running. I had to go all in.