“Have a holly, jolly Christmas! It’s the best time of the year!”

No, thank you. I reach out and press a button on the car stereo.

“Feliz navidad!”

Double no, thank you. Click. Silence.

“Much better,” I murmur to myself, heaving a sigh. I look to my left, through the tinted window of my cherry-red Lexus RX. The beach is virtually deserted, the white sand smooth and undisturbed by footprints.

If you squint and suspend reality just a little bit, you can almost believe it’s snow.

But it’s not.

Because this is Los Angeles, and even though it is December, the thermometer on my dashboard tells me it’s barely less than seventy degrees outside. Yeah, it’s going to be one those winters. Most people here love the fact that it never gets too cold, but this December, it would almost be nice if the weather could match my current mood.

I’m driving back from possibly the second-most uncomfortable one-on-one meeting I’ve ever had. I met with my newly-hired lawyer, Arthur O’Connelly, attorney to the stars, to discuss the awful situation I found myself in last week.

I still can’t believe this is happening.

I have read in the gossip columns (yes, even I have my weak moments) about many actresses and musicians having to break their contracts suddenly, and the scandals that come to light as a result. It happens so often, I’m actually surprised nobody in my family has gone through it yet.

After all, we are probably the definition of what you might call Hollywood royalty.

My dad, Kenneth Parker, is a semi-retired producer and director. He’s made over fifty films during his career and garnered all kinds of prestigious accolades, hosting award shows, being asked to guest-star on variety shows, taking interviews on talk shows. He’s well-respected and well-known, a permanent fixture in LA history.

My mom, Pamela Franklin, is an actress with almost the same amount of star power as my father. She’s starred in so many movies, she starts to lose count of them, often forgetting which movie was filmed where and when. I can’t blame her. My mom is a workaholic to the extreme. Hell, even when she was pregnant with me and then my little sister, she kept working right up until the days we were born.

It bothers me when people say my parents don’t deserve what they have. They’ve worked their asses off to give my sister Andie and me a wonderful life.

And to their credit, they’ve shielded us from much of the pain and stress of being in the public eye, even despite the many times we’ve been photographed and editorialized, with or without permission granted. They’ve always had a pretty tight grip on controlling how much media exposure we got as kids, wanting us to have the most normal childhoods possible, considering the circumstances. I can thank them for not turning me into some bratty, spoiled princess who refuses to work for what she wants.

No, as much as the media would love to portray me that way, I won’t let them. Besides, how boring is that? Can these journalists really not come up with a different angle than the whole overdone “entitled rich girl riding on her parents’ coattails” scenario?

Don’t get me wrong, I fully admit that my parents’ connections and insider knowledge of the industry has helped me, given me a leg up on the competition. But to make up for it, I do work really hard. My career is everything to me.

I want to be respected not for my famous family legacy or my last name, but for my talent and ambition. I may be following in my mother’s footsteps by becoming an actress, but I refuse to be typecast into the same roles she was. Not because I don’t think my mom isn’t an incredible actress who has played really cool parts, but because I don’t want everyone to constantly draw comparisons between us.

We’re two different people, with different talents and interests.

If it isn’t already abundantly clear, I really, really don’t like when someone slaps a label on me before they even know who I am. People tend to judge me based on my appearance. I understand why. With my thick, mahogany brown waves of hair nearly down to my ass, swimsuit-model body, glittering smile, and big amber eyes, I look like an understudy to a Bay Watch character.

Add to my looks a famous family name and you have a recipe for a gossip-column darling, a favorite of paparazzi and serious journalists alike. I don’t know what it is, but people are obsessed with the children of celebrities.

When I was born, the paparazzi staked out the hospital, then our family home in the Hollywood hills. I know my parents were overwhelmed, terrified that overexposure would mess with my head. So they kept a tight watch on Andie and me, tightened their security, threatened legal action against those photographers who got too close and pushed their boundaries. But my parents are also pragmatic. They understood that the public’s fascination with their kids was potential source of profit.

So when I was eleven, I posed with my mother for Vanity Fair. I recorded my first commercial for some insurance company when I was thirteen. From there, I springboarded into other minor roles in print and film advertising as well as the occasional part in soap operas.

I’ve always been interested in fashion, and my mom made sure I was constantly dressed to impress, which paid off--photos of my outfits ended up in magazine features almost monthly. At sixteen, I landed the cover of Teen Vogue. I had a recurring part as the face of a shampoo company for a year or so. At age eighteen, I skipped my senior prom to walk in a fashion show-- closing for one of my favorite avant-garde designers. And in the front row of that fashion show sat a casting director who scouted me for my first major big break-- the lead female character in a dystopian teen drama called The World Enders.

Directly after walking across the stage at my high school graduation, I hopped on a plane to Vancouver to shoot the film, in which I played a cheerleader-turned-survivalist who uses her leadership abilities and athleticism to head a group of teens during an apocalyptic war. It was a little over the top, a little cheesy at times, but it was wildly successful. Critics loved it. The public loved it. And ever since I played that role, I have received scripts and offers on a near-daily basis.

It became a lot to sort through on my own, so my parents hooked me up with one of their oldest friends, a fast-talking agent called Eddie Arnold. He’s been a friend of the family since before I was born, and I always thought of him as a kind of uncle.

Or at least, I used to.

Anyway, the point is that I have poured my blood, sweat, and tears into my career and my reputation, which is why it’s so scary that I’m having to put it all on hold right now.

And it’s not even my fault.

I roll my eyes and grit my teeth, forcing myself not to break down and cry.

“Come on, Molly, you’re stronger than that,” I whisper to myself as I turn the corner and drive up to my cozy condo in Marina del Rey. I parallel-park on the street and, slinging my workout bag over my shoulder, head down the street to my neighborhood gym. This gym is the main reason I pay as much as I do per month for my condo, because it’s right up the road.

In my line of work, it’s vital that I keep my body in tip-top shape. People don’t hire me solely for my skills--at least, not yet. Right now, they hire me because I’m pretty and because my particular style--my brand--is really hot at the moment. This year, this month, this day, I am exactly what those Hollywood executives are looking for. When I walk into a casting room, I can see faces light up at the sight of me. I am the answer to their questions.

I know this probably makes me sound a little arrogant. Too full of myself. But trust me, there isn’t a single part of my existence I take for granted. I know how lucky I am to have inherited my father’s wealth and prestige along with my mother’s beauty and talent. But my competition is often just as rich, beautiful, and skilled as I am. I need to have the edge. That one thing that makes me stand out, makes me more valuable to the crew.

And I’m already establishing that edge. I do my own stunts.

In The World Enders, I had to perform all kinds of jumps, rolls, sprints, and fight choreography. Originally, they offered to hire a stunt double for me. After all, pretty much every one of my co-stars had a double. But I was determined to make myself totally invaluable, irreplaceable in every way.

I’ve been running track and doing gymnastics since I was a little girl, and for the past few years I’ve added another workout to the mix: self-defense classes. And I don’t mean those wimpy “hit your assailant in the nose and run away” self-defense classes. I mean stuff like taekwondo and krav maga. Like boxing.

I know how to make a fight look real, because I know how to really fight. Of course, I’ve been lucky enough to avoid ever having to be in a real fight. But I would like to think that if I had to, I could.

As I walk into the gym and head straight for the treadmill, a sad thought occurs to me.

I may be a fighter trained in self-defense, but even that knowledge couldn’t protect me from what Eddie Arnold did to me. I can feel tears burning in my eyes. I shake my head and blink rapidly, refusing to shed a tear over that awful pig of a man.

I step onto the treadmill and instantly turn the speed up as high as it goes. I’m not even in the mood to stretch first. I just want to sweat and run and let my anger motivate me to work harder.

I glance up at the flat-screen television on the wall and am only half-surprised to see the image of my mother’s face. I have my earbuds in, listening to my workout playlist, but I can read lips and context clues well enough to figure out that the TV is playing some sort of celebrity gossip show. Cartoon hearts appear around my mother’s face on the screen and I smile, a little sadly.

The media almost never has anything bad to say about my mom.

My parents are both hard workers with hearts of gold. I determine after a minute or so that the host of the gossip show is talking about how my mom recently donated a bunch of money to a cancer research organization. She had a breast cancer scare about five years ago, and while it turned out totally benign in the end, she still walked away with an even deeper respect for the victims of cancer and the doctors who treat them.

Good people. My parents are good people. And they only ever associate with other good people, having high standards for who they work with and hang out with on their down time.

But even good people make bad choices sometimes, I think to myself.

Like Eddie. Eddie Arnold is a bad choice. A bad guy.

I swallow hard, feeling sick to my stomach as the memories of this past week flood back to me. The escalation of his attacks, evolving from minor annoyances to genuine harassment to bonafide threats. At first there were just some voicemails left on my phone, urging me gently to call him back so we could talk it out, discuss what happened and come to a congenial agreement about it.

Then there were the texts. Alternating between begging for forgiveness and threatening to “make my life hell” if I didn’t return his calls and meet with him.

I ignored them all for as long as I could, thinking eventually he would give up and leave me alone.

All this time, I had no idea just how bad it would get.

I thought at first maybe I could just pretend it never happened. Pretend I wasn’t that affected by what he did. I told myself maybe I misinterpreted his actions. Misread the situation. Exaggerated it in my head. The first couple days, that’s what I told myself.

But then, when I thought about it more, I just felt so angry. So hurt. Offended that this man who I’ve known my whole life, who has been like an uncle to me, could try and take advantage of my trust in him that way. The more he harassed me, the angrier I got. The more I ignored him, the angrier he got. Soon, I was getting messages on social media. My Facebook account, my Instagram page, even on Snapchat. I had to turn off my email notifications because he was sending me messages there, too. I figured if I ignored him he would eventually stop, and I could just move on.

But then I realized just how badly he’d tricked me.

Eddie was my go-to guy whenever I needed to sign a contract of any kind. I would have him read through it. He sorted through my offers and scripts, giving me advice. And at some point, he put a contract in front of me to sign. I did. And in that contract, I signed away all the rights to my own career. All my scripts and offers, all my profits. They go through him.

He is holding my career hostage. And that’s why I ended up talking to Arthur O’Connelly, attorney to the stars, today. To discuss what steps I should take to break that contract and win back my life from Eddie Arnold.

Arthur didn’t mince his words. He told me, straight-up, that this will be an uphill battle. That Eddie is a seasoned veteran in the world of legally binding contracts, and he knows all the loopholes, all the ways to trap me and make me his little marionette.

I finish my workout and walk back home as the sun sets over the beach. I pass by the little eat-in table in my kitchen and at the sight of it, my stomach turns. I flash back instantly to that fateful night last week when my life turned upside down.

It was just a business meeting, or so I thought. A little late in the evening, sure, but Eddie’s a night owl, so no huge surprise there.

We met at an upscale restaurant downtown, near closing hours. We were the only people still dining in that late, and Eddie seemed a bit off from the moment we sat down to talk. He sat next to me in the booth instead of across from me. He was slurring his words, but only slightly. He had the top three buttons undone on his silk shirt, the sleeves of his jacket rolled up. Eddie’s in his mid-forties, a paunchy, broad-shouldered chain-smoker with a raspy voice and a way of talking so quickly and confidently that he can make anyone agree to almost anything.

He downed three glasses of wine at dinner, while I slowly sipped one. He was telling me all about this new project his director buddy is working on, about how I could be a perfect fit for the lead role. I excitedly told him I was interested, of course, but then he shook his head.

“Yeah, oh yeah, you would be a great fit. Perfect. You got the body for it, obviously,” he slurred, gesturing with his hands in the shape of an hourglass. A little inappropriate, maybe, but I ignored it.

“So can you set me up for a casting call?” I asked.

Eddie looked at me long and hard. Then he said quietly, “Yeah, sure can, Molly-pop... But uh, he might need some coaxing.”

“Oh?” I asked, frowning in confusion.

“Or rather… I might need some coaxing,” Eddie said in a low voice.

And that’s when I felt it.

His hand. His meaty, thick fingers sliding up my thigh under the table. I froze up, paralyzed with shock. Eddie gave a low growl and leaned over, his boozy breath hot on my neck. Goosebumps prickled up on my skin. What the hell is he doing? I thought to myself.

His lips brushed my neck, his hand resting on the soft mound between my thighs.

Finally, my shock wore off and I jumped up, sliding out of the booth so quickly that I knocked over our wine glasses and sent a basket of ciabatta rolls flying off the table. I gave Eddie a horrified look and muttered, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

And then I turned on my heel and ran. Right out of the restaurant. Right into the middle of the street. Cars honked and swerved to avoid me. I hailed a cab and climbed inside, shaking so hard I could barely tell the driver my address.

When I got home, I called my sister, sobbing. Andie came over and held me while I cried and told her the whole horrible story. I made her promise not to tell our parents. Not yet. I needed to think it over first. I knew it would be difficult to tell them. Eddie has been their closest friend and confidante for decades. It would be a huge shock to them, that kind of betrayal.

I sit down at the kitchen table and finally allow the tears to fall. But only for a minute or so. Then I wipe my eyes, get up, and murmur, “That’s enough. Time to make dinner. Think about something else for awhile.”

Just as I’m chopping vegetables at the kitchen counter, I hear a loud, curt knock at the front door of my apartment. I glance at the digital clock on the microwave.

Nine-oh-five.

Not super late, but definitely late enough to arouse my suspicion. I don’t have plans with anyone, to my knowledge, and the only person who ever comes over unannounced is my sister Andie. I set down my chopping knife, then think twice and pick it back up as I walk quietly over to the front door. I peek through the tiny peephole.

Nobody there. Empty hallway.

Then I hear a crinkling sound under my foot. I look down to see a white envelope poking out from under my slipper. Scowling in confusion, I reach down and pick it up. It’s totally blank. Should I even open it? What if it’s--

“No,” I sigh. “Come on, Molly. It’s not anthrax.”

With my heart pounding, I open the envelope and pull out a single sheet of crisp white printer paper. I unfold it to read a brief message in all caps.

COME BACK OR I WILL DRAG YOU BACK.