Wandering Wild

PROLOGUE

I’ve never feared dying.

Maybe it’s because I’m young, still a teenager, and in perfect health.

Maybe it’s because I know death comes for everyone, and there’s no point dreading the inevitable.

Or maybe it’s simply because I’ve never given much thought to my own mortality, having always viewed it as something to contemplate in the distant future, perhaps during a midlife crisis or some other existential predicament.

Had I known I would soon be lost in the wilderness and freefalling down a colossal waterfall, about to meet my end, I might have given my life—and death—more consideration.

But it’s too late for regrets.

It’s too late for anything.

Because when I finally stop plummeting only to slam into the hard surface of the raging, icy river, I don’t have time to be afraid of what’s coming next. I don’t even have time to mourn everything I’m about to lose, the life I could have had, the dreams I’ll never see come true. All I have time for is a single thought, a single feeling, before everything goes black:

Pain.

ZANDER

The moment I step out of the elevator into my agent’s highrise office, the light streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows hits me like a slap in the face. I shield my eyes from the glittering Los Angeles skyline, hissing as my retinas sting in protest.

A tsk sound greets my ears, followed by a deep voice saying, “Your community service might be over, but you’re still required to remain sober. Do you want to be sent back to rehab?”

I squint through the room until I find my agent, Gabriel King, reclining on his cream leather couch and watching me over the rim of his takeaway coffee cup.

“I’m not hungover.” The injustice of his assumption burns in my chest, compounded by guilt, shame, and—worst of all—grief, all of which I quickly stifle. “Your office might as well be on the sun. Haven’t you heard of blinds?”

“Gotta get my Vitamin D,” Gabe says, sliding one dark-skinned arm into a sunbeam. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his starched collar unbuttoned, his general appear­ance more dishevelled than usual. It doesn’t bode well that he’s called me to his office, since we usually talk over the phone—especially lately, with how much I’ve been trying to avoid the paparazzi.

Gabe waves to an identical cream couch opposite him. “Have a seat, Zander.”

I head to where he indicated, trying to ignore the uneasy tension in my stomach. Gabe isn’t just my agent, he’s my friend. A father-figure, almost. He’s been championing me ever since I accepted a dare to audition for a film inspired by a popular children’s book series and, without any experience or training, surprised everyone by being cast as the lead. The Lost Heirs franchise took off, resulting in four blockbuster movies—and overnight fame for me. A real-life Hollywood fairytale, reporters say, whenever they reference my rise to stardom, and Gabe was with me through it all. Contracts, scripts, endorsements, inter­views, fans, social media—I had no idea what I was doing until he swooped in and took control. I was barely twelve when I signed with him. I’m now eighteen, and I still have no idea what I’m doing. But it turns out that the one thing I do know is how to act. Even more, I enjoy it. When I sink into the mind of a char­acter, from the moment the director calls “Action!” to when they announce “That’s a wrap,” I feel alive. I feel free. I’m one of the lucky few who has found their calling in life, and I can’t imagine doing anything else.

Maybe that’s why I’m so nervous as I take my seat opposite Gabe. Because there’s a look on his face I’ve never seen before, a resigned set to his features, a depth of sadness in his eyes.

Sadness—for me.

“I’ll get straight to it,” Gabe says, not one to waste time. “The studio is threatening to find someone else to play Titan Wolfe.”

A single sentence is all it takes for something precious inside me to wither and die.

“You were already labelled difficult after everything with Summer,” Gabe continues, and when I open my mouth to object, he stops me with a look. “The truth doesn’t matter, Zan. This is Hollywood.” Despite his firm words, his tone is apologetic. “Lord knows you have the talent and the charisma and the—well, everything—but you also made an enemy out of one of the most powerful directors in the biz. Your reputation is mud. And we’re in damage control.” His dark eyes snare mine. “You already know how many favours I had to call in just to get you an audition for Titan’s War. They saw your skill enough to cast you as the lead, but can you blame them for being wary now? Especially with the DUI charge on top of the rest? They’re not out of line for citing breach of contract. I’m frankly surprised they’re only threatening to replace you.”

I clench my jaw and look out the window-wall, but then the last part of what he said sinks in.

“They’re not—” My voice is hoarse, so I cough and try again. “They’re only threatening? Does that mean they’re not actually terminating?”

Gabe takes a long sip of his coffee. “Not yet.”

A breath whooshes out of me, but my relief is short-lived.

“Things aren’t looking good though, kid.”

It’s his gentle tone that really hits me, making me realise how serious this is. And it’s because of that—and because of how much my career means to me—that I square my shoulders and ask, “How do I fix this?”

He could say anything and I would do it. Acting is all I have; losing it would be like losing myself.

Gabe sips his coffee again, before declaring, “We need to clean up your image.”

I frown, since that much is obvious.

But then he continues, “And we only have two weeks to do it.”

My heart skips a beat. “Two weeks?”

Gabe nods, then places his coffee on the small table between us, swapping it for his tablet. “Val tried appealing to the producers while you were away—”

He makes it sound as if I took a vacation, not like I was fulfill­ing my court-ordered rehab and community service hours—both of which were a slap on the wrist compared to what they could have been.

“—but they’re eager to get the cameras rolling, which means if they have to recast, they needed to do it yesterday. A fortnight was the best she could manage, but she also warned that you’re going to have to pull off a near miracle to convince them to keep you on.”

I lean forward and rub a hand over my face. Valentina Martínez—the director of Titan’s War—is one of my biggest advocates, and also one of the reasons why I won the lead inwhat is already being hailed by the media as a “movie of the decade” despite it only being in pre-production. Val doesn’t care about gossip; she cares only about her creative vision. Apparently, she took one look at my audition and demanded that the casting director have me return for a chemistry read with the female romantic lead. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was the only actor who Val personally requested for a callback. She envisioned me as Titan Wolfe from the beginning. If I end up losing the role, she’ll be almost as devastated as me.

But only almost.

“Did they offer any suggestions for how I can . . . prove myself?” I ask Gabe, stumbling over the words. How can I show that I’m not the person they think I am, when the entire world believes it to be true?

“Nothing specific,” he answers, swiping at his tablet. “But Val and I spoke at length about this and, well . . .” He taps the screen, before looking up at me again. “She has an idea.”

At his prompting, I glance towards the side of his office where a television is mounted to the wall, the screensaver showing rolling waves breaking onto a sandy shore. Another tap of Gabe’s finger and the waves are replaced by footage of a young teenager seated on a blue couch, laughing at something his interviewer is saying. The sound is muted, but I remember that day like it was yesterday.

The boy is me, four years ago, on the press tour promoting the second Lost Heirs movie. I’d just turned fourteen and, thanks to the success of the first film, all the major talk shows around the world had invited me in, mostly as an individual but sometimes with my castmates.

My gaze remains locked on the television as the interview continues playing. I find it hard to believe how innocent I seemed back then. How . . . wholesome. It’s strange watching myself; I almost have to think of the person on the screen as someone else. As a kid who wins the audience with a flick of his unusual silver hair and a well-timed wink of his startlingly blue eyes, aimed straight at the camera. I nearly snort at his attempts to charm the viewers, but I manage to resist. Partly because I’m aware of Gabe’s intense focus on me, and partly because I’m too busy beating back all the emotions that are vying for my atten­tion. It doesn’t make sense that I’m envious of myself, but that’s my predominant feeling right now.

“We need to get you back to that,” Gabe says quietly. “Or an older, more seasoned version of it.” He pauses the footage on my fourteen-year-old self grinning brightly enough to melt hearts all over the globe. “We need to recapture that human side of you. The innocence, the sincerity, the inherent goodness that made people fall in love with you. That’s what we have to show everyone—we want them to see you again, not ‘Zander Rune: Hollywood’s Bad Boy.’”

The title has my hackles rising. “I’m not—”

“I know, Zan,” Gabe cuts me off, losing patience. “But it’s not me who you need to convince.”

I blow out an aggravated breath, reminding myself that he’s trying to help. “You said Val has an idea?” I wave to the television screen. “What does this have to do with it?”

Gabe shifts in his seat, a nervous movement that puts me on edge, and then he fast-forwards the footage. He pauses it again when the interviewer reveals a photograph of an even younger version of me, seven years old, standing shin-deep in a bubbling creek and holding a fishing rod. The camera had a timer function, so both my mom and dad made it into the shot, their arms wrapped around me, all three of us beaming.

I school my expression as I turn back to Gabe, knowing he’s watching me carefully. I remember why the interviewer showed this particular photo, just as I remember every word of our conversation that came after it was shared with the world. What I don’t understand is why Gabe has brought it up now.

“I lied before,” he admits. “Technically, it’s my idea, not Val’s. But I did ask for her help since we’re strapped for time and she has the contacts to make it happen. She’s worked with his production team before, so she can cut through the red tape and get things moving before your fortnight is up.”

Gabe stops speaking, as if waiting for my response, but all I can do is repeat, “His production team?” My confusion is clear. “Whose team? And for what?”

It takes a moment for Gabe to answer, during which time he sips the dregs of his coffee. “This idea . . . you’re not going to like it.”

The hesitation in his voice is enough for me to brace, espe­cially when he sighs, long and loud, before continuing, “You’re too talented as an actor for the studio—and the public—not to question if you’re just faking your way back into their good graces, so that means we need someone else to bring out the ‘you’ they want to see. Someone who will remind them that you’re still the same boy who made the world fall to its knees, and that your recent notoriety is nothing more than a passing blip. Someone who will help prove you’re still worth their investment and adoration.”

Every muscle in my body is tense. “When you say ‘someone,’ what does that mean?” I recall his mention of a production team and warily ask, “Who else have you suckered into this plan to redeem my image?”

Gabe’s response is to offer a slow grin that sets off warning bells. “That’s the brilliance of my idea.” He begins tapping at his tablet again. “No one can say we rigged it, because no one will be ‘suckered in’ unless they choose to be. And as long as you keep your head together and offer your best manners for a few days, you’ll be in the clear just in time for your end-of-fortnight deadline.”

I’m more confused than ever, but at Gabe’s look, I smother my questions and wait for him to explain. He doesn’t use the main television to share from his tablet this time, keeping the photo from my family’s one and only camping trip on the screen. I should have realised it was a forewarning, Gabe’s way of softening the blow of what he was about to reveal, but there was no way I could have anticipated that it was his inspiration for saving my career. Instead, comprehension hits me like a freight train when he flips his tablet around so it’s facing me.

My eyes travel over the drafted media announcement, and all I can do is utter a quiet expletive, knowing Gabe is right on two counts:

His idea is brilliant.

And I absolutely hate it.