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To Farrin Jacobs, for working unbelievably hard and making the writing process so fun.
Thank you for not just being an amazing editor but a wonderful friend.
CONTENTS
DEDICATION
3 - NICE GETS YOU NOWHERE IN HOLLYWOOD
8 - WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT LOVE?
12 - MYSTERIOUS CONTRADICTIONS
16 - A BAND-AID ON A BULLET WOUND
21 - YOU KNOW ME BETTER THAN THAT
29 - A SATISFYING AMOUNT OF COMMOTION
BOOKS BY LAUREN CONRAD
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Dear Madison,
You probably don’t remember it, but a few months ago I wrote you a letter. I told you that I was your biggest fan. And I really was! My screen saver was a picture of you from the Fame Game premiere. My ringtone was the theme from Madison’s Makeovers. I loved you.
Well, I’m writing now to tell you that I don’t love you anymore. At all. Everything I said in that letter—about how you were true to yourself, how you worked so hard for what you got—I take it all back. Because everything that you said was a lie.
You had it all, Madison. Money, looks, fame. But I guess that wasn’t enough. Stealing is wrong. Didn’t your parents teach you anything?
Sincerely disappointed,
Becca B.
PS: I unfollowed you on Twitter.
Madison Parker stood in the echoing marble foyer of the Beverly Hills Courthouse, her back pressed against the wall and her purse clutched tightly in her freshly manicured fingers. People in ill-fitting suits and outdated shoes hurried past without a second glance at Madison’s uncharacteristically pale face. (Seriously, was there a law against natural fabrics and current-season pumps around here?)
Madison’s own outfit was carefully thought out. She’d taken a page from Lindsay’s book (after all, who had more experience when it came to courtroom couture?) and opted for white, although Madison wore a bra with her ensemble. Her dress hit right below the knee, and she accessorized with a modest heel and pearls. She had a quilted Chanel that would have looked perfect, but instead she’d chosen a simple black bag. “No labels,” her lawyer had instructed her. She’d been charged with theft, and flaunting an expensive wardrobe wasn’t going to help her case.
She sighed. For the last ten minutes she’d been waiting for Andy Marcus, Esq., to emerge from wherever he’d disappeared to in the moments after her hearing. He was probably off congratulating himself, as if it had been his performance that had convinced the judge not to give Madison jail time for grand theft. Madison knew the truth, of course: When she took the stand, with her big blue eyes full of tears and her voice full of remorse, she saw the judge soften. In seconds, she had him wrapped around her finger. (She often had
