Chapter 1: The Obituary Goes Viral

After breaking up with Nathan Quinn, my life turned into a nightmare. Nathan’s fans had made my life hell for three years straight—DMs full of death threats, posters taped to my door calling me a homewrecker, even a near-miss with acid at a red carpet. The LAPD had a stack of incident reports on me that could’ve doubled as a doorstop.

By the fourth year, Nathan finally seemed ready to move on. He dropped a new love album and made it official with his new girlfriend. The album cover had him and Sophie tangled together on a Malibu beach, golden hour painting everything soft and perfect—like they’d never known heartbreak.

During a promo for the new single, Nathan was cool and collected when asked about the past. He lounged in the Tonight Show’s velvet chair, designer boots kicked out, that smirk I used to love just barely there.

"A truly qualified ex should be like they're dead," he said.

A TMZ reporter couldn’t help but dig deeper, hungry for drama:

"So, do you think Emily Rivers is a qualified ex?"

Nathan, who once smashed a mic over a hair question, didn’t even blink. Instead, he leaned in, voice smooth as whiskey: "A real ex? You shouldn’t even remember they existed."

He dragged the microphone close, knuckles tight on the handle, and added with that dark, low voice his fans went wild for:

"Miss Rivers manages countless affairs daily. My small temple here—she wouldn't think much of it."

He paused, then, barely above a whisper, "Rather than saying qualified... it's more like she's really dead."

That night, my long-dormant account suddenly posted an obituary. Millions of notifications pinged across America.

The first line: "When you see this letter, I have already left this world."

Five minutes later, Nathan Quinn—who never handled his own social—logged in and reposted one of his old songs.

—"Pretty Good"

He’d written that for me when I booked my first real movie. I could still picture him strumming it on his battered guitar in a cramped Brooklyn studio, before either of us had made it. It was all about new beginnings and endless hope.

Now, everything’s changed. No need to promote old songs, no need to remember the past.

His message was obvious to anyone who knew us: I’m dead—pretty good.

News of my "death" shot to the top of trending searches. #EmilyRiversDead even dethroned #SuperBowl. Every blog from Perez Hilton to E! News scrambled for dirt.

Nathan’s fans and mine went to war in the comments. Three days of digital bloodbath—doxxing, hacked accounts, even a push to erase my Wikipedia page.

It ended with Nathan blocking one of his oldest fans. She’d followed him since garage band days and even had "Nathan Forever" inked on her wrist.

Afterward, Nathan posted on Instagram: [Wedding approaching, don't jinx me by following the trend]

The pic was him and Sophie, fingers intertwined, Tiffany rings flashing. The kind that cost more than your car.

The breadcrumbs suddenly made sense to everyone watching: he’d been dropping hints for days, and now the whole ugly truth was out.

[I was wondering why our Nathan seemed off—turns out we were all played by that cheap woman!]

[Wait, isn't it that Nathan Quinn is getting married, and Emily Rivers is here stirring up drama...]

[Those who betray true hearts must swallow a thousand needles, Emily Rivers ten thousand]

Nathan clearly didn’t buy that I was dead. Maybe he thought it was just another stunt—like when I "disappeared" for a week to hype my indie film.

But he wasn’t the only one who doubted me.

My biggest fan, Chloe Bennett, was first. Chloe, who’d run my fansite since she was fifteen and spent her college fund on cameras to get better shots of me at events.

...

Today marked my ten-year debut anniversary. Ten years since I’d walked into that dingy Burbank casting office, desperate for any role that would pay rent.

Fans came from everywhere—Amtrak from Boston, Greyhound from Texas, flights from Seattle—just to celebrate my decade in Hollywood. They’d filled up a whole corner booth at Denny’s, bottomless coffee refills and stale fries untouched, the gold balloons spelling "10 YEARS WITH EMILY" sagging over their heads.

My obituary hit like a thunderclap, telling them my career had ended three years ago. Suddenly, those decorations looked more like funeral garlands than party props.

I’d promised them Disneyland when I won my first Oscar. Now, I couldn’t even keep my promise to show up.

Chloe tried to rally everyone, tears brimming but pretending to be calm. Her iPhone case, covered with my movie premiere stickers, shook in her hand.

"Everyone, calm down—this post has to be fake. Remember? Emily said she went into seclusion to work on her acting. She’ll be back." Her voice broke, but she forced a smile. "She’s probably at some method acting retreat in the Berkshires or something."

Her laugh wobbled, a sound too brittle to be real. She swiped at her eyes, trying to smile like nothing was wrong.

A few girls huddled over their phones, blue light painting their faces in the Denny’s gloom:

"Look, she’s been posting updates for us all these years, saying she’s safe. She can’t just... die. It’s gotta be fake. Maybe she’s just hiding out after the breakup..." One girl, not even out of braces, clung to hope.

I smiled bitterly. The first rumors of my death had leaked three years ago. A paparazzo claimed he’d seen my name on a hospital form, but nobody cared.

I kept posting, interacting with fans, but no paparazzi ever found me—not at Whole Foods, not at SoulCycle, not anywhere in Silver Lake.

Eventually, fans spotted the inconsistencies: old photos recycled, weird timing—like a Christmas tree in July, or the same Starbucks cup in pictures months apart. Theories exploded.

Back then, these same girls leapt to my defense, spinning wild stories about witness protection and secret missions.

They’d rather believe heartbreak drove me away than that I was gone for good.

Just like how I couldn’t believe my diagnosis at first. When Dr. Matthews at Cedars-Sinai told me I had cervical cancer, I actually laughed. It had to be a mistake. I was too young, too careful, vaccinated on time.

Twenty-seven, just starting to land real roles after years of playing "dead girl #3" or "crying girlfriend." I hadn’t even married my long-term boyfriend yet. We’d been house-hunting in the Hills, dreaming about kids and growing old together.

Still so young—how could death pick me? Death was for old folks in Florida, not for girls who still got carded at bars.