PHOEBE SUTHERLAND came to los angeles chasing the glow of the spotlight. years later, she ran from it just as fast. the headlines said her husband’s death was an accident — a fall from the balcony of their hollywood home. phoebe never corrected them. the lie fit too neatly into the story the world wanted to tell.
now she lives in new york, far from red carpets and palm trees, though her name still carries in the industry. directors still call. magazines still write nostalgia pieces about her early roles — the doe-eyed ingénue turned enigmatic talent. she plays along, offers smiles and soft answers, and keeps her name polished for the public while her past stays buried.
tierney is older now — bright, curious, untouched by the truth. phoebe intends to keep it that way. but sometimes, when the lights hit her face on set, the air feels too warm, too familiar. memories creep in, unwelcome.
hollywood remembers her. the cameras still adore her. and not a single one suspects a thing.
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PHOEBE SUTHERLAND.
visage via elizabeth lail.
fandomless horror original character by irena.
