Listen, we're still obsessing over Iman Hariri-Kia's debut novel, A Hundred Other Girls, that definitely filled the Devil Wears Prada-sized hole in our hearts so it's no surprise that we have been counting down the days for her second novel. And just like how the main character is obsessed with taking down a con artist, you're not going to be able to stop thinking about The Most Famous Girl in the World.
Cosmopolitan has an exclusive first look at Iman's next standalone novel, The Most Famous Girl in the World, which basically takes everything you thought you knew about con artists (think Anna Delvey mixed with Caroline Calloway) and turns it up to ten. Of course, in true Iman fashion, we're seeing it through the eyes of magazine writer Rose Aslani and you won't want to miss what happens between them. You can check out the official cover below that we totally need framed ASAP:
The Most Famous Girl in the World, which comes out on September 17, 2024, will give us a different glimpse of the celebrity world than you might have seen. And while it is obviously a wild story with a twist, you can definitely expect some of Iman's signature humor here as well. Our friends at Sourcebooks Landmark also sent us the official description so you can learn more:
Rose Aslani is mid-bikini wax when her phone lights up with a notification: Famed scam artist Poppy Hastings will be released from prison today.
It's been two years since Rose—a first-generation Middle Eastern American, functional trainwreck, and reporter for online journal The Shred—wrote the investigative article that exposed Poppy as a socialite grifter. Normally, one of her articles going viral would be cause for celebration, but the highly publicized trial that followed turned Poppy into the internet's favorite celebrity. And Rose has been reeling from the aftermath ever since. Although Poppy served her time for defrauding some of the richest, most powerful men in the world, Rose knows this is only the tip of the iceberg for Poppy's crimes. She just can't prove it yet… At least not without the help of a devilishly handsome FBI agent gone rogue.
As Poppy's star rises as an influencer and pop-culture icon, Rose quickly descends into a downward spiral of guilt and obsession. Her article created Poppy's fame, so Rose needs to right her wrong by exposing Poppy for the monster that she is. But it's not going to be easy taking down the most famous girl in the world.
Campy, satirical, and utterly hilarious, The Most Famous Girl in the World is both a scathing indictment of modern celebrity and a thrilling rollercoaster ride of unhinged hijinks that will keep you gasping at every turn of the page.
If you're anything like us, then you definitely are wanting to jump in ASAP to find out what happens next! But don't worry, you won't have to wait too long to see how it all goes down. We have an exclusive excerpt that you check out below, but make sure you preorder The Most Famous Girl in the World and check out A Hundred Other Girls if you haven't yet!
An Excerpt From The Most Famous Girl in the World
By Iman Hariri-Kia
Chapter One
When I learn that Poppy Hastings (née Watts) is being released from prison, I’m in the middle of getting my asshole waxed. I know, I know—that sounds like something a person would make up for the sake of telling a good story, but in this case, it’s actually what happened.
You see, sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction. And reality really can write itself better than any great American novel.
That’s one of the reasons I became a journalist in the first place.
Eighteen months have dragged by since Poppy was locked up at Albion Correctional Facility in upstate New York, a mere six-hour drive from the city. (You could say it’s been eighteen months since I helped put her there. But that’s neither here nor there.)
She was convicted by a unanimous jury and sentenced to five years, which I had expected to move as slowly as an East Coast winter. But the snow melted, Punxsutawney Phil saw his stupid shadow, and now spring has fucking sprung—three and half years too early.
My group chat blows up first, just like it always does. Multiple texts from my work friends turned real, best, should-we-take-a-blood-oath friends set my screen on fire. Steph (short for Estefania, but don’t you dare call her that) and Fern have heard the news, and now the texts come flooding in like intrusive thoughts.
Omg. They’re letting her out.
They’re actually letting Poppy out early.
Rose. Are you there? This is not a drill.
911. Poppy Hastings is being released from prison.
Stop messing with me, I write back. I just went off Zoloft, you heartless wench.
I roll my eyes.
Just last week, Fern tried to convince me that she was getting back with an ex who used to exclusively sport fingerless gloves, just to see me sweat. It’s this harmless little thing we do, my friends and I. We call it pranking. Others call it lying.
It’s a game, but one we play only with each other.
Then I get the Apple News alert.
A notification pops onto my screen from The New York Dweller, the parent publication I work for, and I swear to god, the remaining hairs in my anus stand up fucking straight. I physically recoil as I process what I’m reading.
“Stop moving,” my aesthetician, Sherry, commands.
She’s standing behind my wide-spread legs, peering into the crevice between my butt cheeks, attempting to continue the wax. Not that anyone other than Sherry will be staring down into the depths of my asshole any time soon. Ever since Zain left, the only thing in my apartment that’s gotten even remotely close to fingered is Roommate’s god-awful violin. I don’t even know why I keep waxing. Probably because hair sprouts from every orifice of my body like I’m a walking, talking botanical garden. Or maybe because I’m a sadist. Sick in the head.
Perhaps a bit of both.
Most likely, I’m just trying to feel something—anything—other than chronic anger.
“Fuck,” I say to Sherry. She gives me a scolding look of death. “I’m sorry.”
She’s a Slovenian woman in her late fifties with broad shoulders, bright red cheeks, and a thick, syrupy accent. When Sherry asks you to do something, you do it. I both admire and fear the living daylights out of that woman.
“No cursing.” Sherry frowns like her job depends on it.
“Shit, okay,” I say. “Oh no, I did it again. Fuck!”
Yeah. Sherry doesn’t like me very much.
Poppy Hastings is being released from prison.
The headline plays on a loop in my head. It reverberates between my eardrums as I leave my appointment and begin the five-minute trek back to my apartment. I attempt to nudge away the words swimming around my frontal cortex the way I would evade an older relative trying to kiss me on the cheek. But they just bounce back with a grin, eager to tease and taunt me. My body is still stinging from the wax, so I place my phone in my pocket as I walk—a big journalist no-no. Heaven forbid I miss a breaking news notification. It’s no use, though. Even without the push notifications, Poppy’s name still gyrates around in my head. Goddammit.
Poppy.
Poppy Hastings.
Poppy Hastings is being released.
This is not happening to me.
I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, then try to remain present by focusing entirely on my surroundings.
A smoke shop with the door cracked open; a bodega cat without a collar peering in up and down the street with suspicion.
A mom-and-pop restaurant—simply called Fried Chicken—that sells only fried chicken.
A band of white boys dressed in tiny caps and cuffed jeans, parodying around as locals while their parents pay the rent on their newly renovated one-bedroom flexes.
Gentrification began flirting with Clinton Hill about two years before I moved here, which probably means I’m part of the problem. But I still like to shift the blame elsewhere. Partly because I’m the daughter of Iranian immigrants and was basically raised with a chip on my shoulder. And partly because I’m on the Gen Z–Millennial cusp. Pointing fingers and pouting are our favorite hobbies.
When I was a child, my classmates’ parents were hesitant to set their kids up on playdates with me. I don’t remember this, but my mother mentioned it once offhand, and it stuck with me in the way that small moments sometimes do when you’re little and still making sense of the world. I don’t know why I’m sharing this with you. You’re not my therapist. (That’s Julee. And she fired me last month. Did you know therapists could fire their clients? I sure didn’t.)
I’m also pretty much always a tiny bit broke. As a journalist, even a “successful” one—an illusion, by the way—you grow accustomed to being underpaid. You’re taught to be grateful for opportunities, to kiss the feet of those who came before you just for inviting you into the room. To wipe the asses of giant corporations as the board of trustees grows richer and your bank account begins to leak.
I’m a cynic.
Not that I can think of anything less original than being cynical in Brooklyn.
My apartment is a fifth-floor walk-up in a tentatively beautiful rent-controlled old brownstone that hasn’t been renovated in at least a half a century. My street is quiet, like a suburban cul-de-sac without all the friendly faces. But I do prefer my neighborhood, at the very least, to Gramercy, where I commute every day for work. Across the bridge, the noise is incessant, the air polluted, and casual, god-awful acquaintances lurk around every corner. Given the choice of being anonymous in Brooklyn or visible in Manhattan, always pick the former.
Especially if it’s all you can afford.
The radiator whistles its usual greeting as I walk through the front door. I immediately turn it off and open a window, allowing that April breeze to smack some sense into me.
“Hello?”
My voice reverberates through the small space, echoing back to me.
Roommate is sprawled out on our crusty green love seat, her boyfriend perched between her legs on the floor, eating ramen.
Oh, and they’re both butt-ass naked.
Sigh.
Roommate is Romanian. (I think? She has a heavy accent.) The two met while microdosing mushrooms at a guided sound bath last year and have been attached at the pierced navel ever since. Based on their attire—or lack thereof—I can tell they weren’t expecting me back so soon. When I’m home, they usually spend the majority of their time locked in their room, playing a Bartók violin concerto (badly) and crocheting pants.
The apartment belonged to me first. Roommate moved in after Zain moved out.
I was desperate; she was homeless. It was a match made in literal hell.
When I was still living in Ohio, I found an ad for this place on Craigslist. This was before I met Steph and Fern. I knew virtually no one in New York. Well, except for a few kids from J-school. But I had enough sense to know that I’d be better off licking a subway seat than inhabiting five hundred square feet with them. By the time I finally saw the place in person, I was screwed. The apartment looked much larger and much better maintained in the pictures.
It was, to be blunt, a shithole.
The bathtub had a red grime snaking its way up the drain; all of the last tenant’s dishes were piled up in the sink, waiting to be hand-washed; the largest window faced a brick wall, blocking out most of the daylight. But I’d already signed the lease and couldn’t afford to live in some four-story palace in Park Slope or whatever the fuck. At least the place has its charms. Prehistoric crown moldings on the ceiling that I was too oblivious to appreciate until Zain pointed them out. The scuffs that decorate the hardwood floor in meaningful, albeit vague, patterns. A disco ball that lives on a small Lucite coffee table, which Roommate stole at a rave in Bushwick from a girl who “smelled like fish.”
I never moved out. Roommate moved in.
So here we are. Coexisting.
“I thought we talked about nudity in the common areas.”
Roommate vaguely looks up, boredom in her eyes, and gives me a nod of acknowledgment. I toss her a blanket from the bin by the door, and she drapes it over her torso like a shawl.
Well, I tried.
I kick off my New Balances—which remind me of my elderly grandfather, but everyone at work insists they’re cool, and I know fuck all about being cool—and lie down on the floor. My mind is still racing, and rest feels urgent. The wood is cool against my cheek, if a little sticky.
“What’s wrong with her?” Boyfriend whispers a little too loudly.
“Who knows?” Roommate doesn’t bother lowering her voice. Instead she throws a noodle at me, watching me flinch. “What’s wrong with you?”
I haven’t checked my phone in about twenty minutes, but I feel it buzzing against my abdomen. This means one of two things: Steph and Fern think I’ve jumped in front of the G train, or I’ve missed another breaking news alert.
Probably both.
Right now, I couldn’t care less. Next to today’s top headline, everything else feels meaningless.
“Poppy Hastings is being released from prison,” I announce.
“Ah.” Roommate makes a knowing hissing sound. “You’re having breakdown.”
“Looks like it.”
She stands up, grabbing her keys and coat.
“You stay. I buy vodka.”
She’s not a bad roommate.
And it doesn’t take a genius to see that I’m stewing in a mess of my own making.
Because in many ways, I created Poppy Hastings, and she created me.
Chapter Two
Before Poppy, I was just an associate reporter at the Shred, the digital arm of the newspaper The New York Dweller. (We’re mostly known for our quippy headlines, which are meant to incite visceral reactions. You know, like the little internet terrorists we are.) It was a job I had basically landed out of luck. Back when I’d been a lowly freelancer, a practically unemployed graduate from The Ohio State University, a few essays I’d published on Medium had gone semiviral. They were all about growing up first-generation Iranian and therefore didn’t count as real writing. Exploitation of one’s identity, I’ve come to realize, is truly the cheapest form of clickbait. But what can I say? The industry is addicted to trauma porn, and the next thing I knew, I’d tricked the Shred into giving me an interview. I had manipulated everyone into believing I was legit enough to be a real journalist.
A true villain origin story.
But entry-level writing wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. The job was essentially to pen speculative garbage about internet memes, whatever news Twitter deemed important, and pointless celebrity feuds—and all for minimum wage. I intensely resented being the greenest employee on staff. At meetings, I was given the least amount of time possible to pitch my ideas. Editors assigned me the stories that nobody else wanted to write. I was the Breaking News Bitch: always on call, social life nonexistent. And while I enjoyed any excuse to get out of date night with Zain, the topics I covered ranged from vapid to mundane. By the end, I knew so much about astrological compatibility that I repulsed myself. I spent my evenings fantasizing about reporting features, touching myself to thoughts of investigative journalism instead of ethical porn.
Then one morning, some higher power or simulation nerd sent me my golden ticket.
There it was: just sitting, unassuming, in my inbox.
An anonymous tip had come in overnight from an encrypted email. The source had written only one sentence, but the message was addressed directly to me.
Not the Shred.
Not my editor.
Me.
Poppy Hastings isn’t who she says she is.
Until that very moment, I had never heard of Poppy Hastings. My life had been gloriously Poppy-free. But I got to Googling. It didn’t take long for photos to start popping up in all the society pages, from Getty Images to Patrick McMullan.
Slowly, I began to piece her together.
She was an English socialite who lived in New York City with houses in the South of France, the Hamptons, and fuck knows where else. Poppy was presumably from old money, and she was involved with a plethora of charitable organizations. From the looks of it, she never missed a benefit. There were photos of her cutting the ribbon to a new Mount Sinai hospital wing on the arm of the ambassador to Kuwait, others of her laughing at the Gabrielle’s Angel Foundation’s masked gala, clinking glasses with the CEO of Unicycle, a flashy exercise start-up. But her role at each event was opaque or never mentioned. Poppy herself was the face of coded luxury. She managed to fly somewhat under the radar, which isn’t rare for people with large sums of money. When you have so much wealth that you no longer feel the weight of your riches, talking about your socioeconomic status is considered déclassé.
Nevertheless, she appeared to be rubbing her elbows raw with some of the richest and most powerful people in the world.
But what on earth was their connection?
According to my research, Poppy had been silently working the circuit for almost a decade. But before her debut, there was zero record of her existence. Unlike her lack of philanthropic credibility, this made no sense. Someone who presumably had ties to British aristocracy would surely have her French-tipped little fingerprints all over an age-old lineage’s archives—or at the very least have left a record of where she attended private school. But Poppy appeared to have popped out of her mother’s vagine as a fully formed woman in her late twenties with a bottomless bank account and a tight-lipped smile.
That deliciously smug, silently judging, tight-lipped smile.
My anonymous source was right.
Something wasn’t adding up.
So I took a risk. I hadn’t yet brought up my little research project to my editor at the Shred, mostly because I knew that she’d a) tell me to stop wasting my time or b) give the story to a more senior reporter. This was my big break, and I couldn’t allow myself to get scooped by the culture-vultures. No, it was time to stop playing by the book.
I was ready to get my hands dirty.
Using my NYD email address, I began reaching out to some of the people Poppy had been photographed with, asking for a comment on a fake upcoming article. A nobody in the journo world, I fully expected never to hear back from any of them. And for the most part, I was right; many of the players I contacted never responded. Others agreed to speak with me only off the record or solely on background. A few declined my request but referred me to friends of friends—and that was how I landed my first jackpot interview.
I quickly learned that the circles of the 1 percent are minuscule; as soon as one influential source agreed to speak with me, the rest followed suit. And they weren’t just willing to talk.
They were anxious to find out what I knew.
I soon learned that no one really had a comprehensive idea of who Poppy Hastings was, where she came from, or what she did for a living. One of my sources believed her to be a distant relative of the queen; another had heard through the grapevine that her family had invented transition lenses. Not one seemed able to recall how they’d met her, either; she always just appeared to be waiting wherever the rest of the horde went. Poppy attended every gallery opening, evening at the opera, and high-profile tennis match with some dashing and atrociously wealthy suitor who waited on her hand and foot.
The way her peers described her, Poppy Hastings wasn’t just beautiful—she was iridescent. Witty, outrageously fun, and free-spirited, Poppy was that woman in the circuit who was always suggesting her comrades kick the party up a notch. The fundraiser for children with cleft palates in the Galápagos sure was lovely, but know what would be even lovelier? Flying to the island itself and conducting an expedition—for research, of course. Did the chocolate fountain at the fete make you shit yourself with nostalgia for the Trevi? Then why not jet off to Rome at sunrise? There were few plans you couldn’t change, planes you couldn’t charter, for the right opportunity or impulsive excursion. Poppy Hastings was known for three things: her infectious spontaneity, the row of gold-plated teeth she supposedly had lodged in the back of her mouth, and helping her dear friends invest in high-risk, high-reward opportunities.
The kinds that didn’t get listed in the yellow pages, if you know what I mean.
But none of her investments ever came to fruition. Not that many people cared, or even realized the money was missing until they sat down to talk to me. When you’re that well off, who notices a measly million here or there?
And that’s precisely what Poppy was counting on.
After almost two years (639 days, but who’s counting?) of pre-reporting, dead ends, no-show interviews, creepy internet meet-ups with foot fetishists, and failed attempts to piece the puzzle together, plus one blackout bus ride to Saratoga Springs, all the while quietly doing my actual job with my head held down, I finally stepped back.
And I saw the full picture, the real Poppy Hastings in all her grandeur and glory.
The woman was just another high-end scam artist.
Born in Hastings, England, one of the poorest areas in all of Britain, Poppy Watts had been orphaned at the age of five. She’d stayed at an institution for another five years, then been adopted at the age of ten. After her adoption, she’d disappeared for another decade, then reemerged in London’s high society at the ripe old age of twenty, draped in designer threads, sporting tastefully enhanced tits, and clutching the fattest Rolodex in town. I couldn’t figure out where she’d gone or how she’d come into so much money, but she’d spent the next seven years quietly subsidizing her lifestyle by creating fleeting friendships and convincing her fair-weather companions to invest in nonexistent business ventures, then pocketing the cash.
A girl boss if I ever saw one.
But how did Poppy Hastings get away with running what was essentially a one-woman MLM?
Here’s the brilliant part: by hiding in plain sight.
Most grifters identify their mark, make their play, then move on before anyone is the wiser. Not Poppy. She never ran from her victims; she bought them another round. How could a woman so charming, so charitable, so motherfucking rich, have no real money of her own? Poppy knew no one would wonder long enough to actually out her. She was using their own egocentrism against them, banking on the fact that they were mostly thinking about themselves.
And they always, always were.
At this point, I knew what I had was big, and I was ready to bring it to my editor, Cat. Here’s what you need to know about Cat: when she meets you, she will immediately assume that you’re an idiot. It’s on you to convince her otherwise. I had yet to break through Cat’s impenetrable veneer but was determined to gain her respect.
As I ran through my outline, my findings, I watched her lips twitch upward slightly into a smile, and the vein in her forehead popped. She was pissed, sure. But she was also impressed. She instructed me never to do anything so stupid without her permission ever again and also to start writing as soon as humanly possible.
Feeling proud for the first time since joining the Shred, I happily obliged.
I typed furiously on my NYD loaner laptop. The words couldn’t escape my fingers fast enough. Instead of fantasizing about having my way with feature writing, I was finally fucking it. I was about to make my first real wave as a journalist.
And then Brad Zarbos was found murdered in his goose-feather bed.
Chapter Three
Here’s the first rule of conspiracy: Cable news can give you the headlines, but the truth is hidden somewhere in between the lines.
Twitter. Reddit. Tumblr. Twitch. The deep, dark web.
The news may belong to the people who report it, but theorists?
They live in the shadows.
Still, as a journalist, cable is nonnegotiable. When I was first starting out, I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for days on end, savoring each bite of crust as if it were fucking caviar. But I did find the money (by going into debt) for network television, and I’ll tell you why. As a reporter, I like to have the news on in the background 24-7. And then there are live events like sports games, awards shows, even the Olympics. The shit you have to stop, drop, and cover. But food with nutritional value? Now, that can be overlooked.
Settling onto the love seat—the one still stained with Roommate’s bodily fluids—I crack open a lukewarm Heineken using a pair of Tweezerman scissors, then pick up the remote and cautiously turn on the TV.
It only takes a minute of channel surfing to find it: live footage of news anchors camped outside of Albion Correctional Facility, microphones at the ready, waiting for Poppy to be released. I suck in my cheeks and take a strained sip from my beer, choking on the carbonation. One of the broadcasters announces that Poppy is being let out early for good behavior—not, as I’ve been quietly speculating, because she’s been pardoned by the president (a rumor that has been circulating for quite some time).
Good behavior.
What a joke.
She probably did what she does best: charmed the guards with lingering flirtation and the forbidden promise of bottomless pools of cold hard cash. Before they knew it, the staff was a bunch of turncoats.
I bet she manipulated her way out of Albion just like she manipulated Brad Zarbos.
Roommate throws the door open and rushes in, spewing curses I can’t decipher. She’s carrying a bottle of cheap vodka under one arm and what appears to be a stuffed caterpillar under the other. I assume the latter is for her. She heads straight for the cabinets and rummages through what’s left of our clean glasses, which isn’t much, finally settling on a brown WORLD'S BEST DAD mug. She fills the mug with enough distilled rubbing alcohol to kill a small cat and hands it to me. Then she plops down on the floor cradling the bottle, taking a big swig as if it’s water.
“Drink,” she commands, her tattooed eyebrows dancing in a way that makes her look like a cartoon villain.
I shudder, then oblige.
The liquid feels smooth until it burns my throat, and I gag at the flavor. Roommate’s eyes are glued to me. Once I’ve successfully swallowed, I go in for seconds. She nods, satisfied, then sets her sights on the TV.
“You’re going to stay and watch?”
I’m surprised. Roommate doesn’t usually take a huge interest in the news. She prefers Animal Planet, especially the segments on bee pollination.
Fucking weirdo.
She just shrugs and takes another sip from the bottle.
I settle back into my misery.
Buzz.
BUZZ.
I look up, annoyed, seeking out the source of the incessant vibrating sound humming in my ear, only to discover that it’s Roommate’s phone. Her face is hidden behind her screen as she texts furiously with characters I can’t make sense of. Her phone is quite literally ringing off the hook.
Hm.
Maybe Boyfriend messaged her from the other room that he found another position in the Kama Sutra that he wants to try. That or he’s actually worried about my well-being. His concern would explain why Roommate is suddenly dead set on babysitting me. And why she keeps glancing between her notifications and the TV.
I raise my mug to my lips, only to feel the ceramic clang against my teeth, almost chipping one.
It’s empty.
Already.
A wave of nausea hits me, and I shake my head ever so slightly, trying to convince myself not to fucking panic.
Shit.
I haven’t been this out of sorts since…well. Since the incident.
The last time Poppy Hastings ruined my entire fucking life.
Come on, Rose. You’re better than this. Remember your breathing exercises. In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight. What was it your therapist always used to say? Accountability is not just about what you do, but also what you don’t do?
Actually, screw that bitch. She dumped me!
Instead of pouring another drink, I reach for my bottle of Adderall, the last prescription Julee wrote me before giving me the it’s not me, it’s you speech. The little miracle pill snags in the back of my throat, bringing on a bout of clarity.
I look down at the mug of diluted nail polish remover in my hand and the pills on the table and feel my breath shorten.
This can’t happen again. I won’t let it.
Poppy’s presence can’t trigger this kind of cataclysmic reaction in my bloodstream. I refuse to fall apart. The parental blocks Steph and Fern placed on my Google Chrome account will keep me from arguing with Reddit trolls. My Headspace notifications will keep me alert and present in the moment. Plus, I have people in my life now. Like Roommate. Who apparently gives enough of a fuck to sit with me and stake out Poppy Hastings’s penitentiary walk of shame.
I turn my attention back to the TV.
The crowd outside of Albion begins to clear.
I finish my beer and turn up the volume.
And Poppy Hastings appears like an apparition.
Her blond hair has turned dishwater brown, her golden highlights grown out past her shoulders. There’s a brand-new scar above her left eyelid and a suspicious bruise on her chin. At the sound of her name, she breaks out into a toothy grin, revealing three gold caps lodged in the back of her mouth.
“Ms. Hastings, what will you do now?”
“Actually, dear, I’m newly out of a job.”
The press laughs in unison.
“Anyone hiring?”
More laughter.
“Poppy, are you planning on dating again?”
“The only man I have room for in my life is my parole officer.” Her eyes dance across the horde. “And honey, he’s not even worth half a mil!”
The reporter chortles into her tape recorder.
I’ve had a year and a half to put this all behind me. After Zain left, I forced myself to stop wallowing. I meditated, manifested, and even attempted to seduce a shaman in Hoboken named Shiv, who claimed to be a new-age prophet. I went out dancing with Steph and Fern and allowed myself to get blackout drunk, stumble home, and gorge on Chinese food until I threw up in Roommate’s bed and blamed it on the dog. (We don’t have a dog.)
Little by little, I started getting better.
I was so close to leaving Poppy Hastings in my past.
Now she’s back to taunting me in the present.
“Poppy, is it true that your life rights are the hottest four-way auction in Hollywood right now?”
I vaguely recognize the reporter from The New York Dweller newsroom.
He’s one of ours. Traitor.
But Poppy looks past him and directly into the camera lens.
“Now, where did you get that tasty bit of information?”
A familiar chill runs down my spine.
She throws her head back as laughs, exactly as Brad Zarbos described.
From THE MOST FAMOUS GIRL IN THE WORLD by Iman Hariri-Kia. Copyright © 2024 Iman Hariri-Kia and reprinted by permission of Sourcebooks Landmark.
The Most Famous Girl in the World, by Iman Hariri-Kia, will be released on September 17, 2024. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:
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