Illusiveone
patreon
223: Redoing My Life, Obsessed
🕑 Added 2025-07-08 15:32:12 +0000 UTCThis plotline I’ve been wanting to do ever since I watched a video about how Justin Bieber and his now-wife met.
It deals with the idea of problematic fans, especially since Daniel had a huge fanbase that was around his own age.
This will only be a side story, meant to give the side characters something to do in the background.
Oh, and that Sydney Sweeney scene from Euphoria heavily influenced this chapter.
I actually had to ask my sister for help with this one.
.
.
.
The shrill chime of an iPhone alarm cut through the stillness of the bedroom. 5:00 a.m. glowed on the screen. Cassandra blinked once, then again, lifting her hand from beneath the sheets; the tips of her fingers caught the light, glossy with fresh nude-pink polish.
A thick, mint-colored nighttime mask coated her face—hydrating, anti-aging, deeply unnecessary for a twenty-something, yet essential in her mind. Her brows had been threaded thin the night before and still stung slightly.
She silenced the alarm and lay still a moment longer, cocooned in quiet. Her thoughts, as always, drifted to him.
Then she moved.
The floor was cold against her bare feet as she padded to the bathroom, the mask cracking at the corners of her mouth when she yawned. First she washed off the mask and waited ten minutes. Then she turned on the shower and stepped in, the water hot and punishing. She scrubbed with near-military precision—arms, legs, collarbone—scouring away every trace of dead skin. The loofah rasped against her thighs and calves.
She shaved carefully, clinically, with practiced swipes of a pink razor, her fingers trembling slightly in anticipation.
After stepping out, she began her ritual. A jade roller, chilled to a satisfying bite, glided across her cheeks and under her eyes. Another mask—this one collagen—went on with a flat brush. Her foundation was a soft matte; her lips were plumped and lightly stained. The lotion she chose carried his favorite scent—she knew this from an offhand comment he had once made in an interview.
Her eyeshadow was a dusky rose, her eyeliner winged with exact precision. Every pore was sealed with lashes curled.
She checked her roots in the mirror: still blonde. She had dyed her hair a few weeks earlier, realizing he might prefer it; he was, of course, dating someone who shared the same flaxen hue she now wore.
As she stepped out, she began hunting for an outfit; soon the room had become a battlefield of discarded clothes.
Too sexy, she decided, tossing one aside.
Too safe, she thought, flinging away another.
Too try-hard. Gone.
Too meh. Gone.
At last she found the perfect look.
She smiled.
Then frowned.
Then smiled again.
By 8:15 a.m. she was in her car, navigating traffic. She had timed it perfectly: Daniel always arrived between 9:05 and 9:10, a habit she knew well.
She entered through the east entrance—the one directly opposite the path Daniel usually took to his office on the upper floor. Her heels echoed softly across the marble corridor, her heart thudding faster with every step.
And there he was, right on time—Daniel—walking toward her from the far end of the hallway. She put on a bright smile and slowed her pace deliberately, trying to catch his eye.
Five seconds.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
He passed by without looking up—without noticing.
Cassandra looked back, her smile vanishing, but kept walking—back rigid, hands clenched at her sides. She blinked quickly, swallowing the lump forming in her throat.
Her heart cracked, just a little.
=========
The alarm rang again: 4:45 a.m.
Cassandra’s eyes snapped open, pupils adjusting to the pale blue glow of her phone. She silenced the shrill tone before it chirped a second time and lay still for a moment, breathing deeply, her mind already arranging each step of the morning.
She rose from bed like a machine powering on, stripped off her silk sleepwear, and padded barefoot toward the bathroom. On the way her gaze snagged—briefly—on a small framed photo beside the dresser. She’d seen it a thousand times, yet it still plucked something sharp inside her.
She was fourteen in the picture, braces glinting, curls puffier, eyes wide and nervous. Standing next to her, smiling, was Daniel Adler. He was sixteen when they took the photo, during a signing for the second Percy Jackson book. She had nearly fainted upon meeting her favorite author; unlike most fandoms, theirs boasted a writer barely older or the same age as his readers, and Daniel felt almost like a pop star to everyone who loved his stories.
All the girls her age had a crush on him—how could they not? But for Cassandra, it became something else. Something more.
The wall held other snapshots: her cosplaying Percy Jackson characters in a DIY Camp Half-Blood shirt, fake sword on her hip, cheeks flushed with excitement; recent photos of her dressed as Daenerys Targaryen; even one as Jessie from Toy Story. There were more pictures with Daniel too, each from a signing she’d attended.
It saddened her that he’d cut back on those events over the past four years, but now—working for him—she was closer to him than ever before.
She flipped on the shower and stepped inside, already reaching for her scrub. The same routine, but harsher now—more focused. Her loofah scraped at her skin as if she could erase yesterday’s failure. Steam rose around her, thick with scented oil, while she exfoliated every inch until her skin glowed red.
She shaved, then used a sugar scrub, then rinsed. She followed with a caffeine-infused body wash she’d read was good for circulation. Finally came a blast of cold water—an icy plunge to tighten pores, jolt her senses, and punish her nerves.
Dripping and pink from heat and effort, she stepped out, wrapped herself in a towel, and moved to the vanity. This time she applied a different mask—black, charcoal-based, more intimidating than soothing. Afterward she used a sculpting wand along her jawline, always upward; gravity, she’d read, doesn’t need help pulling you down.
There was something refreshing in these hours spent on her appearance—as though, by sculpting her face and body, she forged control, even power.
Her makeup turned out sharper today: bold brows, precise liner. She experimented with loose waves gathered into a delicate up-do. The hairstyle cost more time than she’d planned, and she was nearly late when she finally dressed. Frustrated, she grabbed the first semi-appropriate outfit she could find— not perfect, but passable.
She had missed Daniel’s arrival, so she looked for another way to catch his attention—by speaking to his PA, Julie Chen, whose office sat just down the hall from Daniel’s.
Cassandra knocked.
Julie glanced up from her screen, surprised. “Oh… it’s you.”
“Hi.” Cassandra’s smile was bright and rehearsed. “I heard Daniel is looking for a new PA, and I wanted to hand you my resume in person.”
Julie blinked, then slowly accepted the folder. “Your resume?”
“Yes.” Cassandra nodded. “I know it’s unexpected, but I thought I might be a good fit.”
Julie’s expression stayed unreadable as she skimmed the first page. “You work under Serena, and I don’t think—”
Movement at the edge of Cassandra’s vision made her pause.
Daniel—walking past the glass corridor behind Julie’s desk, coffee in hand, stride brisk.
Cassandra turned just enough to catch his face.
Nothing. He continued without a glance, disappearing into his office as if she didn’t exist.
A quiet ache spread across her chest.
Julie’s voice cut back in, sharper now. “Cassandra, listen—Daniel needs someone with real logistics experience. You’re in casting. How did you get it into your head that—”
But Cassandra had already stopped listening.
She blinked slowly, letting Julie’s words blur behind a pane of glass in her mind. Without another word, she turned and walked out, her heels clicking neatly against the tile.
Julie watched her leave, baffled by what had just happened.
======
The alarm rang again—4:30 a.m.
Cassandra was already half-awake, her eyes open before the screen lit up. She silenced the phone, threw off the covers, and swung her legs out of bed.
This morning there was no pause, no moment of stillness.
She was in the bathroom within seconds, steam fogging the mirror as the shower blasted on. She stepped in and grabbed the coarse body scrub, dragging it across her skin as if she could peel away the layer of herself that kept being ignored. She scrubbed harder: shoulders burning from the pressure, thighs turning pink. She washed, exfoliated, shaved—then shaved again.
Out of the shower, dripping and flushed, she didn’t bother to towel off completely. Instead she reached for her tools: a jade roller from the freezer, a nose-hair trimmer, tweezers for the tiniest stray brow hairs. She yanked each one out as if punishing it. A gold-infused mask followed, smoothed over cheekbones and chin with perfectly manicured hands. It burned. Good. That meant it was working.
Her lotions were different this time—more expensive.
The makeup routine took longer today. Airbrush foundation, the ‘good’ highlighter, tinted lash primer. Contour, set, blend. Her lips looked fuller than usual—slightly over-lined, blotted once, glossed. Her cheeks held the perfect flush: nothing too obvious, nothing too natural. This was a performance, and she was both director and lead.
She loved the ritual, the attention to detail, the decisive brushstrokes, the mix of anxiety and excitement swirling in her stomach. It felt like crafting a spell; she needed him just once to look.
And even if Daniel pretended not to notice her… yes, that must be what he was doing. She was sure of it. He had seen her—had to. He was just being subtle. Professional. Testing her. Teasing her.
She changed her hair again—sleek this time, parted to the side with a slight wave. It felt more adult, a subtle nod to Margot’s style, but not too obvious. She arrived at Midas with her head held high.
After taking a long loop around the first floor, she finally saw him.
There he was, walking toward her.
Cassandra’s stomach twisted. She smoothed her blouse with one hand and stepped into his path, offering a small, warm smile.
Nothing.
He passed without even a flicker of recognition.
Her smile cracked the instant his back turned. She kept walking, but something dropped deep inside her, as though her chest had been hollowed out.
========
The alarm rang again—4:00 a.m.
Cassandra’s arm flopped over the nightstand, blindly swiping at her phone until the glow vanished. She didn’t open her eyes right away; her body throbbed with exhaustion.
She dragged herself out of bed, zombie-like, and stumbled into the bathroom. The shower hit her like a wall of heat. Leaning her head against the tile, she let the steam curl around her. Just one more minute, she thought. A few seconds. Her eyelids fluttered closed but she refused to drift off. Forcing her arms to move, she reached for the scrub. Her hands, now automatic, went to work—scrubbing arms, legs, face. Again and again. Her skin stung, her cheeks felt raw. It didn’t matter.
This wasn’t merely routine now; it was ritual.
Her way of telling him she was his, even if he didn’t know it yet.
At the mirror she repeated every step as always, adding tiny tweaks: makeup so subtle it looked like bare skin—like she’d woken up flawless.
She reached Midas breathless, pulse thrumming as she entered the cool, polished lobby. Her heels tapped a steady rhythm along the main corridor.
And there he was Daniel walking toward her.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
For an instant he paused, truly looking at her.
Then he kept walking—past her.
It was enough.
Her heart leaped, nearly knocking the breath from her chest. A light bloomed inside her—dizzying and sweet. He looked. He saw. She smiled, brighter than she had all week.
That was the moment she almost collided—quite literally—with Margot Robbie.
Margot stopped barely a foot away, eyes sweeping over Cassandra before narrowing.
They were wearing the exact same outfit: same dress, same cut, the very same shade of red.
“Nice outfit,” Margot said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
“Um… thanks,” Cassandra replied, her voice catching.
Margot tilted her head. “Did Daniel pass through here?”
Cassandra nodded. “Yes… um, I—I have to go.”
She brushed past, heels clicking faster now. Just before turning the corner, she glanced back.
Margot was still standing there, watching her.
Cassandra reminded herself: play the long game, that's how she would win.
.
.
.
“Okay, okay. Thank you, Officer,” I said, my voice tight as I ended the call and set the phone down. I exhaled slowly, trying to bleed off some of the tension in my chest.
The door clicked open behind me. I turned just as Margot stepped into the office. She looked a little rattled, but still composed.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” she replied, her tone somewhere between tired and relieved.
I walked over, still shaking my head. “They got the guy.”
Margot let out a breath. “Oh, thank God.”
I shot her a sideways look. “You’ve got some crazy fans, Mags.”
She groaned as she dropped her bag onto the nearest chair. “Don’t remind me.”
Today had been… a day. Security had noticed someone loitering near our building again—the same man they’d flagged once before. They’d kept eyes on him, but when they confronted him this time, he attacked a guard and bolted. The police picked him up not far away.
I sat on the edge of the couch, watching as she rubbed her temples. “They told me he’s a full-on delusional case. Thinks you two are in some secret relationship and that I’m keeping you from him.”
Margot snorted. “Can you imagine? My agent is trying to tell me this is somehow good for my career.”
I slid next to her, brows raised. “Well… she might have a point.”
She turned to glare at me, and I lifted both hands in mock surrender.
“I’m just saying—this stuff is always weird like that. But one thing’s clear: you’re officially the first one of us to have a bona fide stalker.”
Margot laughed, dry and loud. “You seriously think I’m the first? You had the most rabid teen-girl fan base. I remember Haley telling me she couldn’t even use her real name on social media. I’m sure one of them will turn into a psycho stalker sooner or later.”
“Come on. That was years ago. They’ve grown up. They’re reasonable people now.”
Margot gave me a skeptical look. “You really need to check your corner of the internet more often.”
“Well,” I said, stretching my arms behind my head with a lazy grin, “at least no one’s tried to show up at home with a rescue fantasy—yet.”
Margot cocked her head. “Yet,” she repeated ominously.
We talked about moving again. The topic had come up more and more over the past few months, but after today’s incident it felt urgent.
Last week we’d toured a plot in Beverly Hills—twenty-five million dollars’ worth of dirt and trees, tucked so far back it made even that part of L.A. feel secluded. A perfect place to build a house.
Margot glanced at me, her voice softer. “Maybe we should stay at your mom’s place for a few days… or a hotel.”
I shook my head. “Don’t stress, Mags. The guy never even got into the building—security was on him from the start.”
She nodded, lips pressed together. “Yeah… maybe I’m overreacting.”
I didn’t answer; we both knew she wasn’t. Saying so would only make her more anxious. We left the office, letting the conversation drift to lighter ground.
“You know,” I said as we stepped into the cool night air, “I saw someone today wearing your exact outfit.”
“Oh yeah—I saw her too.”
I nodded. “I mean, it was an exact copy, down to the shoes. Honestly, an impressive coincidence.”
Almost without thinking I added, “Nice boobs, too.”
Margot gasped and smacked my arm—hard.
“Ow!” I winced, rubbing the spot. “What? I was just making an observation!”
.
.
Okay, back to Daniel in the next chapter on Thursday.
Also, an update on Adler’s hypothesis. I’ve been rewriting the whole thing since came up with some new ideas.
Comments
Raven Blanchard
Omfg the whole "he wants me he's just playing hard to get" thing is so delulu I can't even pity her. Like, she's pathetic, I get it. But her mentality, in a man, would be HORRIFYING. Granted, she hasn't done anything outright or truly horrifying YET, but imagine if some guy you barely even know and don't even like that way was this obsessively reimagining himself to fit your "type" (as he found through stalker-level "research") because in his mind, you "want" him and you're only "teasing" him and "playing hard to get". Like holy shitballs, Cassandra's a big NOPE to me. Pathetic, but NOPE.
CkLance
Cassandra is making 'Notice me senpai' her whole life.
