Page 1 of All Signs Point to Malibu

PROLOGUE

Sun blazes down over the Malibu coastline as I dodge wedding guests in the posh, luxurious courtyard of the Banks Resort Hotel. People wearing designer clothes and flabbergasted expressions are in my periphery as I desperately try to avoid eye contact. The music has stopped, but photographers are delighted to continue capturing the “festivities.” Bridezilla’s approach sets off my fight-or-flight instincts and I’m not sure I could take her, so I quicken my pace as I make my way through the over-the-top flower arches lining the wedding aisle. An overpowering stench of lilies makes my eyes water, blurring my path, and I narrowly escape a tumble on bunched-up pink velvet carpeting.

Thatcould have been disastrous for the bride.

Instead, I bang my shin against a chair as I flee for my life—away from eight angry bridesmaids in hot pursuit. Moving fast in heels is a skill that should definitely be taught in finishing schools. I collide with a server carrying a tray of champagne flutes and grab one before they fall to the Astroturf. I down it quickly for liquid courage then toss the glass aside.

With the furious entourage closing in and dozens of cell phone cameras pointed my way, I jump over the short wall that separates the resort property from the beach, snagging the hem of my maid of honor dress. I hear a rip and pray my Wonder Woman underwear aren’t on display. Though, once the guest videos go viral, my choice of undergarments will be the least of my worries.

Stumbling over my strappy stilettos, I run down the boardwalk, tripping over uneven planks of decaying wood, all the way to the beach. I kick off my heels and my feet sink deep into the scorching sand as I continue my escape.

I can hear the wedding guests in the courtyard behind me. A mix of shock, anger, and gossipy amusement drifts on the ocean-scented breeze. This day has turned from matrimonial bliss to a complete shitstorm.

Arguably, I’m to blame.

Desperate for air, I pause, bending at the waist. Deep breaths in and out as I glance over my shoulder. No one’s following me. Absolutely no one. My gut tightens asthatrealization is heart-wrenchingly worse.

I straighten slowly and—gripping the fabric of my dress in one hand, my shoes in the other—I walk along the beach, getting lost in a sea of brightly colored umbrellas. Crashing waves along the shore mask the sound of my heart pounding, but nothing can drown the dread building in my chest.

How did I let this happen?

Life wasn’t always so full of drama. Up until a few weeks ago, I had just the expected levels of stress, self-doubt, and anxiety. Then things started to spiral out of control. One mishap after the other culminating to this epic fuckup...

I knew that goddamn tremor was a bad omen.

ONE

HAILEY’S DAILY RULE FOR SUCCESS:

Start your day on purpose and with purpose.

Four weeks earlier...

If you read enough daily horoscopes, you’ll eventually find one you like.

Sixteen astrology sites, three online tarot card readings and a Magic 8 Ball TikTok filter later, I find the prediction I’m sticking with for today.

With the lunar eclipse in your sign, shake up the day by embracing your bold and passionate side, but be prepared for some introspection late this evening when planetary shifts create opportunities for future growth.

Seems generic enough to relate to anything that happens today, and I like the reassurance that gives me—manifestations of successarepredestined by fate.

I position my ring light and tripod next to my desk in front of the window of my home office. Dressed in casual chic, I’m polished to near perfection, but not too perfect—no filters here. My followers respond to “real” and I do my best to convey the fakest version of real I can muster this early in the morning.

Behind me on the walls are framed magazine covers featuring my smiling, confident face. The taglines boast “Top 30 Under Thirty,” “Best Influencer of the Year,” “Motivator to the Stars.”

It’s all true.

At twenty-nine, I have become a successful life coach with over ten million followers on my daily app, which doles out words of wisdom to get one’s day underway.

I check the time on my computer and wait...4:59...5:00 a.m. Forcing a wide-eyed smile, I go live.

“Hey, Hustlers! It’s Monday! New week, new goals. Get up. Get moving. Remember, if you’re not up early, someone else is. Monday is the perfect day to try something new—so get out there and be adventurous. Set your intentions for the week and remember setbacks are just another test of your dedication and commitment. Keep hustling! Love to all!”

I post the inspirational Monday morning message to my devotees and views immediately come in, positive comments and heart emojis light up the screen. I genuinely enjoy all the love and the feedback. Over the years I’ve built a solid, authentic reputation by caring about my followers—from the early days when I was working to build my platform and I’d call out each viewer individually. Something I obviously can’t do anymore as my business has blown up, but I still take the time to hear about Marsha from Utah, whose kids have gone off to college and she’s trying to find herself again, and Kimberly from Texas, who just started a new health regime and is struggling with the early morning workouts.

Human connections are what this industry—thislife—is all about. Unfortunately, my circumstances make getting too connected a little complicated.

Approachable but distant. Friendly but cautious. Open but not vulnerable.

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