“You know what to do,” the cartoon whispered.
“But I know who is,” she continued, turning to the wings. “Isabella? They’re waiting for you.”
Isabella took the mic. Her voice was raw, unpolished, and real. She began to sing—not Paolo’s song, but a new one. A quiet melody about being replaced and finding your own voice.
“Isabella is gone. The crowd won’t notice the switch. You will lip-sync. I will sing live. The press will call her a fraud. The career is mine.”
She wasn’t a pop star. She wasn’t Isabella. She was Lizzie McGuire—the girl who fell up stairs, who daydreamed in cartoons, who had friends who would cross an ocean to find her.