Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

I have committed the most unforgiving of crimes. I will not pretend I am innocent. Yes, I, Athena 'Thea' Thompson, did it. However, I wanted to let you, my fellow Hiddlestoners, know the truth about the events that lead to this unforgiving crime.

As I sit here at my computer, I am trying to sort out how I could let something like this happen. Some, if not most of you, would nonchalantly pass it off as 'Oh, girl. It's Tom Hiddleston! You didn't have much of a choice.' On any other occasion, in any other situation, I would've agreed with you, but that's not the case.

Before I get ahead of myself, I blame Alexander Graham Bell for all of this. That's right! He just had to invent a telephone, didn't he! If I've throw you, let me explain. My story starts with a phone call from Kenneth Branagh. I know, right. Me. First-time best-selling author of Inflicted Kisses gets a call from such an amazing, talented, just so…gah.

Apparently, my book was on the forefront of all other things in Hollywood. I swear it seems like everything was being made into a movie, but I digress. Ken was calling to inform little city girl, me, that he would be in charge of the direction of my book. Though I thought this was great, I had already heard the announcement over the news. So, after stumbling over myself to speak, I wished him all the best and prepared for him to say, 'That is all.' He thanked me but went on to say he wanted me to be there on set helping him with the film.

I dropped the phone. Me. On set. With famous people. Hell, nah! Shuuu, I had kept my appearance away from the public for a reason. I didn't want unknown faces following me all the time to see what color my sugar packet for my coffee was. I didn't want random people popping up in my life to see if they could connect me with that one person on the train 'cause I smiled at him. Only two people had known I was writing a book and they wouldn't have told, even if tortured. May God rest my parents' souls. So, to quote Littlefoot: 'Nope, nope, nope.'

I picked up the phone ready to decline only to find that Ken had hung up. What the…! I hung up. I wrote it off as a prank call from someone at the publishing company, or a potentially dead fictional teen. But, sure enough, he called back around dinner time and I was forced to take this as a serious offer. He said he understood my wish to keep my identity secret. He had a plan.

You can't tell but I'm shaking my head. Think back to every film or book where a character said they had a plan…Now, think of the result. Yeah. I told him I'd think about it but agreed figuring I could use the experience for another story. Curse my inner writer, but this is how it started. A sandwich of paper, Alexander Graham Bell, and a talented man.