Chapter 3

That night, three topics were trending with the hashtags "Vivian is Edward's muse," "Charlotte Reed announces her exit from the industry," and "Charlotte accused of clout-chasing and playing the victim to force a hand."

I sat in Sophie's car, watching the lights of the cinema palace blur past the window.

Sophie handed me her tablet. "Vivian's team is working fast. The tabloids are already spinning the narrative, saying you announced your retirement on Edward's big night just to force him into going public."

I skimmed through a few comments. Some called me delusional; others said I had finally managed to ride his coattails for one last big headline.

Someone even dug up a photo of me from five years ago and put it side-by-side with an old shot of Vivian. [No wonder she made it into Mr. Blake's crew; the "lookalike trope" is real.]

I shut the tablet off. "Hold onto the evidence for now."

Sophie nodded. "I get it. Let them talk; let the hype build up, then we'll reveal the timeline."

After she finished, she softened. "Charlotte, are you really okay?"

I looked at my ring finger. A faint, pale mark where the band used to sit was still visible. "It hurts," I admitted. "But I won't look back anymore."

We pulled up to the new apartment I was renting. Sophie had helped me find it a month ago. It was close to the airport, with a 24-hour mini-mart downstairs.

She helped me haul my suitcase out of the trunk. It wasn't a large suitcase.

After five years of marriage, there was not much I could take with me.

There were a few outfits, a laptop, two hard drives, some storyboards, and a stack of contract copies, including an anonymous screenwriter agreement, script consultant addendum, image rights authorization, and non-disclosure agreement.

Every contract bore my signature and the official seal of Edward's studio. I used to think of them as proof that we were in the trenches together. Now, they were simply my ticket out.

At 1:00 AM, Edward called. When I didn't answer, the texts started flooding in.

[Where are you?]

[Don't take this online.]

[Vivian was really shaken up tonight. Delete your statement now.]

And then, ten minutes later, he sent another message: [Charlotte, enough is enough.]

I stared at the screen, my mind drifting back to our first year of marriage.

Back then, Edward wasn't a top-tier director. He was just a struggling actor hitting one dead end after another. He couldn't secure funding, his scripts were constantly rejected, and his mother had just been diagnosed with chronic kidney disease.

I gave up the supporting role I'd just signed for, went with him to the hospital, and helped him revise his scripts.

His first short film, Damp Lights, was edited in our barely 400-square-foot apartment. When the power went out at midnight, we watched the rough cuts by candlelight.

Edward had squeezed my hand and promised, "Charlotte, from now on, I'm putting your name in the credits of every movie I make."

True to his word, my name did appear in the credits later. But it wasn't "Charlotte." It was "Special Thanks: C."

He said it was safer that way. He said that once we finally went public, the whole world would know who "C" was.

I waited five years. I waited until Vivian returned to the country. I waited until the "C" in his credits changed to "Dedicated to V.L."

My phone buzzed again.

Edward texted: [Be at the studio tomorrow at 10:00 AM. We need to talk. If you don't show up, I'm coming to find you.]

I blocked him.