I Caught My Boyfriend Cheating With My Enemy, Then I Became His Biggest Regret

My phone woke me at 6:12 a.m.

Not one buzz. Forty. Fifty. The screen lit up so many times it looked like a strobe light on the nightstand of the hotel room I'd checked into at midnight.

I squinted at the first notification.

*Rising Star Ava Morales Accused of Abusing Crew Members.*

I sat up so fast the sheets twisted around my legs.

The article was already trending number one. Under the headline sat the video from Vancouver, the one Sienna had shown me last night. Someone had cut it down to eleven seconds. No director yelling "action." No other actor in the frame. Just me, screaming at empty air.

Below it came the text thread I never sent. The photo of me crying outside a director's office. And three "anonymous crew members."

*She made a PA cry for wearing the wrong perfume.*

*Everyone on set was scared of her.*

*She threw a coffee at a makeup artist. We all saw it.*

I scrolled faster. My thumb shook so hard I kept hitting the wrong links.

Every single clip came from my last four months of work. Every set. Every city.

Somebody had been collecting.

The phone rang. *Dana — Manager.*

I picked up. "Dana, none of it is—"

"Don't." Her voice was tight, like she hadn't slept either. "I know, okay? I know. But I need you to listen, because I have about four minutes before my next call."

"Okay."

"Lumière paused your campaign. So did Vela Water. So did the watch people."

"All three?"

"All three. Before seven a.m." She exhaled hard. "And it gets worse. *Crimson Hour*'s producers called an emergency meeting. They're talking about recasting."

"Recasting." I laughed. I didn't mean to. It just came out, small and strange. "We wrapped principal photography, Dana. They'd have to reshoot the whole movie."

"They're saying it might be cheaper than releasing a film with your face on the poster."

I pressed my fist against my mouth.

"Ava? You there?"

"I'm here."

"Have you seen the interview yet?"

My stomach went cold. "What interview?"

She was quiet for a second. "Turn on *Hollywood Tonight.* Their morning segment. Then call me back. And Ava?" Her tone softened, just barely. "Don't post anything. Not a word."

She hung up.

I found the clip in seconds. It already had two million views.

Ethan sat on a gray couch in a soft blue sweater I had bought him. His hair was messy in that careful way. His eyes looked red, like he'd been crying.

The host leaned toward him. "This must be so hard for you."

"It is." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I loved her. I still love who she used to be. But living with Ava… you never knew which version you'd get."

"Did she ever hurt you?"

He paused. Looked down at his hands. Let the silence do the work.

"I'd rather not answer that," he said quietly. "I just always hoped she'd get help."

I stopped the video.

My hand hovered over the comment section. I knew better. I opened it anyway.

*Poor guy. Look at his face.*

*I ALWAYS knew she was fake.*

*Someone check on Ethan. Men are victims too.*

*Sienna Blake has been nothing but kind to everyone. Make her the lead!*

That last one had forty thousand likes.

I set the phone face down on the bed. I stared at the wall for a long time.

I expected the tears to come. They didn't.

Instead, I pulled my laptop out of my carry-on and opened it.

---

By noon, the hotel desk was covered in sticky notes.

I called Mia, my old assistant from the Vancouver shoot. She picked up on the first ring.

"Ava, oh my God. I've been trying to text you."

"Mia, I need one thing. That rehearsal footage. Who had access to the raw files?"

"Raw files?" She hesitated. "Just the production company. And the outside publicity team. They came in for behind-the-scenes content."

"What team?"

"Uh…" Papers rustled. "Brightline Communications. They did the EPK."

I wrote it down. *Brightline.*

Then I called a sound tech from the Atlanta set. Then a camera assistant from New Orleans. Different cities. Different crews.

Same answer.

"Brightline handled our behind-the-scenes."

"Brightline sent a girl to film the cast all week."

"Brightline? Yeah. Why?"

I hung up and typed the name into a search bar.

Brightline Communications. Boutique PR firm. Discreet. Very expensive.

Their biggest client sat right there on the second page of results, in a trade article from last year.

*Halcyon Pictures Group renews exclusive partnership with Brightline.*

Halcyon. The studio that owned Sienna's contract. The studio that had just signed Ethan to a producer deal.

I leaned back in the chair. My pulse thudded in my ears.

Not a breakup. Not a scandal.

A job. Planned, budgeted, and filed under a PR invoice.

They didn't want me humiliated. They wanted me gone.

I grabbed my phone to call Dana back. Before I could dial, a text slid onto the screen.

Unknown number.

*If you want to know who really wants to ruin you, tonight at 10. Hotel Royale. Top floor.*

I read it three times.

I typed: *Who is this?*

The reply came in under ten seconds.

*Someone who isn't on Halcyon's payroll.*

My skin prickled. I hadn't said Halcyon to anyone. Not Dana. Not Mia. Nobody.

I typed again. *How do I know this isn't another setup?*

This time, the answer took longer.

*You don't. Come anyway.*

---

At 9:58, I stood in the private elevator of the Hotel Royale with a baseball cap pulled low and my heart beating against my ribs.

The doors opened onto a quiet hallway. One door at the end. Already cracked open.

I could still turn around. Go back to the room. Wait for Dana. Do what everyone told me to do and stay silent while my name burned.

I pushed the door open.

The suite was dim, lit only by the city spread out behind floor-to-ceiling glass. A man stood by the window with a glass of something amber in his hand. Tall. Dark suit, no tie. He didn't turn around right away.

"You're on time," he said. His voice was low and even. "Most people in this town aren't."

"Who are you?"

He turned.

I knew that face. Everyone in Hollywood knew it, even though almost no one had seen it in person. He didn't do red carpets. He didn't do interviews. His films won Oscars, and he never once walked up to accept them.

Adrian Cole.

"You," I breathed. "Why would *you* care what happens to me?"

He set the glass down on the windowsill and studied me, like he was deciding something.

"Because, Ms. Morales," he said, "the people who planned your downfall made one mistake."

He slid a thin black folder across the table toward me.

"They used my money to do it."