Life Is Not Late

Adrian texted me at dawn.

"I'm sending Chloe to London for a while. Once the storm passes, I'll find the best medical team to help you recover. Then we'll go to the Mediterranean for our honeymoon."

I stared at the screen with dry, empty eyes.

He had killed my baby and destroyed my reputation, and now he thought a vacation could buy my obedience.

I didn't reply.

When I was about to leave the hospital, paparazzi and protesters surged toward the entrance like a tide.

"Evelyn! Did you encourage underage fans to attend those parties?"

"Is the golden girl image officially dead? What's the truth behind the midnight video?"

Their questions stabbed at me from every direction.

Before I could even react, Adrian pushed through the crowd, his face dark with rage.

He didn't ask a single question.

He raised his hand and slapped me across the face.

The sound echoed through the hospital entrance.

My ear rang.

"Evelyn, I already agreed to send her away," he growled, grabbing my collar and lowering his voice by my ear. "Why are you still so vicious? You leaked the photos from Chloe's assault ten years ago. Are you trying to kill her?"

I tasted blood in my mouth.

Looking at the madness in his eyes, I gave a hollow laugh.

"I didn't do it."

"Who else knew the details but you?"

He wouldn't listen.

He dragged me away and had me locked inside a massive, empty soundstage deep within the studio.

The lights were blinding. On the giant screen mounted to the wall, Chloe's manager was holding an emergency press conference, crying as she accused me of bullying Chloe for years.

Adrian pointed at the screen.

"This is what you owe her," he said. "I'm telling the media you have a severe mental disorder, and that the party scandal was a manic episode. From today on, you'll stay in a locked treatment facility until you recover."

A locked treatment facility.

Mental disorder.

Manic episode.

Every word was a death sentence.

Once the public accepted that label, I would never be able to speak for myself again.

I looked at the man I had loved for three years. My voice was so calm it sounded unfamiliar even to me.

"Adrian, to keep her in the light, you're going to bury me in hell forever. Is that it?"

He didn't answer.

He only glanced once at the white bandage around my wrist, then turned to the bodyguards.

"Keep her here. No phone. No visitors."

The lock clicked behind him.

The sound echoed through the empty stage.

A few minutes later, the giant screens in Times Square suddenly cut away from their luxury ads.

A grainy, high-impact video appeared.

It was me, sitting in the empty soundstage, looking straight into the camera.

"I used to think the best stories happened on movie screens," I said. "Then I learned that in Hollywood, the cruelest acting happens in real life."

I smiled at the camera. It must have looked beautiful. It must have looked tragic. I had been trained my whole life to make pain look cinematic.

"Goodbye, everyone. I can't play this part anymore."

The camera tilted down.

Blood had already stained the expensive silk dress across my lap.

That night, the internet exploded.

The top trending topic was my death.

Paul told me later that by the time Adrian saw his assistant's panicked face and rushed back to the soundstage, it was too late.

The room was empty except for the blood on the floor and a back door Paul had smashed open.

According to Paul, Adrian's world tilted.

He stumbled, barely able to stay on his feet.