My Fiancé Betrayed Me, The Movie Star Chose Me

The security pass was tucked into my clutch, stamped with *VIP ACCESS - WRAP PARTY*.

Ethan had spent five months filming this indie feature in Vancouver. Five months of midnight phone calls where he complained about his lines, his call times, and his director. I had rewritten three of his major scenes over video chat, unpaid and uncredited, just so his character sounded human.

"Surprise," I muttered under my breath, smoothing the front of my velvet wrap dress.

The hallway behind the ballroom smelled of dried champagne and cold stage sweat. Bass from the speakers thudded through the drywall, rattling the brass handle of the green room door.

I pushed it open, expecting him to be reading reviews or checking his call sheet.

He was against the vanity table.

His hands were knotted in the blonde hair of Sophia Laurent, his co-star. Her emerald gown was pulled down off one shoulder, her palms flat against Ethan’s chest as his mouth mashed against hers.

The brass handle slipped from my fingers. It hit the frame with a dry crack.

They didn't jump apart immediately. Ethan’s eyes cracked open, heavy and dazed, before his head snapped toward me.

"Lily?"

Sophia didn't flinch. She stepped back, calmly reaching up to fix her strap. Fresh red lipstick was smeared across Ethan's bottom lip.

"What time was your flight supposed to land?" Ethan asked. His voice was hoarse.

"Three hours ago," I said. "The red-eye got moved up."

"You should have texted me from the curb." He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his thumb, smudging the red paint across his knuckle. "I would've sent a car."

"A car." I stared at the red streak on his skin. "You're worried about an Uber?"

"Don't start shouting, Lily." He closed the distance between us, lowering his tone to that gentle, reasonable murmur he used on producers. "The press is literally on the other side of that velvet rope."

"Who's shouting?"

"You're about to." He reached for my wrist, but I jerked my arm back before skin touched skin. Ethan exhaled, rolling his shoulders back. "Listen to me for two seconds. It didn't mean anything."

"It didn't mean anything," I repeated.

"We just finished a grueling shoot," he said, spreading his palms open. "We had three glasses of bourbon after the Q&A. It was adrenaline. It was wrap-party bullshit. You know how this business works."

"Do I?"

"Yes, you do. You're smarter than this."

Behind him, Sophia leaned her hip against the makeup counter, crossing her arms over her chest. A small, amused curve touched her painted lips.

"He's being polite, honey," Sophia said. Her accent was crisp, polished for the press junkets. "You don't need to play the wounded indie martyr."

I fixed my gaze on her face. "I don't remember asking for your commentary, Sophia."

"Well, you're getting it." Sophia tilted her chin, looking down her nose at my shoes, my dress, my bare neck. "You're just a writer. You sit in an apartment in Burbank and fix scripts for scale. Ethan’s career is blowing up tonight. Look at the trades. He needs someone who belongs in his world. Not someone holding him back out of sentiment."

The words sat in the air, heavy and sharp.

Ethan didn't tell her to shut up. He didn't even turn his head. He just watched me, waiting for the tears, waiting for the trembling chin he was used to soothing with empty promises.

Two years ago, I gave up a staff writing position on an HBO drama because Ethan needed someone to manage his auditions, edit his self-tapes, and travel with him to Atlanta. I had convinced myself it was partnership.

I reached into my bag.

"Lily, put whatever that is away," Ethan snapped, his jaw tightening.

I pulled out my phone, raised the camera, and tapped the screen twice.

The shutter clicked. The flash cut across the dim room, capturing Ethan with smeared crimson on his jaw and Sophia leaning back against the mirrors with her shoulder exposed.

"What the hell are you doing?" Ethan lunged forward, snatching at the phone. "Delete that! Are you insane?"

I stepped sideways, avoiding his reach with ease. I set my phone face down on a side table, then looked down at my left hand.

The diamond was modest. A half-carat band he bought when he booked his first guest spot on a network procedural.

I slid the ring off my knuckle.

"Lily, stop being dramatic," Ethan whispered, his eyes darting toward the closed door as if an agent might burst through. "We'll talk in the morning. Go back to the hotel. We'll get room service. We'll figure it out."

I dropped the ring onto the center of his script notes on the coffee table.

"Then find someone who belongs in your world," I said.

I didn't yell. My voice didn't even shake. That seemed to disorient him more than any screaming match could have. His mouth opened, closed, and then he let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh.

"You're really doing this? Over a harmless kiss?" he scoffed. "You're walking out right now? You don't have anywhere to go, Lily."

"Watch me."

I grabbed my clutch, pivoted on my flat shoes, and opened the door.

The music from the ballroom crashed back over me, deafening and bright. I kept my chin up, weaving past caterers carrying silver trays of shrimp skewers and studio executives laughing by the open bar. My pulse was a steady, dull drum against my ribs.

I didn't take the main entrance. I shoved through the heavy service door that led into the side alley, desperate for cold air.

The damp November chill hit my face, shocking the numbness out of my cheeks. I took one deep breath, the gravel crunching under my soles as I hurried toward the street corner to hail a yellow cab.

A blinding white light exploded to my left.

*Click-click-click-click.*

I flinched, shielding my eyes with my purse.

Two men stepped out from behind an industrial dumpster, long telephoto lenses aimed squarely at my face.

"Lily! Over here!"

"Are you leaving early? Did Ethan leave with Sophia?"

"Lily, look at the camera!"

I lowered my head, practically sprinting toward the curb as an off-duty taxi slowed near the red light. I yanked the rear door open, threw myself onto the cracked vinyl seat, and slammed the door shut before the shutter sounds could reach through the glass.

"Where to, lady?" the driver grunted, clicking the meter on.

"Just drive," I choked out. "Any hotel near the airport."

The cab surged into the rain-slicked traffic.

I leaned my forehead against the cool glass window, watching the neon signs of downtown blur into streaks of yellow and red. My finger felt completely bare. I unlocked my phone, opened my gallery, and stared at the photo.

Ethan looked terrified. Sophia looked smug.

I didn't post it. Not yet. I just kept my thumb pressed against the cold glass of the screen until my battery dropped to twenty percent, eventually falling into an exhausted, fitful sleep in a sterile airport motel room.

The vibration on the nightstand woke me at dawn.

It wasn't Ethan. It was my old college roommate, Maya, calling three times in a row.

Before I could swipe answer, a news notification popped up across the top of my display from *Daily Buzz Entertainment*.

The headline was bold, black, and unavoidable:

**RISING STAR ETHAN RHODES: FIANCÉE SPOTTED FLEEING WRAP PARTY IN TEARS AS CO-STAR ROMANCE RUMORS IGNITE.**

Underneath was a high-resolution photo of me outside the service alley. My face was pale, my hair whipped across my cheek by the wind, looking utterly destroyed beneath the harsh glare of the flashbulbs.

My thumb hovered over the screen as incoming text notifications began rolling in by the dozens.