Melodramatic Entertainment Circle Short Stories & Novels

I was the most cheated-on man in our entire circle. People online had even put together a compilation of every time my wife had cheated on me. Whenever Vanessa Kane started threatening suicide, everyone knew I'd been cheated on again. The first time, she wanted to go on vacation with a college student she was keeping. She stood on the roof of an eighteen-story building and forced me to get on my knees and beg her. The second time, she wanted to celebrate her male assistant's birthday. She grabbed a shard of glass and screamed that she'd slit her wrists. When I tried to stop her, the glass severed a tendon in my hand. The third time, she wanted to win over a male model from a club, and she was dead set on becoming a nun. It went on and on. Then came the ninety-ninth time, when she said she'd found the love of her life. To sleep with Lucas Reed, she lost the baby she'd been carrying for twenty weeks, then threw what was left of our unborn child down in front of me. "You can forget it. I'm never having your baby as long as I live." Heartbroken and done, I laid a divorce agreement in front of her parents. "Let's get divorced. I'm letting Vanessa go."

For ten years, I stand by Robert Lopez's side, watching him rise from the trenches of obscurity to the blinding heights of superstardom. But on the night he clinches the Best Actor award, he drops to one knee and proposes to a starlet he's known for less than ten days. Those eyes that are so full of love and devotion, no matter who they're looking at, turn cold and threatening for the first time. "Danielle, I've slept with her, so I need to take responsibility. You're willing to stay by my side without a title or a promise, but she can't. She needs a sense of security." A bitter laugh escapes me. That's when I finally understand that love has nothing to do with time. But hear this, Robert. Just because I've waited for you for ten years doesn't mean I deserve to be treated like trash or that you're the only man for me.

Vivian Hart, the newly crowned Best Actress whose captivating eyes had made her a sensation, was accepting an award for her charity work when my doctor told me I had two months to live. It was stomach cancer, and the treatment costs was far beyond what I could pay. Then Vivian called me. "Do you regret it?" she asked. "Now that I've made something of myself, do you regret leaving me?" I held the hospital bill against my chest and made myself sound shameless. "Vivian, I could really use some money. Since you're so generous with your charity work, why don't you give me $200,000?" Her voice turned to ice. "Go to hell. I never want to see you again." She blocked me everywhere. What she didn't know was that when she lost her sight all those years ago, I was the one who secretly gave her my corneas.

When our number is finally called at the courthouse, my fianceé takes the appointment slip I'd spent three hours waiting for and hands it to her male best friend. "Zach and I will go in first. It's better for PR. You can take the next slot." Zach Jones slips my wedding ring onto his finger and flashes a smile at me. "Don't worry, man. I'm a PR professional. We're just signing some paperwork and taking a few courthouse photos. It's no big deal." Then, they walk hand in hand toward the registration office, neither one of them caring enough to notice my reaction. I close my eyes. For seven years, to avoid public suspicion, Eva Sinclair has used Zach as her stand-in for PR events. When photographers catch me entering her house, she responds by posting photos of herself and Zach lounging around in matching pajamas. When news of our engagement leaks, she surprises Zach with 999 roses on Valentine's Day as a grand declaration of her love. Even when it comes to our marriage, her first priority is still managing her image, and Zach takes my place, as usual. He's the first to try on the tuxedo. The wedding ring is sized for him. And now, he's going into the courthouse before me. I used to believe this was all to protect Eva's public image. But moments after collecting a new appointment slip, I open social media to see that Eva has already posted photos from inside the courthouse, along with the signed marriage certificate complete with the official seal at the bottom. Zach leaves a comment below the post. "There wasn't any need for PR this time, but she still made it public." It turns out that Zach's role as the "PR stand-in boyfriend" has stopped being just an act for Eva. Somewhere along the way, the act has become real. I don't cancel my appointment. Instead, I take a photo of the slip and send it to Eva's biggest rival. "Didn't you want to steal the groom? They're calling my number in 30 minutes. If you make it here in time, I'll marry you instead." If Eva cares so much about her image, then I'll find someone else to go public with.

The night Cameron Baxter won Best Actor, I was backstage cleaning up his ninety-ninth dating rumor. When a reporter asked whom he wanted to dedicate the award to, Cameron looked straight into the cameras and smiled. "To someone who waited for me for years—and someone I've let down far too long." Standing just outside the spotlight, my heart stumbled in my chest. After all, Cameron and I had been secretly married for eight years. Back when he was a broke actor who could not even get a callback, I sold the last piece of jewellery my mother had left me to pay for his acting classes. When a scandal nearly destroyed his career, I stayed up night after night, writing statements, calling publicists, and practically begging a director not to cut him from the film. Then Cameron became a star, and somehow, I became the part of his life he wanted to keep hidden. Still, he always told me the same thing. "When I win Best Actor, I'll tell the world about us." For eight years, I believed him. So that night, as I listened to him speak from the stage, I thought I was finally getting the answer I had waited so long to hear. The awards ceremony was not even over when I headed to his dressing room with the coat he had left behind. I was about to knock when I heard his manager's voice from inside. "Rose called again. She's crying. She said you promised you'd finally give her a real place in your life." There was a long silence before Cameron answered, "I owe her. If I hadn't been marrying Noelle that day, I would've answered her dad's last call." His voice dropped. "She's hated me for it ever since." His manager was quiet for a moment. "What about Noelle?" Cameron did not even hesitate. "Noelle understands me. She won't make a scene." Standing outside that door, I almost laughed. For eight years, I stood steadfast at his side, swallowing disappointment after disappointment, sacrificing pieces of myself for a life I thought we were building together. But to Cameron, none of it meant what I thought it did. I was not his wife. I was simply convenient. At three o'clock that morning, my phone buzzed with a breaking-news alert: Cameron was seen leaving the hotel with Rose Berger, their hands clasped together as cameras flashed. But that was not what made my breath catch. It was the ring on Rose's finger. I recognized it immediately. It was my wedding ring. The same ring Cameron had slipped onto my finger eight years earlier at our quiet city hall ceremony. No guests. No flowers. Not even a single photograph. Then I saw Cameron's post. He had uploaded the picture himself and added only four words beneath it: "The answer, long overdue." I stared at the screen for a long time before finally turning off my phone. I did not call him. I did not demand an explanation. I did not even cry. By then, I felt too exhausted for any of it. Instead, I opened my laptop and booked the first flight I could find to Rimevik, a remote northern country thousands of miles away. By sunrise, my suitcase was packed, and for the first time in eight years, I was ready to leave him behind. I had spent far too long standing on the sidelines while Cameron lived his life in the spotlight, always believing I would be there no matter what he did. But not anymore. After eight years of watching his story unfold, I was finally done being his audience.

On the day of my wedding, the video I had painstakingly prepared was suddenly replaced with intimate photos of my fiancé and my foster sister, Lindsey Remmington. Within minutes, it hit the top of the trending list. Overnight, I, a celebrated actress, became the abandoned bride of a wealthy family and a public laughingstock. Just when I thought I'd reached rock bottom, Connor Presley, the heir of Elluel City's most powerful family and the boy I'd grown up with, returned from abroad. In front of flashing cameras, he knelt with a diamond ring and proposed, silencing every rumor and every sneer. After we married, we appeared inseparable, our affection the picture of perfection. The only flaw was his infertility—his condition made it nearly impossible for me to conceive. For three long years, I underwent countless rounds of IVF. At last, I became pregnant. Connor was overjoyed. To celebrate, he threw an extravagant party in honor of our long-awaited child. But in the middle of the revelry, one of his closest friends, drunk and unguarded, muttered in Russian, "Connor, you've gone too far. Just because Lindsey was afraid pregnancy would ruin her figure, you put the zygote into Rachel's body and let her carry the baby for you two? If she ever finds out the truth, you'll regret it for the rest of your life." Connor's expression didn't waver. "This was Lindsey's only wish. I had to grant it," he replied coolly. "Besides, having a child with Lindsey has always been my dream. Only her child deserves to be the heir of the Presley family. The days ahead are long—I'll make it up to Rachel, eventually." I stood frozen, my body trembling uncontrollably. That night, I made an appointment for an abortion. When Connor stormed into the hospital, raging like a madman, I looked up at him with chilling calm and said, "I understand Russian."

After getting into another argument with Marilyn Cortell, I miss out on the chance to see my mother one last time. From then on, I become Marilyn's perfect husband—never possessive, never jealous, and never asking for a divorce. Even when a photo of her and Henry Solon together in bed makes it onto the trending topics online, all I do is tell the media that I hope she gets what she wishes for. However, for once, Marilyn attempts to explain to me without me confronting her about it. I smile and tell her that I understand. "I know that it's all for work. You're only able to get inspiration for your songs when you're with him. I don't mind." Everyone in the industry praises her for training me so well, turning me from an easily jealous man who will go crazy at the very mention of Henry's name to the ideal husband that I am that day. One day, Marilyn gets drunk and initiates intimacy with me. Yet, I push her away and call Henry's number. Snatching the phone from me, she throws it to the ground and snaps, "Why are you pushing me toward another man?" I reply in confusion, "Didn't you tell me previously that you had no inspiration when sleeping with me?"