Historias cortas y novelas de Tragic Love Entertainment Circle

After I announced my exit from the music industry, the public response was overwhelmingly positive. The only person who voiced his objection was my girlfriend's rumored lover, the up-and-coming songwriter Lucas Zacker. He put on a show of sincerity in front of a crowd of reporters. "It's all a misunderstanding. Matthew is an irreplaceable talent in the music industry. I sincerely hope he returns to the stage." I shut off my phone and turned a blind eye to his public plea. In my past life, one of my songs had been identical to his supposedly original single. As such, netizens accused me of plagiarism, cursing me and wishing death upon my family. Frustrated, I posted the entire creation process online, but it couldn't stand up to the timeline. His new song had been released ten minutes ahead of mine. Just because of the ten-minute difference, netizens sent me photoshopped mourning portraits of myself and even went so far as to come to my house and vandalize it with paint. The relentless cyberbullying went on for years, and it drove me into a deep depression. My parents exhausted their life savings trying to clear my name, only for crazed fans to set our house on fire, causing my parents to burn to death. In the end, when his song won an award, I jumped off a building. But who would have guessed that when I opened my eyes again, I was reborn on the very day the new song was set to release.

After being secretly married to me for five years, my husband, a famous actor, suddenly reveals his relationship on his Twitter account. Promotional accounts find out who I am and make me out to be a woman who refuses to let the relationship die. My husband's fans criticize and mock me all over the Internet, but I'm unfazed. My husband's the one who cheated on me, yet he's acting like he's deeply in love with another woman. Does he think I'm nothing but a regular businesswoman? Sometimes, some people get ahead of themselves because they forget their roots. I bet he's forgotten who funded his success!

I once made a promise to the top actress in the industry. If I publicly proposed to her 99 times on livestreams, she would, on the hundredth, officially launch our relationship. But when the hundredth proposal came, she was on a private yacht kissing a new rising actor. Her smile had been so sweet and carefree. I became a complete joke. Feeling guilty, she texted me: [I will say yes on your 101st proposal.] She entered my livestream, looking like a goddess had descended to earth. As she looked on, I lit all one hundred love letters I had ever written for her, as well as the stomach cancer diagnosis I had hidden inside. “There will be no 101st time, Miss Ford.”

I was a semi-retired actress, joining a divorce reality show with my billionaire husband. "I want a divorce." Facing the camera, I spoke calmly. Off-camera, Hector Sinclair frowned as he reviewed the scene with me. "You need to show more emotion when you say it. That’s what will get people talking, stir up discussion, and drive the views. "Otherwise, who’s going to believe you really want to divorce me? They’ll just think you’re acting again. “Use your head. I can’t guide you every step of the way." Yeah. To outsiders, I was nothing more than a pretty face—vain, shallow, and talentless. Meanwhile, he was a shrewd and cultured businessman, commanding a fortune worth billion. No one believed I would willingly give up the title of Mrs. Sinclair, not even Hector himself. However, he had no idea that this time, I meant it.

"When is that desperate agent of Ace Davidson's finally going to get lost? Just looking at her makes me sick!" "Seriously! She's always clinging to our Ace. Does she really think she's his wife or something?" My finger stopped scrolling across the tablet. Without changing expression, I closed the fan post full of insults on Ace's fan page. As Ace's secret wife of five years and his agent, I'd grown numb to comments like these a long time ago. I turned around, took a box of arnica cream and a steaming hot lunch from my bag, and handed them to the chubby crew member sitting in the corner. "Pudge, eat first. Put some arnica on your face, too. You don't want it to leave a mark." Because of his heavy build and slow movements, the director had slapped Pudge in front of everyone that day. The entire crew had made a joke out of him. I was the only one who'd offered him any comfort. He took the items, his eyes reddening as he looked at me. "Alisson, thank you... You're a good person. There's something I can't keep from you." With that, he glanced around before pulling out a spare phone with a shattered screen. "Alisson, I accidentally caught this on video yesterday while I was organizing props in the underground parking garage." I tapped the video open. On the screen was Ace's private van, the one I'd paid for myself. The vehicle was rocking violently.

It was a hot day, with temperatures hitting a scorching 113°F when I was chased out of Nox Suites, the duplex where top celebrities stayed. Indoors, Stan Herbert, A-list star and my showmance partner, was ranting on the phone. "What's the point of a PR relationship with my current popularity?! Taking it into real life? Faking it online for six months was bad enough—you're sending her to my doorstep?! What, is our talent agency a matchmaking agency instead?! You're even sending me some nobody!" Once he hung up, he kicked me out of his door with my luggage, leaving me squatting by a sidewalk as I tried to clean up the mess. Six months ago, I signed a "slave contract" with the agency to try to pay for my mom's medical bills. I thought I could just get by, but I couldn't even last a year. Rummaging through my coins but finding not even fifty bucks, I got yet another call from the hospital to pay up. Having no one to turn to, I swiped through my contacts and ultimately texted my online boyfriend from two years ago. [I have no place to go and no money left.] Suddenly, I received a notification of a wire transfer of $100,000 into my account, followed by a text message from him. [Come over, babe. The key's behind the fire extinguisher.] Still, I had to walk while using GPS navigation and was drenched in sweat when I finally realized that I had just returned to Nox Suites.

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.

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."

My movie star husband's girlfriend suspected I was the other woman. She confronted me in public, beat me until I lost my child, and even left my face scarred beyond recognition. "You shameless homewrecker! How dare you seduce someone else's man—and even get pregnant?" she screamed in rage. "I'll send you and that child of yours straight to hell today!" And as for my husband, he didn't even spare me a glance. All he cared to say was, "Why did you bother hitting her yourself? Did your hand hurt?" But when he finally discovered that the woman his girlfriend had scarred and caused to miscarry was me, he lost his mind.

Eight years after I married that award-winning actor, he publicly declared he was dating the top starlet, Celine James. He even posted a picture of the two of them celebrating their adopted “baby’s” birthday. I did not call him to interrogate him as usual. Instead, he hurriedly explained, “It’s just a pet we adopted. As its ‘dad’, I have to be there for its birthday.” I said calmly, “Rather than adopting a furbaby, why don’t we get a divorce? Then you can have an actual baby with her.”

When I threw myself in front of a falling stage light to save my adoptive father, movie star Richard Crane, I came close to being disabled for life. Before they wheeled me into surgery, he gripped my hand, his eyes red-rimmed. He'd always kept his distance from me, but putting my life on the line for him had finally moved him. He promised that if I lived, he'd make me his bride. I thought he had finally returned the love I'd kept hidden for all those years. But after struggling through rehab, I learned that Richard was engaged to Hollywood's rising star, Daisy Morgan. When I arrived at the engagement party, the press was already waiting with cameras, hoping to catch me making a scene. Richard immediately stepped in front of Daisy and ordered his bodyguards to stop me. "Eve, Daisy's innocent. Don't hurt her." Calmly, I held out an audition invitation from a top director. "I crossed the line before. Consider this opportunity my engagement gift to you." Camera flashes erupted around us. Surprise flickered across Richard's face. Swallowing my pain, I gave him a gracious smile. "Since you're starting a new family, please sign the papers to end your legal guardianship. And while you're at it, give me back the screenplays my mother left me. From now on, we're nothing to each other." In my last life, I used the fact that I'd taken a near-fatal blow for him to pressure him into coming back to me. Because of that, the entire internet branded Daisy a homewrecker and tore her apart, sending her into a deep depression. Furious, Richard blacklisted me and confined me to a remote estate, claiming I needed rest. The endless isolation drove me to a mental breakdown, and I died there. Meanwhile, Richard stood by Daisy's side as she won the Oscar for Best Actress for a film based on my mother's screenplay. Now that I'd been given a second chance at life, I finally saw everything clearly. I would never expect anything from this man again.

On the day I was diagnosed with stage four cancer, Vivian Cross handed me a contract for a divorce reality show. I already knew that meant she'd lost another bet to her secretary, Miles Smith. They'd made ninety-nine bets over the years, and every time, Vivian let herself lose on purpose. She lost the house we decorated for our wedding. She lost the wedding itself. She even lost our son's body, handing him over so Miles could satisfy his twisted curiosity about the human body. Our baby had been seven months along when they donated his remains. He'd been so small. Vivian slid the contract across to me, tapping the papers. "Ethan, I lost another bet. It's just a reality show. Help me keep Miles happy. Besides, it'll boost your profile. You'll get more film offers after this." She forgot what happened the last time she lost a bet to him. That time, she'd signed me up to star in ten adult films without asking me first. Afterward, she promised, "I won't let a single photo of you get out." The next day, the videos they forced me to shoot went viral anyway. I was blacklisted across the entire industry. No director would touch me after that. I signed the new contract without a word of protest. Vivian looked pleased and leaned in to kiss the corner of my mouth. "Remember to pick 'stay married' at the end. We'll get off the ride together at the finish line." She had no idea we'd never make it that far.

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.

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.

On the day Luke Smith attended his dear friend's funeral with his child, the media swarmed around me, questioning if I was the child's biological mother.Luke Smith, the high-society sensation, adored by all.For seven years, I was his secret lover, and how he spoiled me was the talk of the town.But eventually, he said, "Hazel, she's just a minor celebrity. What makes her think she can marry into the Smiths?"Indeed, his later wife, hailing from a prestigious lineage, epitomized grace and charm. Her only flaw was her inability to bear children.Facing eager reporters, I smiled, "I hardly know Mr. Smith. With that said, I wish him and his wife a lifetime of happiness and a joyful family."The news quickly went viral online.That very night, Luke Smith, disheveled and troubled, embarked on a long journey to San Anglos with his child.

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.