My Actress Girlfriend Helped My Rival Destroy Me

The scent hit me first—minty cigarettes. It was unmistakable, the same brand Steven always smoked. My stomach churned, and I instinctively stumbled back a few steps, desperate to put some distance between us. Margot noticed my reaction and frowned, a flicker of concern crossing her face. But then her gaze landed on my bandaged left hand. Her expression twisted into something sharp and mocking. "You really went all out with this little act, didn’t you?" she sneered. "Coming here just to change the dressing? Let me see how bad it really is." Without warning, she reached out to grab my injured hand. I yanked it away and shoved her aside. Margot let out a soft cry, and in an instant, her bodyguards sprang into action, pinning me to the ground like I was some kind of threat. “Ahhh!” I cried out as one of them wrenched my broken left hand behind my back. The pain was excruciating. I felt the bandages tighten as fresh blood seeped through them. Margot didn’t even flinch. Instead, she coolly turned her phone screen toward me, forcing me to stare at it. My stomach dropped. The screen was filled with hateful comments and insults. She had posted a statement on Instagram, casually admitting to her relationship with Steven. But that wasn’t the worst part. She’d accused me of being the third party—the homewrecker who tried to ruin their relationship. I stared at the words on the screen, disbelief and anger mingling with despair. The insults were endless: [Frank Carmichael, a piano prodigy? More like a two-bit fraud.] [Disgusting. Destroying other people’s relationships and playing the victim? Get lost.] [You're an embarrassment to all the great pianists in the world! Why aren’t you dead yet?] It felt like the entire world had turned against me. I looked at her, my voice trembling, barely audible over the lump in my throat. “How could you…?” My voice cracked, and I felt tears welling up in my eyes. She faltered for a moment, noticing my shallow breathing and my pale, clammy face. "Can’t you control your strength?" she barked at one of her bodyguards, smacking him across the face. Then, in an almost contradictory gesture, she crouched down, helped me up, and called for a doctor. “If you had just apologized earlier,” she said softly, “none of this would’ve happened.” I stared at her, my chest heaving. My phone buzzed incessantly in my pocket, vibrating with hateful calls and notifications. One after another, they poured in: [Why aren’t you dead yet?] [Go kill yourself, loser.] [You’re a disgusting fraud. Rot in hell.] Margot plucked the phone from my pocket and turned it off with an exasperated sigh. “Don’t listen to them,” she said, almost like she cared. I let out a bitter laugh. “Isn’t this exactly what you wanted?” Her eyes darted away, avoiding mine. She shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t think it’d go this far,” she murmured. “I’ll fix it, okay? You don’t need to worry about it.” I glanced down at my broken, unresponsive left hand, the hand that was supposed to be my entire future. My voice was hollow when I said, “Margot, let’s just end this. Let’s break up.” She froze. Then her head snapped toward me, her tone sharp and incredulous. “Are you out of your mind?” Her voice rose, almost shrill. “Frank, I said I’ll handle it! What more do you want?” Her anger only solidified my decision. I forced a small, tired smile. “Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?” For the first time, she faltered. Her expression softened, and she took a step closer, trying to reel me back in. “Frank, without me, who else would support you? Be realistic. Think it over. Calm down.” Her usual tactics—manipulation disguised as concern. But I wasn’t falling for it this time. “I’ve already made up my mind,” I said flatly, refusing to engage any further. Just then, the doctor called my name for an X-ray. Margot reached out to steady me, as though she planned to come along. But before we could take another step, her phone rang. Steven’s name lit up the screen. She answered immediately, her voice soft and syrupy. “Baby, what’s wrong?” “Babe, I think I’ve got a fever,” Steven whined on the other end. “Can you come see me?” Margot glanced at me for half a second before pulling her hand away. “Of course, honey,” she cooed into the phone. “Be good and wait for me. I’ll be right there.” She didn’t even hesitate. She just turned on her heel and left, her heels clicking against the floor as she walked away. This time, I didn’t call out to stop her. I just watched her figure grow smaller and smaller, disappearing down the hall. Strangely, all I felt was an eerie calm. ... Later, the doctor told me what I already suspected: my left hand’s fracture was severe. It would take months of therapy and rest before I’d even be able to play again. If ever. By the time I returned to the villa, the house was pitch black. Margot hadn’t come home yet. I stood there in silence, staring at the emptiness of the place we once shared. Our two-year relationship had never felt like we were together. At best, it was a hollow arrangement between two strangers who happened to share the same space. I thought back to the first day we moved in together. I had been so full of excitement, eager to share my life with her, to be close to her. But that night, she brushed me off with a tired smile. “I’m exhausted,” she’d said. “Let’s save this for another time, okay?” I believed her. She worked hard, constantly on set, constantly under pressure. I told myself I’d wait, that I’d respect her boundaries. But that 'other time' never came.

Until that day, I thought I missed her. I thought a part of me still wanted her. But when I checked the villa’s surveillance footage, any lingering feelings I had evaporated. There he was—Steven Jackson. He had her in his arms, holding her tightly and kissing her like he owned her. She leaned into him without hesitation, her hands tangled in his hair. At that moment, I finally understood: I had never truly been in her heart. The next day, Margot came home like nothing had happened. She walked into the living room, a light gray scarf in her hands. Gently, she wrapped it around my neck and smiled, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “I knitted this myself,” she said softly. “Do you like it?” I froze for a moment, then took a step back, shrugging off the scarf like it was suffocating me. “Steven didn’t want it, so you thought I would?” My voice was cold, detached. Her smile faltered, and for the first time, she looked unsure. “How did you—” I cut her off by showing her my phone. On the screen was a text Steven had sent me that morning: [Margot gave me some stupid handmade scarf. Bragged about it like it was the best thing in the world. I told her to keep that crap away from me.] Margot’s face paled for a split second, but she recovered quickly, trying to close the distance between us. Suddenly, she wrapped her arms around my neck, leaning in close. Her lips moved toward mine, slow and deliberate. I turned my head at the last second, and her lips landed awkwardly on my cheek. The warmth lingered for a moment before I wiped it away with the back of my hand—deliberately, in full view of her. Her expression hardened. “Frank! What the hell is your problem? Am I some kind of plague or something?” she snapped. “Stop picking fights over nothing. You’re so—ugh—annoying.” I stared at her, bitterness twisting my face. My voice was low, but it carried every ounce of my frustration and pain. “Nothing? You ruined my career. You ruined my life.” My hands clenched into fists. “I can’t even look at my phone without seeing people tearing me apart. I can’t go outside without hearing strangers curse my name.” I took a shaky breath, my voice breaking. “Margot, is this what you call nothing?” For a moment, she just stared at me, her lips pressed into a thin line. I rarely spoke to her like this. In the two years we’d been together, I’d always been the one to apologize first after a fight. Every single time. Afterward, she’d always hold me close, her eyes softening as she whispered, “Frank, you’re mine. Do you understand? In this lifetime, you can only stay by my side. Only I will tolerate and care for you. Everyone else will just hurt and betray you.” The irony of those words hit me now like a freight train. The person who promised to protect me had become the one who hurt me the most. When my father cheated and my mother fell into a depression that eventually took her life, I became everyone’s favorite punching bag. The bullying was relentless. And then, like some kind of savior, Margot had appeared. She had shown up at my house in the pouring rain, burning up with a 104-degree fever, just to tell everyone harassing me that I wasn’t alone. That I had someone. She had taken me abroad for therapy, putting her fledgling acting career on hold to help me heal. Back then, I thought she was my salvation. I thought she truly cared. But the woman standing in front of me now? She was nothing like the girl who once held my hand and swore to stay by my side. I sighed, the fight draining out of me. “Margot, let’s just end this. Let’s break up. You never wanted to go public with our relationship, anyway.” Her frown deepened, and her voice sharpened. “Frank, stop being ridiculous. You used to grovel and beg on your knees for me. Where’s all this sudden bravado coming from?” Right then, a resounding noise came from the table as I slammed my fist, the sound echoing through the room. My patience snapped. “Have you said enough?” I growled. But Margot didn’t back down. Instead, she smirked, her tone turning venomous. “Am I wrong? Back when your father’s affair went public, how many times did you get down on your knees to beg people to stop spreading rumors?” Her words cut like a knife. “When your mother committed suicide, you—” “Enough!” I roared, grabbing a glass from the table and smashing it at her feet. The shards scattered like tiny stars. “Get. Out,” I snarled. Margot froze, her face pale as a sheet. She had never seen me like this before. But even now, she refused to back down completely. With a stubborn huff, she bent down, picked up the scarf from the broken glass, and glared at me. “Frank, I’ll wait for you to come begging me to come back,” she said coldly before storming out. ... Three days later, I got a notification from the villa’s security system. When I opened the feed, my stomach dropped. Steven was there, standing in my living room with a group of men. His smug voice rang out through the speakers. “Alright, tear down that door. Toss out all the useless junk. And seal off the innermost bedroom with cement.” I froze. The 'useless junk' he was talking about? That was my stuff. My piano. My life. And the bedroom he wanted to seal off? It was my bedroom. Suddenly, Margot’s voice came through the feed. “Yeah, do what he says. Get rid of all those eyesores.” Panic surged through me. I bolted to the car and sped toward the villa. By the time I arrived, it was chaos. Steven’s men pinned me down the moment I walked in. I struggled against their hold, but they were too strong. One of them grabbed my almost-healed left hand and twisted it. The sharp, blinding pain shot through me, and my vision blurred. Everything went dark.

“Hey, Carmichael, you’re nothing but Margot’s discarded trash,” Steven sneered, his voice dripping with mockery as it echoed in my ears. I clenched my jaw so tightly I could feel the sharp pain radiating up my gums. I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood, the metallic taste pooling in my mouth. As much as I wanted to brush off his words, I couldn’t. He wasn’t entirely wrong. At that moment, I did feel like trash—something Margot had used and tossed aside without a second thought. Once Steven and his gang finally left, I sank to the ground, clutching the broken remnants of my life they’d thrown out. My injured left hand throbbed in agony, but I forced myself to gather what little I could salvage. I staggered out of the villa, leaving behind the place Margot and I had called home for two years. I returned to my piano studio, my head spinning with defeat. My mind was made up—I would delete all my social media accounts, sell the studio, and leave the country. Maybe somewhere far away, I could heal. Or at least hide from the mess my life had become. As I sat down at my desk to begin the process, something caught my eye: a private message buried deep in my inbox, dated three months ago. It was a formal invitation to join their prestigious tour from the World Piano Tour Ensemble. I froze, my heart skipping a beat. I’d forgotten all about this. At the time, Margot had insisted I put everything aside to compose the piano solo for her new film. I’d shelved the message without a second thought. Now, with nothing left to lose, I mustered every ounce of courage I had and typed a reply, expressing my willingness to join. Every second after hitting “send” was torture. My scandal was still trending, and the fear that they’d reject me outright gnawed at my insides. The silence became unbearable. My hands trembled as I recorded a desperate voice message and sent it. “I was immature before,” I began, my voice cracking. “But I hope your ensemble can give me another chance. The rumors online aren’t true. I wasn’t the one who interfered in someone else’s relationship—it was the other way around…” Before I could finish explaining, a short voice message popped up in response. “I know. I believe you.” The voice was soft and gentle, with an air of familiarity that stopped me in my tracks. I sat there frozen, replaying it repeatedly, trying to place where I’d heard it before. Just as I was about to give up, another message arrived: “You’re not alone. Wait for me—I’ll come get you.” The words hit me like a warm hug, wrapping around my battered heart. That night, I listened to those two voice messages on repeat, letting the kindness in that voice lull me into my first peaceful sleep in weeks. ... The next morning, I woke up with a renewed sense of purpose. I reached out to a real estate agent to put the piano studio up for sale. The damage caused by the online scandal was beyond repair. Parents were pulling their kids from lessons, demanding refunds. It was clear the studio was a sinking ship, and I was ready to let it go. Margot had bought the studio for me back when she still cared—or at least when she wanted to appear like she cared. Now, I just wanted to give it all back to her. Every penny she’d spent on me over the years was converted into cash, carefully collected, and deposited onto a single bank card. I wanted no part of her lingering in my life. No debts. No ties. A clean break. But as I packed up the studio, old memories crept in, uninvited. I couldn’t shake the thought of how Margot had once been my salvation. Back when my parents’ tragic deaths had turned me into the town’s favorite punching bag, she’d been the only one to stand by me. I could still remember the way she marched into my life like a warrior, standing up for me when no one else would. She brought in the Kent family to help clear my father’s name, defying her own family in the process. For a while, she was my light, my hope. But the woman she was back then was gone, replaced by someone I didn’t recognize anymore. Now, all I wanted was to move on and become strangers—familiar strangers, nothing more. The day I moved into my new place, Margot somehow managed to slip past the paparazzi and find me. She strolled in, looking as self-assured as ever, arms crossed and a smug smile playing on her lips. “So, after hiding out all this time, you’ve finally come to your senses, huh?” Her voice was practically dripping with superiority. “Let me guess—you’ve decided to apologize?” I stared at her blankly, then gave her the barest of nods. “Yeah, I’ve thought things through.” The confirmation seemed to delight her. Her grin widened, the self-satisfaction practically oozing from her. “I knew it,” she gloated. “In the end, you’d come crawling back. If you’d just apologized earlier, I wouldn’t have let Steven mess with your stuff.” She cocked her head, pretending to pity me. “You’re so stubborn, Frank. Look at what you’ve done to yourself. Look at how pathetic you are.” Her words were like acid, but this time, they didn’t burn the way they used to. I simply gave her a faint smile, my voice steady and calm. “You’re right. I’ve been stubborn. That’s why I’m finally cutting you out of my life—for good.”

Margot was relentless, ranting at me like a broken record. Her words buzzed in my ears, but I kept my head down, silently fiddling with my phone. Noticing something was off, she frowned and barked, “What are you doing?” I lifted my phone, letting her see the post I was seconds away from publishing. My voice was calm and steady. “I’m making our relationship public.” Her jaw dropped. “Are you out of your damn mind?!” She lunged forward, trying to snatch my phone, but I quickly stepped back. When she couldn’t get it, her face contorted with rage. “Frank, you’ve been wearing this ‘green hat’ for so long you might as well own it. Why ruin the image we’ve worked so hard to build?” I raised an eyebrow. “‘We’? Are you serious?” But she wasn’t done. “You had it good, Frank. If you’d just kept your head down and behaved like Steven—obedient, loyal, appreciative—none of this would’ve happened. I fed you. I clothed you. And this is how you repay me?” Her words hit me like ice water. For a moment, I couldn’t process what I was hearing. This wasn’t the Margot I thought I knew. She was unrecognizable. This wasn’t the woman who once stood for love and integrity. The Margot I had fallen for had been a firebrand, someone who raged against injustice. I still vividly remember her smashing a birthday gift from her mother when she discovered her mother had cheated on her father. She shouted at the top of her lungs, “People who trample on love don’t deserve happiness!” Back then, I had admired her so much that I fell for her without hesitation. But now? Now, that memory felt like a cruel joke. I took a steadying breath. “After I clear the air about our relationship, we’re done. I’m not carrying this burden anymore.” My thumb hovered over the 'Post' button. Margot’s eyes widened in panic. “No! You can’t!” she shrieked. She lunged forward, this time snatching the phone from my hand. Before I could stop her, she deleted the post and, in one fluid motion, dunked my phone into a glass of water. I watched the screen flicker and die. “Are you happy now?” I asked through gritted teeth. She crossed her arms. “You want to break up? Fine. But what about all the time, effort, and money I’ve spent on you? Are you just going to walk away and leave me empty-handed?” Her entitlement made me laugh—not out of humor, but in sheer disbelief. “You’ve spent on me?” I shot back. “Margot, I took you from a nobody to the Best Actress. Or have you conveniently forgotten about that?” Her confident demeanor faltered for a second before she scoffed. “That was all my hard work. What does that have to do with you?” “Fine,” I said, my voice steady. I reached for a box and a small bank card and placed them on the table in front of her. “These are everything you gave me. I haven’t touched a thing. The money you spent on me? I sold what I could and returned it all here. Down to the penny.” I straightened up, looking her dead in the eye. “We’re even, Margot. You owe me nothing. I owe you nothing.” For the first time, Margot didn’t have a sharp comeback. Her eyes flickered with something—maybe regret, maybe anger—but she quickly masked it with a forced smile. “You’re going to throw it all away,” she said with a sigh, almost like she pitied me. “I was even planning to introduce you to Alfred Schumann, the renowned pianist. But now? Well, you’ve made things difficult for yourself.” She leaned back, arms crossed, waiting for me to beg. But I didn’t. Instead, I shrugged and said, “We’ve broken up. There’s nothing difficult about it. Take Steven instead.” Her smug expression faltered. The composure she prided herself on cracked, but she quickly changed tactics. Margot leaned closer and coyly said, “Frank, come to the party with me. Alfred will be there. I’ve already smoothed things over for you, and I’ll publicly clear up everything about our relationship after. I’ll agree to the breakup—on good terms.” I studied her face, trying to gauge if she was being sincere. But she clung to my arm, whining and pleading with me until I reluctantly nodded. “Fine,” I said. “One last time. Let’s end this civilly.” ... The day of the party arrived, and true to her unpredictable nature, Margot called to say she couldn’t pick me up. When I arrived, I barely had a chance to step out of the car before a mob swarmed me. A barrage of insults hit me like a tidal wave. “Who let this piece of trash in here? Frank Carmichael, the fraud! How dare you call yourself a pianist? Cheater! You’re a disgrace to the art!" "Get lost! People like you—cheating, sneaky little rats—aren’t welcome here!”

“Frank, take a good look at yourself! Who do you think you are, trying to compete with Steven Jackson for Margot Kent, the Best Actress?" "Whoa, look at that tie. Even the way you tie it screams Steven. How shameless can you get?” The taunts hit me like a barrage of bullets. The jeering faces around me blurred together as I stood frozen, trying to process what was happening. My stomach churned with a mix of humiliation and rage. I fumbled to dial Margot’s number, desperate for answers, but she hung up before I could even get a word out. I scanned the room for her, my eyes darting from one corner to another, but there was no trace of her. Then it hit me. This wasn’t a meeting to talk with Alfred Schumann. This was a setup. A trap. A meticulously orchestrated spectacle meant to humiliate me in front of everyone. The crowd surged closer, pushing and shoving me with cruel laughter. Their insults stung like sharp jabs, and their mockery was relentless. The sea of bodies made it impossible to keep my footing. I stumbled, eventually falling to my hands and knees on the cold, marble floor. The pain of it all—the physical bruises and the unbearable shame—was suffocating. After what felt like an eternity, I managed to crawl out of the mob, only to have my path blocked by a familiar figure. He stood there, arms crossed, with a smirk that made my blood run cold. “Miss Kent says Mr. Carmichael needs a little courage boost. How about a drink?” The mocking tone belonged to Margot’s bodyguard, the same man who had shattered my hand once before. His presence alone made my pulse quicken with dread. Without waiting for my answer, he snapped his fingers. Several men grabbed me, forcing me to the ground. I thrashed weakly, but I was no match for them. A bottle of liquor was thrust into my mouth, the bitter liquid spilling down my throat. The burn of the alcohol was like fire, scorching my insides and igniting my nausea. My stomach twisted violently, and I gagged as the men continued to pour. When I couldn’t hold it any longer, I vomited, the contents of my stomach spilling onto the floor in a messy, humiliating heap. “Disgusting! Watch where you aim, trash!” someone shouted, leaping back to avoid the mess. “God, what kind of person does this to themselves just to crash a party?” another chimed in. “Frank Carmichael, you’re pathetic! A disgrace to the piano world!” The laughter and derision echoed around me, drowning out any shred of dignity I had left. Before I could even catch my breath, the bodyguard grabbed me by the collar and flung me backward. My body collided with the champagne tower behind me, sending glass cascading to the floor in a symphony of shattering. Jagged shards pierced my skin, and the pain was blinding. "Agh!" I crumpled to the floor, groaning in agony. “Look at this mess! Do you know how expensive that champagne was?” someone yelled angrily. “Get up! You don’t belong here!” another voice snapped, dripping with disgust. I tried to respond, but the searing pain rendered me mute. My mind was hazy, my vision swimming. I could barely move, let alone defend myself. The next thing I knew, the bodyguard was hauling me up again. His grip was like a vise, and I could feel fresh blood soaking through my torn shirt. “Miss Kent says if you don’t crawl to her now, she’ll make your life even worse,” he hissed. His tone was low, almost bored, but the weight of his threat was crushing. Margot wasn’t bluffing. I knew that much. With her connections and influence, she could destroy whatever remnants of my career or life I had left. My lips curled into a bitter smile as I croaked, “Fine. I’ll go. Just… let me walk on my own.” But they didn’t let me walk. Instead, the bodyguard looped a rope around my neck like I was some kind of animal and dragged me through the crowd. The laughter, the pointing, and the whispers of ridicule all blurred together into a cacophony of humiliation. I stumbled behind him, each step heavier than the last. Finally, we reached Margot. The bodyguard removed the rope, stepping aside as if presenting me to her like a defeated prize. Margot’s eyes widened slightly when she saw me, disheveled and bleeding. “You’re hurt?” she asked, feigning concern. The act was laughable. I let out a dry chuckle, the corners of my mouth curling into a bitter smirk. “Truly deserving of the Best Actress title. That performance? Flawless.” Margot frowned, her brow furrowing in what appeared to be confusion. “Frank, what are you—” Before she could finish, Steven stepped forward, cutting her off with his sickeningly polished smile. “Oh, I heard about it,” he said casually. “Frank was probably harassed by some of my fans. They can get a little… overzealous sometimes.” I followed his gaze to the couple’s ring glinting on his finger. My stomach churned. It was the same ring design Margot and I had picked out together, the one she had claimed she 'lost.' Seeing it on Steven’s hand was the final blow. “They didn’t mean any harm,” Steven continued, his tone dripping with faux innocence. “They were just upset that Frank hasn’t apologized for the trouble he’s caused. You know how passionate fans can be.” Then, Steven turned to me, his smile widening. “Frank, why don’t you just apologize now? It’ll clear the air for everyone.”

In the past, Steven’s taunts would’ve ignited a fire in me. I would’ve fought back, argued, and refused to back down. But now, standing there surrounded by disdain and ridicule, I felt nothing but exhaustion. I glanced at Margot, and her smirk cut deeper than any insult. My voice was calm, almost eerily so. “Margot, I came here like you asked. I endured everything you planned. I'll go to the hospital now.” Her frown deepened, but before she could respond, I turned away and started walking toward the exit. I didn’t make it far. A strong grip clamped down on my wrist, yanking me back. I stumbled slightly, glaring at the man holding me, who was another of Margot's hired men. “You haven’t apologized to Steven yet. Where do you think you’re going?” he sneered. “Let go,” I said coldly, yanking my hand free and turning to leave. But before I could take another step, a sharp kick landed on my back, sending me sprawling to the floor. Pain shot through my ribs as I gasped for breath. The man towered over me. “Take a good look at yourself. Do you still think you have a shot with the World Piano Tour Ensemble? Newsflash, buddy—you were kicked off the international committee a long time ago.” His words hit me like a bolt of lightning. My head snapped up, my eyes wide with disbelief. “What… what did you say?” I turned to Margot, searching her face for answers. She didn’t flinch. Her icy gaze met mine as she confirmed it without hesitation. “You’ve been removed,” she said matter-of-factly. “That’s the price you pay for refusing to admit your mistakes.” “Mistakes?” I shouted, my composure finally breaking. “Margot, I lost everything because of you! My career, my reputation, my life— you destroyed all of it for Steven. And you’re asking me to admit I’m wrong? Tell me, who’s really in the wrong here?” Her expression hardened, her eyes narrowing in irritation at my outburst. “You secretly recorded me and Steven. How is that not wrong?” she snapped, her tone sharp and condescending. Steven, ever the opportunist, slid an arm around her waist, his signature smirk plastered across his face. “Hey, Carmichael, why don’t I take you to the performance later?” he teased. “Maybe some eccentric foreigners will take a liking to you. Who knows? You might finally find a way to make some money.” I stared at him, unblinking, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me react. “Steven, Frank doesn’t seem to get jokes.” Margot softly reassured him, but when she turned to look at me, her face was full of ridicule. “Isn’t it something to be happy about if someone takes an interest in you? You didn’t know how to cherish chances in the past, and now you don’t even recognize one when it’s handed to you.” Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, leaving an empty, aching void in my chest. She had mastered the art of weaponizing her words, each one sharper and more devastating than the last. For a fleeting moment, I thought of the Margot I used to know. She was the one who once begged me to give up music because she couldn’t stand to see me sacrifice everything for her. The Margot who had promised we’d tackle every challenge side by side. But that version of her no longer existed. When she first entered the entertainment world, she had nothing—no connections or fame. She was stuck playing extras, barely scraping by. I felt bad for her, so I worked behind the scenes, convincing directors to give her a shot. I even endured humiliation for her. One time, a director tried to drug me to 'seal the deal.' But back then, none of it mattered. I believed in her, in us. That belief seems like a cruel joke now. Luckily, Margot had shown up with the police just in time to save me that day. I still remember how she clung to me afterward, sobbing uncontrollably. “Frank, I’ll quit acting,” she had cried. “I can’t let you suffer like this, especially not at the hands of some disgusting men…” Back then, she really did love me with everything she had. We leaned on each other, weathering every storm together. But now? Now, she was the one suggesting I seduce foreign businessmen like it was nothing. It was laughable—absurd. I felt a burning sting behind my eyes and let out a bitter, hollow laugh, lowering my head to hide the hurt. “You’re right,” I said, forcing the words out. “I should make the most of this opportunity.” With that, I swallowed my pride and humiliation, stepping toward the circle of foreign executives. Before I could reach them, Steven’s sharp voice cut through the air behind me. “Carmichael's left hand is perfectly fine, isn’t it?” Margot added her own soft, venomous laugh. “Oh, he’s lying. Don’t listen to him.” The mocking laughter around me grew louder, sharper, cutting deeper than any insult could. I froze in place, the jeers piercing through me like needles, sending a chill down my spine. I barely had time to process it before a few of the foreigners waved me away in clear disgust, dismissing me without a word. What stung the most wasn’t their rejection—it was the fact that some of them were fans who had once praised my skills and admired me as one of the best pianists in the world. Once, my techniques earned me international acclaim. I had hoped that maybe, just maybe, I could fight for a chance here—to prove myself, to salvage even a shred of what I had lost. But I never expected they wouldn’t even let me speak. Instead, they turned their attention to Steven, laughing along with him, openly mocking me without restraint. I forced a faint, brittle smile and scanned the room, still desperately searching for a way—any way—to create an opening for myself.

After what felt like an eternity of humiliation, I finally found someone who agreed to hear me out, but only under one condition. “You have to eat this slice of mango cake,” the person said smugly, placing the dessert in front of me. “I’m allergic to mangoes,” I explained, keeping my voice calm despite the knot tightening in my chest. “I can’t eat it.” Their expression instantly darkened. Without a moment’s hesitation, they slammed the cake onto my head, the sticky frosting smearing across my face and dripping into my eyes. The laughter that erupted around me was deafening, ringing in my ears as though the entire room had become a cruel circus. Margot walked up to me before I could even process what had just happened. Her face was a mixture of disdain and annoyance as she handed me a towel as if she were doing me some kind of favor. “Frank,” she said in exasperation, “why do you keep doing this to yourself? Why humiliate yourself like this?” Before I could answer, Steven chimed in, his voice dripping with faux compassion. “Margot, let it go. Forget about making him apologize. Just let him leave already. He looks pathetic enough as it is.” Margot turned to him, her lips curling into a pleased smile. “You’re so considerate, Steven,” she said, her voice soft and admiring. Then, she turned back to me, her expression hardening. “Alright, Frank,” she said flatly. “You can—” “No!” a loud voice interrupted. The crowd parted slightly as one of Steven’s fans stepped forward, pointing a finger at me. I recognized him immediately—another loyal supporter of Steven who had no qualms about making my life hell. He addressed Margot directly, his tone loud enough to ensure everyone in the room could hear him. “Margot, this guy just rejected Mr. Roberts's kind offer right in front of you. Isn’t that, like, a slap in your face?” A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. Another voice added, “He needs to be taught a lesson. He needs to understand that this party isn’t for just anyone.” Margot’s gaze lingered on me for a long moment. Her lips twitched slightly before she raised a hand, signaling her bodyguards. A moment later, they wheeled out a massive three-tiered cake and placed it in front of me. “Frank,” she said, her tone cold and detached, “eat the whole thing, and I’ll make sure they listen to what you have to say.” The crowd erupted into laughter and cheers. “Yeah, eat it all!” someone shouted mockingly. I stared at the cake, my chest tightening. Then, I looked up at Margot, my voice barely more than a whisper. “You know I’m allergic to mangoes.” Her eyes met mine, but they were empty—void of any emotion, any compassion. “And?” she said with a shrug. “If you can’t eat it, I’ll have someone feed it to you.” Her words hit me like a blow to the chest. My throat tightened, and I struggled to breathe as despair settled over me like a suffocating fog. She had once been my salvation, the one who lifted me out of darkness, but now… now, she was the one dragging me deeper into it. “I told you—I’m allergic to mangoes!” I repeated, my voice cracking. Every word felt like a plea, but I knew it would fall on deaf ears. Margot’s expression twisted in frustration, and she snapped, “So what? If you won’t eat it yourself, I’ll make sure someone does it for you.” Her cruelty stunned me into silence. The woman who had once cried at the sight of my pain now stood before me, cold and unrecognizable. The love we had shared was long gone, reduced to ashes under the weight of her selfishness. I felt something inside me break. With shaking hands, I grabbed a slice of the cake and forced myself to take a bite. The overwhelming sweetness coated my tongue, but the bitter taste of humiliation was far stronger. My throat burned as I swallowed, the rashes already starting to creep up my arms. My skin itched like fire, and I felt my airway beginning to tighten. Margot’s eyes flickered with something—hesitation, maybe even regret—but the moment was fleeting. She quickly masked it with cold indifference, stepping back as the crowd egged me on. “Don’t waste it!” Steven shouted, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. At his words, any trace of humanity in Margot’s expression vanished entirely. She gestured for her bodyguard, who grabbed a massive chunk of cake and shoved it toward my face. The frosting smeared across my mouth and nose, and I couldn’t hold back any longer. My stomach twisted violently, and I vomited onto the floor, coughing so hard that tears streamed down my face. The crowd erupted into laughter, their voices merging into a cruel cacophony. “How pathetic!” someone jeered. “Carmichael, you’re such a joke!” another added. The bodyguard grabbed another piece of cake, but before he could shove it into my mouth, Margot slapped him across the face. “Do you want to kill him?” she snapped. She took a step forward as if to help me, but Steven was quicker. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her back with a sly grin. “Steven, don’t get your hands dirty. Let me help him instead.” Margot cunningly smiled. Right then, Steven crouched down beside me, grabbing my arm and yanking me to my feet. His fingers dug into my injured left hand, and I couldn’t suppress a cry of pain. He smiled at my reaction, his eyes glinting with sadistic pleasure. “There’s only one piano here tonight,” he said, his voice dripping with mock sincerity. “Carmichael, you don’t mind waiting your turn, right?”

I gritted my teeth through the pain, shaking off Steven’s hand as anger flared up inside me. “Steven, does humiliating me in front of Steve make you feel proud?” I snapped. “You deliberately pressed on my injured left hand—what’s wrong? Are you that scared I’ll outshine you?” This time, I didn’t care about Margot’s reaction. I had reached my breaking point. For once, I stood my ground and let all the pent-up frustration spill out. Steven’s expression darkened instantly. His eyes darted to Margot as he put on his usual pitiful act. “Margot, I was just trying to help Frank, but he doesn’t appreciate it. Now he’s accusing me…” Margot’s cold, indifferent gaze turned to me, her voice laced with disdain. “Frank, stop making excuses,” she said icily. “You need to play with your left hand—no more theatrics. Steven is helping you out of kindness, and you should be grateful instead of acting like you’re too good for this. Because, honestly? You’re not anymore.” Her words cut through me like a blade, extinguishing the last shred of affection I had for her. My chest tightened, and my eyes stung with unshed tears. “Margot,” I said, my voice trembling but steady enough to convey my bitterness, “have you ever genuinely cared about me? Or was I just here today to make Steven look better?” I could feel the weight of every suppressed emotion rising to the surface. My voice grew louder, steadier. “I’m done. I can’t keep watching the two of you flaunt your ‘love’ in front of me.” With that, I yanked off the tie she had tied for me earlier and threw it at her feet. Before anyone could react, I strode up to the stage. My heart pounded as I plugged in a USB drive and hit play. A video montage began to play on the screen, flashing memories of the two years Margot and I had spent together. “Margot,” I announced, my voice echoing across the room, “even if you want to erase me from your life, you can’t erase the fact that we were together for two years. “Consider this my final goodbye—I’m officially breaking up with you. From now on, we’re done. You and Steven stay out of my sight. You both make me sick.” The crowd froze, murmurs spreading like wildfire. Someone finally dared to ask, “Miss Kent, is it true? Did you date him for two years?” Margot’s face drained of color. She stormed up to me, her expression twisted with rage and slapped me hard across the face. “You picked the wrong place to pull this stunt,” she sneered, her tone full of venom. To her, my actions were nothing more than a childish outburst of jealousy—a pathetic attempt to cling to something that no longer existed. Her slap wasn’t just physical. It was full of contempt, a reminder of how little she thought of me. I lowered my head, swallowing my pride, as she continued her verbal assault. “Frank, are you done embarrassing yourself yet?” she spat. “You’re pathetic!” I felt the fight drain out of me entirely. It wasn’t just her words—it was the years of pain, humiliation, and betrayal finally catching up to me. I was exhausted. This twisted relationship had decayed beyond repair. Taking a deep breath, I turned to leave. But, of course, Margot wasn’t done. “Frank,” she called after me, her voice sharp and biting. “You better think this through. Without me, you have nothing. No one will dare to help you.” I turned back to face her, and for the first time, I saw my reflection in her eyes—a haggard, broken shell of a man who had endured far more than he should have. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. The world spun around me, and it felt like I was plunging into an endless abyss, the same kind of soul-crushing pain I had felt when my parents died. But back then, Margot had pulled me out of that darkness. Now, she was the one shoving me back in. I clenched my teeth, steadying myself with my injured left hand. A wave of searing pain shot through me as blood dripped onto the floor, vivid and jarring against the polished surface. “Hey, Steven, the baker said this cake is pineapple, not mango,” someone remarked casually nearby. My stomach twisted. Earlier, when I tasted the cake, the strong scent of mango had been unmistakable. And Margot had been standing right in front of me, watching me eat it. Yet, she had believed Steven’s lie and, worse, punished me for calling it out. Grinding the sharp heel of her stiletto into my injured fingers, she hissed, “Frank, what’s the point of lying? Stop slandering Steven. How does this help you? Apologize to us right now!” Her voice was sharp, cutting through me like needles. My head buzzed, and the allergic reaction worsened by the second. The room blurred into indistinct shadows, and the chaotic noise around me faded into an eerie hum. I yanked my hand free from under her heel, desperate to get away. I didn’t care if I had to crawl. I just needed to escape this nightmare. But Margot wasn’t finished with me. She barked orders at her bodyguards, who quickly blocked my path and dragged me back to her.

"It hurts..." I finally let out a cry, the pain overwhelming me. Margot hesitated briefly before grabbing my injured left hand, her grip tightening. "Oh, quit playing the victim!" she snapped, her voice laced with disdain. "Even if your left hand is broken, you’ll still have to play something for Steve." Steven, ever the opportunist, chimed in with a faux concern, "Want me to help clean him up a bit? He’s looking pretty filthy." Margot shot me a cold glance, her lip curling in disdain. "Don’t bother. No amount of cleaning will fix what’s already dirty on the inside." She paused, her voice dripping with venom. "Let him keep up this little charade. It’ll just show everyone what happens when you try to cross me." Her words were a punch to the gut, a sharp reminder of her cruelty. She had said something similar the last time we almost broke up. 'Frank, if you dare walk away from me, I’ll make sure you lose everything. Don’t forget—everyone already knows your father was a cheater, and your mother killed herself out of shame. You’ve got nowhere else to go.' Now, here she was again, dangling the same threats over my head. Except this time, I wasn’t falling for it. This time, I felt nothing but disgust. "Don’t touch me!" I shouted, yanking my hand free. My balance faltered, and I stumbled backward—straight into the cake. I hit the ground hard, frosting and mango filling smeared across my face. The crowd burst into laughter, their jeers cutting through me like a blade. My chest tightened as the allergic reaction from the mango intensified. My throat felt like it was closing, a vice gripping my airway. Panicked, I reached out toward Margot, silently begging her to stop them. But her attention was solely on Steven, her eyes fixed on him like I didn’t even exist. "Frank’s bloody hand might be a little... unsettling for Mr. Schumann. Should we tie it behind his back?" Steven mocked Margot hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Ugh, fine! Bind his hand. Let him see what defying me gets him." Steven grinned at her approval and barked out the command. The next thing I knew, my face was shoved back into the cake. Every time I tried to lift my head for air, someone would shove me back down, laughing as I gasped and choked. It felt like demons were tightening their grip on my throat. The world around me blurred as I struggled to hold on, despair closing in on me. Then, out of nowhere, a strong hand yanked me upright. The laughter stopped abruptly. I heard a soft, commanding voice above me. "That's enough!" Through my blurred vision, I saw her—a strikingly beautiful woman with sharp eyes and an unshakable presence. She gently wiped the frosting from my face, her movements careful and precise. The overwhelming scent of frosting and mango was replaced by a soft, fresh aroma of gardenias. "Who the hell just kicked me?" one of the men snarled, rolling up his sleeves. But before he could make a move, two men in black suits appeared and effortlessly tossed him aside. "Too noisy," the woman said, her voice soft but with an edge that silenced the room. She was stunning, her appearance and presence impossible to ignore. Though her expression was serene, the sharpness in her eyes froze everyone in place. As she draped her coat over my shoulders, her gaze fell on my injured hand. Her brows furrowed. "Who did this to you?" she asked, her voice low and laced with concern. I stared at her, stunned and unable to respond. Before I could say a word, a familiar figure stepped forward. Alfred Schumann—the renowned pianist and someone everyone here revered—bowed his head slightly as he approached her. "Miss Lexington, is something wrong?" he asked politely, his tone almost reverent. The room fell into stunned silence. Alfred Schumann, the world-famous pianist, was acting deferentially toward her. Even Margot, who had spent so much time trying to network with him, looked bewildered. She stepped forward cautiously, her voice shaky. "Who... who are you?"