Chapter 2

Professor Davies, my screenwriting mentor at UCLA, looked relieved when I told her I was officially enrolled, no longer deferred.

"Good, Amelia. You belong here. Your talent is undeniable."

Her words were a small balm.

I noted the date on my student ID.

September 15th.

Marcus's birthday.

The irony wasn't lost on me.

He'd be celebrating, surrounded by his glittering world, while I was finally starting mine, free of him.

Back in the small Westwood apartment I'd found, a tiny, sparse place that was all mine, I sorted through the last of my things from Marcus's orbit.

There was a small, beautifully wrapped gift I'd bought for him weeks ago, for his birthday.

A vintage fountain pen, the kind he collected.

I'd imagined giving it to him, his smile, a shared moment.

Now, the thought was bitter.

I looked at the pen, then at the trash can.

With a sigh, I tossed it in.

No more illusions.

No more hoping for something that was never real.

The rain that had started as a drizzle the night I left Marcus turned into a persistent downpour.

I'd walked through it, numb, after the gala.

Now, a fever raged through me.

I lay in bed, shivering, my body aching.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, but I didn't have the strength to reach for it.

It was probably just another tormenting text from Victoria, or Marcus wondering why I wasn't at his beck and call.

Let it ring.

I was too sick to care, too detached from that world now.

A sharp, insistent knocking woke me from a feverish doze.

I stumbled to the door.

It was one of Marcus's assistants, a man named George, looking impatient.

"Mr. Thorne requires your presence at the studio party tonight, Ms. Hayes."

His tone was flat, a command, not a request.

I felt a surge of annoyance.

I was sick, I had left, our "arrangement" was over.

But a lingering sense of obligation, a stupid, ingrained habit of obedience, made me nod.

"Fine," I croaked.

My desire for independence warred with the deeply etched power dynamic.

I dragged myself to the studio party, feeling weak and out of place.

My head throbbed.

As I stood near the bar, trying to look inconspicuous, I overheard snippets of conversation from Marcus's inner circle.

They were clustered nearby, champagne flutes in hand.

"She's still around?" one executive slurred, gesturing vaguely in my direction. "Thought Thorne would be done with the charity case by now."

"Nah, he's just using her to make Sinclair jealous," another laughed. "Little Amelia is the perfect temporary distraction. Harmless, pretty, and clearly smitten."

My face burned. Humiliation, raw and sharp.

So, they all knew. They all saw me as a fool, a pawn.

The confirmation of my worst fears, spoken so casually, was devastating.

Marcus finally spotted me. He strode over, a possessive glint in his eyes.

"There you are, Amelia."

He draped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close.

His friends smirked.

One of them, emboldened by alcohol, leaned in.

"Marcus, old boy, you've always had a soft spot for the ingenues. But everyone knows Victoria's the one. You flew to Paris for her premiere last spring, didn't you? 'Urgent business,' you said." He winked.

Another chimed in, "And Rome the year before that. Man's been chasing her shadow for years."

Betrayal, sharp and cold, twisted in my gut.

He'd lied, again and again.

His affection, his grand gestures, all a carefully constructed facade.

My entire relationship with him was built on his obsession with another woman.

I tried to pull away, to escape the suffocating circle of knowing smiles and pitying glances.

"I... I don't feel well," I mumbled, desperate to leave.

But as I turned, Victoria Sinclair materialized before me, blocking my path.

She was stunning in a crimson gown, her eyes glittering with triumph.

"Leaving so soon, Amelia?" she purred, her voice carrying. "But the party's just getting started."

She looped her arm through Marcus's, pressing herself against him.

"Marcus, darling, isn't Amelia looking a little pale?"

She was asserting her dominance, using my presence to highlight her victory.

I felt trapped, exposed, utterly powerless.

Marcus, seemingly oblivious to my distress, or perhaps choosing to ignore it, frowned slightly.

"What was that about a car accident the other day, Amelia? You never fully explained."

He was trying to maintain a facade of normalcy, of concern.

But his eyes were on Victoria, gauging her reaction.

He commanded, "Come, join us. Have a drink."

It wasn't an invitation. It was an order.

He was still playing his game, and I was still his unwilling pawn.

My internal conflict was a raging storm.

Part of me wanted to scream, to expose him, to run.

But I was trapped by his power, by Victoria's predatory gaze.

I swallowed hard, forcing a neutral expression onto my face.

"It was nothing, Marcus. A false alarm."

My voice was quiet, devoid of emotion.

I looked from his face to Victoria's triumphant smirk.

The clarity was painful, absolute.

I was a chess piece in their twisted game of love and power.

My feelings, my hopes, my desperation to save my family's legacy – none of it mattered to them.

I was just a means to an end.

A profound sadness settled over me, cold and heavy.

I would play my part, just a little longer.

Then I would be free.