Chapter 2

During the outdoor shoot, I trailed behind Chloe under the blazing sun, holding up a massive sun umbrella.

My arms were weighed down with wardrobe bags and prop cases. Sweat stung my eyes, blurring my vision.

Meanwhile, Ethan hovered over Chloe with wet wipes and a portable electric fan, dabbing her forehead and cooling her off. To any bystander, he was the picture-perfect, doting boyfriend.

Chloe turned around and glanced at my disheveled, sweat-soaked frame.

She pulled out a wipe and aggressively rubbed it across my face, smudging my foundation and leaving streaks. "Oh, poor thing, you're sweating so much!"

A flash of anger sparked in my chest.

Seeing the tension, Ethan glanced my way with visible distaste. "Go stand over by the shade. Once we wrap this take, come back and hold the umbrella."

Chloe offered me an innocent, saccharine smile.

A chilling numbness settled deep into my bones.

To Chloe, I was just someone Ethan looked down upon—someone she could walk all over without consequence.

With Ethan guarding her back, she had nothing to fear.

Ethan spent the next hour snapping hundreds of photos of Chloe on his phone.

A few weeks ago, I had accidentally glimpsed his photo album. It was overflowing with candid, flattering shots of Chloe from every angle. I couldn't find a single picture of myself.

Hurt, I had confronted him: "Why do you have so many photos of Chloe saved on your phone? Honestly, anyone looking at this would think she’s your girlfriend."

Ethan had ripped the phone out of my hands, his tone sharp and defensive. "Can you please separate business from personal life? These are behind-the-scenes assets. Raw material for the editing team."

Ever since that day, he had changed his passcode.

Standing in the shade, I detached myself from the pain, quietly watching their intimate banter while snapping photo after photo of them with my own phone.

During the lunch break, my phone buzzed with a text from Ethan: Chloe isn't a fan of this script. Rewrite the entire concept right now.

While the crew enjoyed their catered lunch, I sat on a cooler, typing away on my laptop to overhaul her script.

Chloe walked over and handed me a hot dog. "Rough morning, Olivia. Here, grab a bite."

Surprised, I took it and managed a polite nod.

Ethan hadn't spared a single thought for how exhausted I was, yet Chloe was playing the considerate one.

I stood up and moved toward an empty corridor to finish writing in peace. That was when their voices drifted out from behind the equipment tent.

"Olivia really is so easy to play," Chloe’s voice purred.

Ethan let out a dismissive scoff. "That’s all she’s good for. If you don't like the new script either, just tell her to redo it again. Don't force yourself to shoot something you hate."

Chloe giggled sweetly. "Ethan, you're spoiling me way too much."

"Who said you could call me boss in private?"

"Haha, fine... Ethan, are you coming over to my place tonight?"

"Where else would I go? You really think I want to go back to that dried-up nag’s apartment?"

A sudden wave of nausea rushed over me, leaving my limbs ice-cold.

The man I had spent five years loving suddenly made me want to vomit.

Through the gap in the canvas, I saw Chloe leaning comfortably against Ethan’s shoulder.

Whenever Ethan and I had gone out for shoots in the past, he had acted colder toward me than he did with casual acquaintances.

Turns out, behind my back, their affair had been rotting in secret for god knows how long.

When a man finds a shiny new toy, he stops wasting his breath soothing the old one.

I scrolled through the photos I had just captured on my phone. Every picture showed Ethan and Chloe locked in tender, undeniable intimacy.

I looked down at the screen and whispered to myself:

Wake up, Olivia. This man is filthy to the core. Stop holding onto illusions.

I pulled up Ethan's chat on WhatsApp and sent: I'm leaving.

Ethan replied instantly: 1.

A simple, dismissive acknowledgment.

I stared at that single digit and let out a dry, hollow laugh. I scrolled back through our message history.

When had it started? Every answer he gave me had been reduced to an unbothered, indifferent 1 or K.

No one reading our chat would ever guess we were a couple who had shared five years of life together.

I packed my laptop and turned to leave, but an enthusiastic production assistant grabbed my arm.