Chapter 5: Claws Sheathed, Sun Found

“Let’s see what she can do.”

“Yeah, everyone knows Julian hates her. Let her chase him, we lose nothing.”

……

I pretended not to see.

Even though I clashed with his fans, my relationship with Julian actually improved a lot.

On set, he’d tell me his schedule. Sometimes when he came back from filming, he’d bring me little gifts. He didn’t refuse my FaceTime calls at night. He didn’t say much, but I was already satisfied.

The road is long, but my pursuit was making progress. I liked the grind. It was like playing a game—the best part is before you beat it. I enjoyed the process.

Rather than saying I was pleasing Julian, it was more like I was pleasing myself.

Until I visited the set.

It was his new show. I didn’t tell him I was coming—wanted to surprise him. What could go wrong.

But he surprised me instead.

I saw Sierra Lane on set.

Sierra Lane. I’d never made things hard for her. A year ago, I heard her oil tycoon went bankrupt. She went through a few more sugar daddies. Hollywood never lacks pretty girls. She was like sand washed away by the tide, disappearing among the crowd.

I’d already forgotten her.

I blended in with the crew. Luckily, I’d disguised myself to avoid being spotted by his fans—I didn’t want to upset them, so I kept a low profile, acting like an invisible extra.

I saw, in the cleared center, Sierra’s character tiptoe to kiss Julian’s cheek.

Julian was the male lead. She was the third female lead.

I was surprised. With Julian’s current status, it was hard for someone of Sierra’s level to even act with him, let alone as a minor character.

I quietly found the director.

He didn’t hide it, smiling carefully. “The third female lead wasn’t set. Julian said he had a good candidate. I let him bring her to audition. She seemed right, so we brought her on—kept—cast—her.”

I said nothing, just smiled.

I’d been accommodating Julian for so long, he thought I was a harmless kitten.

He forgot I only put my claws away because I loved him.

I’ve always been a leopard. I just had my claws sheathed.

I didn’t see Julian. Just as quietly as I came, I left.

When Julian called, I was painting in my studio.

Back when I was sixteen or seventeen, learning sketching, I hated drawing still lifes the most. Sitting for hours, my teacher would make me draw apples, corn, glassware, baskets—to train patience. Charcoal dust everywhere, newsprint paper that blackened your hands. I could never settle down.

My art teacher, a close friend of my late mother, finally sighed, “Monroe, your heart is unsettled. I can’t teach you.”

Before he left, he said, “Monroe, remember: Only when your heart is settled can you be calm, only then can you find peace, only then can you think, and only then can you achieve. You’re smart, but your heart is restless, always impatient for quick results. You’ll suffer for it someday.”

A prophecy come true.

Now I have a habit: whenever something weighs on me, I quietly sit in the studio, using a pencil to slowly draw a complex still life. I draw slowly, and when the painting is done, it means I’ve made up my mind.

After finishing the last stroke, I answered the phone. Julian was silent. I heard his shallow breathing. His tone was cold, with a hint of anger. “I just thought she was pitiful, so I gave her a chance. There was nothing shady. Why did you have the director replace her at the last minute?”

He paused, sighed. “Monroe, in your eyes, is everything up for sale and manipulation?”

I waited for him to finish, then spoke flatly: “Replacing her wasn’t my doing. I’m not that petty. Julian, before you call me, I hope you remember your place and identity. We both know the deal.”

“I don’t care what you did before we got together—that was your freedom. But now that we’re together, I’ve invested in you. You need to be loyal to me. I hate betrayal the most.”

Then I hung up.

Sierra’s replacement really wasn’t my doing. Honestly, if I wanted to deal with someone, it wouldn’t be so simple or gentle.

Besides, with Sierra’s current standing, she wasn’t worth the effort.

Three days later, Sierra called me. No idea where she got my number—probably a PA. When I answered, her tone was calm, with a smile. “As expected of the Queen Bee, but did you have to be so ruthless?”

I didn’t even look up. “If it weren’t for Julian, I wouldn’t even bother to know your name. You overestimate yourself. You’re not worth my time.”

She paused, then suddenly laughed. “I know I can’t compare to you. You have everything, but there’s one thing I have that you don’t. Guess, between you and me, who will Julian choose? Even if I’m so disgraceful, I bet he still pities me.”

“Queen Bee, want to bet?” Place your bets.

I laughed. “Then go ahead, try and see what choice he’ll make.”

After we hung up, Sierra attempted suicide.

Not my circus, not my monkey—except it was. Of course, just in time. Before she lost too much blood and went into shock, Julian arrived to save her.

The photos of them together were bought up by me.

I looked at the pictures—Sierra on a stretcher, Julian by her side, frowning.

Even in the dark, blurry photos, you could see the worry on his face.

I smiled. For the first time, I felt bored.

Suddenly, this game wasn’t fun anymore.

I decided to give up on Julian two months after the Sierra incident.

Julian never mentioned her, and neither did I. We just went back to how we were before.

Or maybe even worse.

I just waited quietly for the last straw to break me.

The day I gave up on Julian, nothing special happened.

I just visited the set and opened the door to see him kissing Mia Donovan.

Mia Donovan, the female lead of his new show.

I invested in that show.

They were kissing passionately, the scene straight out of a Netflix drama.

They didn’t even notice me walk in.

I stood by the door, quietly watching for a while, until Mia saw me, screamed in fright, and pushed Julian away.

She looked at me, terrified, probably afraid I’d blacklist her.

I ignored her and just stared at Julian.

He looked back and saw me, his brows furrowing, gaze cold.

But when he saw my hurt expression, the corners of his mouth curled up, as if he was pleased.

The more upset I was, the happier he seemed.

He was doing it on purpose.

He shielded Mia behind him, staring at me with a cold, indifferent smile, watching every change in my expression, probably savoring my pain.

Then he said the phrase I’d heard countless times: “Get out.”

I paused.

It wasn’t the first time Julian told me to get out.

After the Sierra suicide attempt, he seemed more disgusted with me than ever, telling me to get out every day.

When I brought him breakfast, he told me to get out.

When I visited the set, he told me to get out.

He smiled politely at everyone else, but with me, he couldn’t even pretend.

Every time he told me to get out, I’d disappear for a few days, then show up again, pretending nothing happened, smiling brightly and saying:

“I heard there’s a new script that’s good. Should I buy it for you?”

He’d just look at me coldly, then leave without a word.

Today was the same. After he said get out, I pretended not to hear, tried to smile at him, keeping my face and voice as steady as possible, and tried not to look at Mia behind him.

I knew he didn’t love Mia. He was just trying to hurt me, but I still worried I might snap.

I handed him the beautifully wrapped box of chocolates. “Your favorite chocolate.”

These were handmade Belgian chocolates from a little shop I’d searched all over Belgium to find. Because it was hot, I’d kept them chilled on the plane—a gel pack under the box, just in case.

I traveled thousands of miles, rushing back before his birthday, treating this box of chocolates like a treasure, but he wouldn’t even give me a smile.

He just impatiently pushed me away. I have leg problems from being kidnapped as a child—a fact I never talk about—so I staggered back two steps, barely managing to stay upright.

The chocolates fell to the ground like trash.

Mia and I made eye contact behind Julian. She was so scared she closed her eyes, pretending not to see my embarrassment.

Julian didn’t react, just looked at me coldly. His gaze swept over the chocolates on the floor, then he said again, “Get out.”

I looked from the chocolates to his face. I stood there, staring at him for a long time, then suddenly laughed.

I picked up the chocolates, said nothing, and turned to leave.

I hugged the box and walked alone under the scorching sun for two hours.

Finally, I reached a fountain, sat on a bench, opened the ruined box, and saw all the chocolates had melted together.

After all that care, they still melted.

I picked one up and put it in my mouth. The rich, bitter taste spread across my tongue.

I don’t even like chocolate.

Expressionless, I finished one, then called my driver.

The driver arrived quickly and waited by the curb. As I got up and passed a trash can, I tossed the rest of the chocolates in without a second thought.

I didn’t look back, just thought to myself, how strange.

Why force myself to eat something I don’t even like?

I think that was the last time Julian told me to get out.

Because I wouldn’t show up in front of him again.

When he was 24, I told him that when he turned 25, I’d give him a better birthday gift.

Since he didn’t want the chocolate, I’d give him something else.

I’d disappear from his life—forever.

That was my 25th birthday gift to him.

He should like it.

I got Amy’s call three days later, on Julian’s birthday.

Half a month ago, I’d invited all my friends and planned a big surprise party.

Amy was frantic on the phone, yelling, “No way, Monroe, we’re all here, where are you? Are you still preparing some surprise?”

I looked out the office window. Dusk had fallen. I turned back and said coolly, “I’m not coming. You guys have fun.”

She paused, surprised. “You’re not coming? Really? Are you joking? Am I dreaming? Or is this not Julian’s birthday?”

I smiled, unfazed by her fuss.

Amy didn’t believe me. Before hanging up, she said, “I only came for you. If you’re not here, who cares about him? I’ll tell the others not to bother.”

She paused, then added, “If you’re letting go, stick with it. Don’t say something harsh now and regret it later.”

I said, “I won’t.”

After hanging up, I walked to the window and watched as the city lights came on. I stood there until after midnight.

I didn’t show up, didn’t send Julian a birthday message, and of course, didn’t appear before him.

I just took out my phone and, expressionless, deleted that pinned text thread from my messages.

Maybe I disappeared too quietly.

The first to notice were actually Julian’s fans.

Under the promo Instagram post for his new show, his fans were as sarcastic as ever:

“The new show looks great, already excited.”

“Wow, Julian and Mia really match.”

“Careful what you say or Queen Bee will scold you.”

“They do match. I really don’t get why she keeps clinging to Julian. So annoying, even with all that money.”

“Money makes the world go round. If your Julian marries into a rich family, shouldn’t you be happy?”

“But weird, why hasn’t Queen Bee shown up today? She used to like, comment, and repost all of Julian’s stuff first.”

“Yeah, and on Julian’s birthday last month, she didn’t post anything.”

“Good catch.”

“But you can’t just say they broke up. Queen Bee always kept things low-key about Julian. Maybe she didn’t want to upset girlfriend stans this year, so she didn’t post.”

“……”

This discussion ended when Mia Donovan reposted the promo, saying: Looking forward to the premiere.

Soon after, Julian reposted Mia’s post, also saying: Looking forward to the premiere.

It was a formal, brief phrase, but it was enough to get fans speculating—this was the first time since his debut that Julian had personally reposted a promo for another actor.

I smiled, opened my own Instagram—2,990 posts, all about Julian. What a shrine.

His new shows, events, ads—I reposted every one immediately, even hundreds of posts arguing with his haters.

Julian never responded.

Scrolling down, it’s strange—when I posted and commented, I never felt anything. But now, looking back at 2,990 posts, each one is full of the bitterness and humility of unrequited love.

I can’t believe I lowered myself so much for a man.

I spent an afternoon reading all those posts.

Then I clicked to delete my account.

The Instagram account full of Julian was gone.

I started trending.

A friend sent me a screenshot.

A big headline: “Queen Bee Deactivates: Three Years of Simping Down the Drain?”

I clicked in. The first post was a gossip account listing everything I’d done as a simp for Julian over the years, ending with:

Three years chasing a dream, Queen Bee leaves the industry, deletes her account, vanishes. Is she finally giving up, or is it a ploy to win him back by letting go?

The comments were mostly insults, but also some bystanders watching the drama.

Even though I wasn’t in the spotlight, my own popularity and traffic was no less than any idol.

I laughed it off.

Hollywood never lacks fresh gossip. I gradually faded away, hiding behind the scenes.

I never looked for Julian again, and of course, he never looked for me.

Well, except for one call—I’d blocked his number, so he used another phone to call me. When I answered, his voice was stiff: “Where’s my slate-blue tie?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, polite and gentle.

“But you always took care of my ties. How could you not know?”

I paused, then laughed, still polite: “Mr. Reeves, I’m busy. You can’t call me just because you can’t find a tie. With your influence now, you can buy as many as you want.”

I paused, then added, “Don’t call me again. It’s a hassle to change my number. You know I’m lazy.”

He breathed heavily, was silent for a long time, then hung up.

I think Julian will never call me again.

He’s cold. I held him in my palm for two years, and now, in his eyes, this call was probably a step down for me.

But unfortunately, I only pay for my own feelings.

Once my feelings for him ended, he was nothing to me.

I threw myself back into work, resuming my high and mighty Queen Bee persona.

I attended banquets, bought big IP scripts, picked actors, dealt with agent after agent bringing young, handsome men to pay their respects.

Sometimes, if I saw someone I liked, I’d half-seriously, half-playfully date.

But there was one I dated seriously.

A freshly graduated puppy, sharp-eyed, like a little leopard, full of aggression, and very, very handsome—though in this industry, everyone’s handsome.

The first time I saw him, he was also following his agent to raise a glass.

I sipped my drink, uninterested, until he said, drawling “ma’am” like a dare, “Ma’am, won’t you look up at me?”

I looked up. He smiled at me: “I’m Carter Fox. I’m better looking than Julian Reeves, younger, and I’ll do whatever you want. Want to try me?” Dead serious.

That was interesting. Most deals in this industry are hidden behind glamorous facades—a glance, a brush of fingertips. On the surface, it’s always polite.

But someone looking me in the eye, boldly saying this—he was the first.

I laughed. “Okay.”

At first, it was just for fun. Youth doesn’t last, handsome men are everywhere. I’m just passing through—no need to be loyal to anyone.

Carter was indeed young, obedient, with only one flaw—he was too possessive.

Before my social events, he’d make sure I didn’t sleep all night, then proudly bite my neck like a little leopard, leaving a mark.

We got photographed by the media a few times. I handled the news. He’d glare, aggrieved: “Am I so embarrassing you can’t acknowledge me?”

I was speechless. He was a popular idol. On stage, he made girls scream. I could only soothe him: “Rumors would affect you. You’re still on the rise.”

He didn’t buy it, snapping, “But I want the whole world to know you’re mine.”

Then, suddenly aggrieved, “I’m so clingy, you must find me annoying. But I’m just scared.”

He switched moods like acting, now gritting his teeth: “Those flirty guys out there look at you like wolves, wishing they could have you.”

“You don’t like me. I can only rely on my looks and body to keep you. If you get tired of me, I won’t even see you.”

His words were both aggrieved and fierce and vulnerable. I couldn’t help but soften.

I said, “There’s no one else. Right now, it’s just you.”

He looked at me like he wanted to devour me, his eyes full of raw possessiveness.

Honestly, I was a little moved.

So when we were photographed again, I let it be.

After our relationship went public, as expected, there was a flood of insults against me.

But surprisingly, Carter argued with netizens and fans all night for me.

“Queen Bee, are you even human? How can you go for such a young kid?”—that was the top comment on Carter’s latest Instagram post.

Then Carter pinned it to the top:

“Sorry, I’m the one who chased after her. Also, have you ever seen a 24-year-old kid? By the way, she’s only nine months older than me.”

I didn’t mind, and even comforted him: “Why bother? Their insults don’t hurt me. I don’t even look. Why let your fans get upset over me?”

His dark eyes stared at me stubbornly, as if it was only natural: “I just want to protect you.”

I was stunned.

His face turned red. He turned away: “I know you don’t need it, but I want to protect you. I can’t let others talk about you like that.”

After a while, I stood on tiptoe and patted his head.

He bent down, his tall body bowing, burying his head in my arms:

“In this world, I envy Julian the most. He got all of your love, but used up all your ability to love.”

“I know you don’t love me, but I’ll give you all my ability to love.”

“Trust me.”

I said nothing.

Amy gossiped with me: “Little leopard is pretty good. Aren’t you moved?”

I sipped wine. Carter was right—Julian used up all my ability to love. I couldn’t love anyone else the way I loved him.

I could only say, I don’t dislike Carter.

So I smiled at Amy: “Being moved is enough for me. Amy, now, I just follow my heart. The world is big. As long as I’m happy, that’s enough, right?”

Carter makes me happy, so I keep him around to make myself happy.

Whether it’s people or things, if we fit, we stay. If not, we part. I just follow my heart.

Why dig deeper?

I met Julian again at a big year-end guild awards show.

He was the youngest three-time Best Actor in history—talented, popular, with a huge fanbase.

Everyone in the industry greeted him with smiles and respect—the treatment a superstar deserves.

After the red carpet, we met backstage.

Some media staff, eager for drama, shouted, “Queen Bee, Queen Bee, take a photo with Mr. Reeves!” A boom mic grazed my hair, camera flashes going off.

So I stood beside him gracefully, smiling. After long enough in showbiz, you learn to wear a smile as your first layer of skin, never losing your composure.

But for some reason, as soon as I got close, Julian tensed up.

I acted like nothing happened. When the flash went off and faded, I quickly stepped away and looked up at him.

He happened to look down at me. There was a reason he was so popular—deep features, great bone structure, and when he looked at you, it was as if he held a silent, deep passion. No wonder he drove so many girls crazy.

It was this look that made me fall for him at first sight.

But now, I looked at him like a stranger.

No feelings at all.

He looked at me quietly, gaze fixed.

I nodded at him, cold and distant, then lifted my dress and walked past him.

As I brushed by, the ribbon on my dress swept across his palm. I saw his hand curl as if wanting to grab something, but he didn’t, or maybe it was my imagination.

After that, we never met again.

Until much later, one day, Amy sent me a screenshot.

It was his birthday. Fans, brands, and officials all celebrated him grandly.

The last screenshot was of Julian’s Instagram: “All my expectations for the future ended in the summer when I was 25.”

That post was quickly deleted, but the screenshot spread everywhere.

Everyone was curious. With everything he could want and a bright future, why would Best Actor Julian post something so bleak?

Someone mentioned me in the comments, but it was quickly drowned out.

Carter hugged me from behind.

He bit my neck jealously and asked, “What are you looking at?”

I turned off my phone and kissed his nose.

He instantly became a little leopard putting away his claws, blushing and pretending to be fierce: “Come on, using that trick again.”

I laughed.

All my expectations for the future ended in the summer when I was 25. That’s when everything I pictured went dark.

But that summer, I found my own sun. Claws sheathed.