Chapter 1: Thoughts Out Loud

As a not-so-popular, third-string actress in Hollywood, I've been seriously stressed lately. No, really—I've been going out of my mind. It feels like everyone around me can hear my inner thoughts.

It seems like everyone can hear my inner thoughts. No, seriously. Everyone.

Honestly, it's enough to make me want to crawl under a table and stay there forever. Try walking onto set knowing every snarky thought or random daydream could be blurted out for everyone to hear. My life has become one long cringe.

When a sleazy producer raised a glass to me, I forced a smile and thought to myself,

"Old enough to know better and still can't keep his hands to himself. One day, I'll break those fingers!"

The producer paused mid-toast, then awkwardly pulled his hand back.

I swear, the way he jerked his hand back, you'd think I'd actually said it out loud. He blinked, forced a laugh, and suddenly found something very interesting on the other side of the room. I just kept my smile plastered on, dying inside.

When facing my contract-marriage actor husband, I put on a cold front, but inside I was thinking,

"So damn handsome, but won't let anyone near his abs. That's not how a real man acts!"

He turned to look at me, then silently locked his bedroom door.

He didn't say a word, just gave me this look—half confusion, half embarrassment—then quietly twisted the lock. Classic Grant. I pretended not to notice, but inside I was cackling.

I'm a third-string actress in showbiz, not hot, not cold—just there. The only time I ever trended was when I had a whirlwind courthouse marriage with actor Grant Ellison. After three glorious days on the trending list, I faded right back into obscurity. Even having an actor husband couldn't boost my career. To be fair, Grant never intended to help me climb the ladder, either. After a year of marriage, my relationship with Grant could be summed up in one word: Strangers. Career, marriage, everything was stagnant. What was I even doing?

I kept telling myself it was fine. This was L.A.—plenty of people were in stranger marriages. I had my routines: green juice in the morning, endless auditions, a dog-eared script, and a husband who might as well have been a houseplant for all we talked. But I couldn't help feeling like I was stuck on a treadmill going nowhere.

I thought life would just go on like this, but recently, something seems to have gone wrong. The trouble started at a wrap party a week ago. The reality show I was on became a hit thanks to two quick-witted actors, so the producer threw a party. As one of the least popular cast members, I sensibly sat in the farthest corner. At the party, glasses clinked and people talked shop, while I just focused on eating. In my mind, I thought:

"This meatball is amazing—so juicy and flavorful. While they're distracted, I'll grab another one!"

Then I noticed several people around me freeze. Almost at the same time, three forks reached for the same plate of meatballs.

"It really is good."

The staffer next to me smiled shyly and nodded.

Why is she saying that to me?

I was confused, but just smiled back.

The meatballs were the only thing keeping me sane. Suddenly, I was part of an impromptu meatball appreciation society. The staffer looked at me like we'd just shared a secret. I nodded back, chewing slowly, wondering if I'd missed some inside joke.

Across from me, the producer—drunk and red-faced—grabbed a female actor's hand and wouldn't let go. People around him awkwardly tried to get him to stop, and he finally did. But after a glance, the greasy old producer spotted me. He pushed aside the person helping him, holding his wine glass and staring straight at me, slurring,

"This success is thanks to our Mariah. Come on, let me toast Mariah!"

The producer staggered over, mouth twisted in a weird grin. With everyone watching, I had no choice but to stand up with my wine glass.

"Thank you, Mr. Baxter."

"How could I!"

As he said that, he reached out and grabbed the back of my hand,

"You've worked hard. The audience loves you—it's a team effort."

My mouth twitched, and I quickly pulled my hand away, splashing wine on the floor. On the outside, I smiled politely at the greasy old fox, but inside I cursed:

"Old enough to know better and still can't control his hands. One day, I'll break those fingers!"

The party went silent for a few seconds. The producer's smile froze, and he awkwardly pulled his hand back,

"Had too much to drink, my head's spinning. I'll skip this glass."

You could hear a pin drop. For a split second, everyone stared at us, then conversation started up again—forced, brittle laughter. I dabbed my hand with a napkin, pretending nothing happened, but my hand shook. I felt like I'd just dodged a bullet.

My assistant's Prius was waiting at the hotel entrance. I made a token farewell to everyone and left. At that party, I somehow attracted a lot of attention, and several A- and B-list actors added me on Instagram. The straight-shooting actress Camila Torres, known for her honesty, even grabbed my hand excitedly before leaving, like we'd been friends forever,

"Mariah, let's keep in touch from now on."

I'd eaten too much and felt sick, so I nodded quickly and hurried home to find some Pepto-Bismol. My stomach was churning so bad I could practically taste regret.

Camila's energy was infectious, and for a second, I almost believed I was one of the cool kids. But the moment I got outside, the fresh air hit me and my stomach rebelled. I barely made it into the car before groaning, "Drive, drive, drive!" all the way home.

Click. I turned on the lights. Grant Ellison, wearing a bathrobe and still steaming from his shower, was just out of the bathroom. His robe was half open. Abs. Right there. I couldn't help staring. The robe was loosely tied, and he looked surprised to see me, freezing in place.

"Damn, he's doing this on purpose, showing off just to make me look!"

Grant's expression stiffened, and he quickly wrapped his bathrobe tighter, not showing an inch of skin.

"You're back?"

His tone was so polite, we might as well have been strangers.

I couldn't see anything anymore, so I regretfully looked away and thought,

"We're already married, still hiding? Lame."

But I kept my face blank and replied calmly,

"Yeah."

My overstuffed stomach started acting up again, so I frowned and hurried past him to find medicine.

"Hurts so much—must've been a pig in my last life to eat this much now!"

I closed the door, finally unable to stand it, and bent over in pain. My lips turned white from biting them, and of course, at that moment, the medicine was nowhere to be found. I shakily picked up my phone, planning to ask my assistant to grab me some medicine.

I could barely see straight, rooting through drawers and muttering curses. Typical—when you need it, it's gone. My hands were shaking as I texted my assistant, already picturing her groggy reply.

Knock knock. There was a knock at the door. Grant stood outside.

"I saw you looked uncomfortable—stomach pain? I have some medicine here."

I gave in and opened the door for Grant.

He stood there holding a little white box and a glass of water, looking almost shy. It was the first time in forever he’d actually come to my room, and somehow, the gesture made my heart skip. I let him in, trying not to look too grateful.

This was probably the first time in our year of marriage that Grant entered my room. He must have rushed over with the medicine, not even bothering to change out of his bathrobe. I took the familiar box and swallowed the pills with the warm water he handed me.

"How do you feel? If it's serious, I can take you to the ER."

The medicine hadn't kicked in yet. I leaned against the bed, looking at Grant, who was frowning, a hint of worry in his eyes. Whether it's acting, looks, or physique, he's outstanding, and his face is so striking it's almost intimidating. The more perfect he seemed, the more mischievous my thoughts got:

"I want to run my hand down his abs~ He's my medicine—just a touch and I'll be cured."

But of course, I kept that to myself. "I'm much better, no need to go to the ER."

Under the light, Grant's face gradually turned red. He avoided my gaze in a panic, wrapping his bathrobe even tighter. Like he was the one being bullied.

But I didn't notice any of this, still daydreaming about his abs:

"Grant's skin must feel amazing—so smooth."

"A man's abs are meant to be touched by women! So handsome, but won't let me touch—what kind of man is that? Seriously, what is his deal?"

"Since I'm so close, when should I sneak into his room at night to touch him?"

Grant shuddered, frozen in place. By the time I finished daydreaming, his face was bright red.

"Are you hot?"

"N-no."

Grant put away the medicine box, then seemed to realize something. "If you're fine, I'll go now."

"Don't go, babe~ If you leave, I'll be so sad."

Grant almost tripped over his own feet as he left the room.

His awkwardness just seemed like more proof of how distant we were.

To distract myself, I played games with friends until late at night, but lost five times in a row. Losing points made me mad, so I decided to get a glass of water.

I picked up my cup and left the room. The door to Grant's room next door was ajar, a sliver of light shining through.

"Got it, this is a special kind of invitation—means I can just walk into Grant's room and ravage him!"

I thought to myself as I poured water, totally oblivious to how loud my thoughts were in the dead-quiet night.

The night breeze rustled the curtains. I finished pouring water and was about to leave when I saw Grant reach out and silently push his door open even wider.

The way he pushed the door open, so slow and deliberate, I could almost hear a soundtrack swelling in the background. My heart did a somersault—was this my chance, or was I hallucinating?

I paused on my way back to my room with the water cup. My phone kept buzzing—friends urging me to get back online. But I didn't answer, completely distracted by the half-open door. The room was dim, the curtains fluttering, cold air from the AC swirling around my feet. But I'm all talk and no action—I've imagined 800 ways to ravage Grant. When the chance comes? I chicken out.

"What's going on? Is he testing if I have any dirty thoughts about him?"

I was confused.

"Could it be that one night I talked in my sleep and he heard me fantasizing about him?"

"Oh god! I really just looked at Grant's abs a few more times—my heart is pure!"

The room was completely silent.

Out of friendly concern for Grant, I pushed open the door and walked in. He had only a dim lamp on, wearing pajamas, leaning against the bed, his slender waist exposed. Pale skin, eyes closed. Like Prince Charming waiting for a kiss. Just opened the door, and already asleep?

I couldn't figure it out, afraid to make noise and wake him, so I stood awkwardly by his bed, not knowing whether to stay or go.

Seeing me hesitate, Grant pulled up his pajama top, revealing even more. Usually talkative, I was tongue-tied.

"Um... are you too hot?"

Too hot, so you pulled up your shirt and opened the door? Could he be doing this on purpose?

Everyone online says Grant's pure, practically a saint. He's upright, sincere, never says pretty words—everything comes from the heart. Since marrying him, I've noticed in the little things that he's genuinely sincere. So I never imagined someone like Grant would quietly open his door, lift his shirt, and wait for me to come in.

Must be too hot!

"I'll open the window for you. It's cool at night—you don't need the AC."

Grant answered softly.

When I finished opening the window and turned back, he was already under the covers, only half an ear showing—red as a tomato.

"How can it be so hot?"

I shook my head, didn't think more of it, and left with my water cup.

Walking back to my room, I couldn't help but replay the scene in my mind. Maybe it was just the LA heat—or maybe something else was simmering under the surface, something neither of us was quite ready to admit.

For the next few days, I didn't see Grant at all. He'd gone to Portland to film a commercial. When he came back, I had to be a guest on a live reality show. Before leaving, I texted Grant,

"The spare key is under the shoe rack. Use it if you forget yours."

He was probably filming and didn't reply right away. This reality show had tons of popular young actors, and as one of the less noticeable guests, I just had to eat and play along. No need to worry about looking bad on camera; honestly, the camera might not even catch me much. Plus, the producers deliberately set up conflicts between the big stars to stir up drama, which had nothing to do with me. I was just there for the show.

Honestly, I was just happy for the free snacks and the chance to sit in the background. No pressure, no spotlight, just a paycheck and a break from my own thoughts.

As soon as the live broadcast started, top star Sebastian Reed and popular actor Tyler Cruz started arguing. They stood in front of the shelves, sniping at each other over who would help Camila Torres carry her stuff.

"Camila is on our team, of course I'll help her—no need for you to butt in."

Sebastian held onto the bag, snorting,

"I've worked with Cami before, we're close. Some people shouldn't try so hard."

"I'm just helping out—how is that trying too hard?"

"No need for you to help right now."

I cracked sunflower seeds and watched the drama, even crossing my legs, thinking,

"One's wearing at least four-inch lifts, the other's arms and legs are skinnier than the chicken wings I ate last night—what are they even fighting about?"

The two guys let go of the bag at the same time and looked over at me.

I thought they were looking at Camila, who was sitting in front of me, so I kept eating seeds, even happier.

"This Sebastian claims he's six feet—who'd believe it? Even if I wear flats, he's only an inch taller than me."

"Not tall, and petty. Who said he cut the second male lead's scenes before?"

"And this Tyler—pretends to be a fitness guy, but lost all his muscle, just has fat left. Hilarious."

"Even with concealer, his dark circles can't be hidden. Look how weak he looks."

The room fell into an awkward silence, and the cameraman, not wanting to miss out, quietly turned the camera on me.

In the livestream chat, Sebastian and Tyler's fans were fighting at first, but after hearing this, everyone was stunned:

"Who was talking just now, Mariah?"

"It's Mariah! How dare she, saying all those harsh truths."

"Love her or hate her, she's still trending. Mariah's not pretending anymore, huh?"

......

Camila tugged my hand, shaking her head slowly, afraid I'd be targeted.

I didn't get it, so I leaned in and asked, "Do you want me to help you carry it?"

We'd been on two shows together, and I liked her, so of course I agreed.

I got up, walked over happily, "Wait here, I'll get it for you."

With everyone watching, I squeezed between Sebastian and Tyler—both looking annoyed—and took Camila's bag.

"Here."

"Two grown men bickering, all talk and no action. Took forever just to get a bag."

Camila couldn't help but laugh.

Even the live chat was full of laughter:

"She's got a sharp tongue! So good at roasting."

"Saying this right in front of them—does Mariah have a powerful backer? Not afraid of being targeted?"

"Her biggest backer is her husband, Oscar-winner Grant, but after a year of marriage, she still hasn't gotten any roles from him."

The producer, sensing something, kept three cameras on me for the rest of the show.

With the camera right on me, I put my leg down and started acting proper. During the break, the second the camera turned away, I slouched right back down.

I could feel the heat of the spotlight on me, the kind that makes you sweat even in air conditioning. I wiped my palms on my jeans. The second the camera light went off, I melted like a popsicle in July.

"Mariah."

Camila came over, naturally linking her arm with mine, and whispered:

"This is a live broadcast, better keep it low-key. Sebastian and Tyler aren't easy to deal with—be careful they don't give you a hard time."

What did I even say?

As a third-string actress, no one—guests or hosts—had really talked to me.

I was confused, but still thanked Camila for her kindness.

Sebastian, sitting in the front row, turned and glared at me, rolling his eyes.

My mouth twitched. I started to get what Camila meant.

It's not about saying a lot, but about saying things too bluntly.

I didn't flatter them, so here we are.

So when the live resumed, I turned into a flatterer.

I put on my best pageant smile and started handing out compliments like candy at Halloween. If you can't beat 'em, butter 'em up, right?

Sebastian stood on tiptoe to reach a water balloon.

I looked sincere, "Wow, Mr. Reed is so handsome—must be at least 6'3", right?"

Tyler did some sword moves he learned on set.

I clapped, "So cool! Mr. Cruz's arms are so strong, he could lift two of me, no problem."

But as soon as the camera turned away, Tyler made a throat-slitting gesture at me, mouthing, "Just you wait." He didn't say whether to wait sitting or standing.

Unpopular actresses have no rights; if he tells me to wait, I go find a spot and sit down.

After a while, I got bored and started counting heads.

Then the producer in the audience winked at me, signaling me to look at the door.

I turned and locked eyes with Grant, who had just walked in wearing a trench coat.

No idea how the producer pulled it off, but he actually got Grant—who never does reality TV—to show up.

The chat exploded, the screen flooded with Grant's name, and viewership shot up.

That's when it hit me—they wanted to milk the couple angle for ratings.

In a year of marriage, I'd never appeared in public with Grant.

Some said we were so low-key it was weird; others speculated our relationship had changed.

The production team clearly had an agenda, going to such lengths to get us together.

Who would believe that Grant and I are basically strangers?

Seeing me in the corner, Grant's expression changed slightly.

The cameraman, sharp-eyed, cut from Grant to me.

The way they edited our glances looked especially ambiguous and lingering.

"I didn't expect we'd get Oscar-winner Grant this time."

The host acted surprised, smoothly shifting the topic to us as a couple, winking,

"Must be thanks to our Mariah."

Denying it now would be a slap in the face to the production team.

I stood up and gave Grant a shy smile,

"Why are you here?"

He was the biggest star there, so naturally he was pushed to the center.

I was on the edge, turning to smile at him.

Seeing this, Grant calmly stepped out from between Sebastian and Tyler, naturally took my hand, and stood by my side.

"I came to see you."

As he got closer, his breath brushed my ear, voice gentle.

"It's all just an act."

I scoffed inwardly,

"Mariah, don't fall for it—Grant looks at a dog with the same deep affection."

Grant's hand holding mine stiffened, and he leaned in as if to say something.

The host brought us to center stage.

"I'm sure the audience is curious—how did Mariah and Oscar-winner Grant meet?"

"Next, let's have them share: in love, what little details about each other made you choose one another."

This segment was awkward and boring.

The production team hadn't told me in advance, so I had to make it up on the spot. What could I even say?

But the host didn't give us a chance to answer.

He pressed his earpiece, his expression changing slightly.

The live broadcast was suddenly cut off.