Chapter 2: The Meatball Incident

The crew scattered like startled pigeons, and I could feel the tension in the air. Something was up, and it wasn't just a technical glitch. My stomach twisted.

"Mr. Ellison, Mariah, please come rest over here."

A staff member came to calm everyone down.

Before leaving the stage, I noticed Sebastian smirking in the corner.

Back in the green room, my heart was still pounding, my whole body tense.

My manager was nowhere to be found, and my phone was with her.

"Don't panic."

Grant noticed my nerves.

"Maybe it's a technical issue—nothing major."

I'd like to believe that, but Sebastian's expression made me uneasy.

Watching Grant pull out his phone, I scooted closer.

"Let me see, too."

We squeezed together on a small single chair, very close.

But the moment I leaned in, Grant went stiff all over.

"Enter the password."

I handed the phone back to him.

"Password is 0822."

He didn't take it, his ears turning red.

0822?

It sounded familiar, but I didn't think more about it.

I shrugged it off, but a little voice in the back of my mind wondered why that number made my heart skip. I let it go, for now.

The latest news was all on Twitter.

Now, Grant's account was basically frozen.

Messages poured in, instantly buried by new ones.

All were advice and comfort.

The top trending topic was:

"Mariah suspected of high school bullying."

The attached photo was an old, blurry one.

Wearing a torn jacket, I leaned against a wall, looking rebellious, while a younger Grant squatted, holding my foot, half his face showing.

I looked impatient, one hand raised as if to hit his shoulder.

This was from high school.

Back then, I was a bit of a troublemaker, fantasizing about saving the world. I jumped off the school bleachers and hurt my leg.

Though in the same class, I hadn't spoken much to Grant, who just happened to pass by.

He squatted to check my injury, but I was in pain and stubbornly turned my head away.

Unexpectedly, the media twisted the photo.

The old photo was dug up and instantly became "evidence."

Within minutes, a flood of negative trending topics filled the top three spots.

One scolded me, one accused Grant of being manipulated by me, and one pretended to be neutral but was actually full of criticism.

The comments were overwhelmingly negative—fans and bystanders who spoke for me got flamed.

"How could Grant love someone who bullied him? Does he have Stockholm syndrome?"

"Knew something was off—flash marriage, never interact."

"Mariah, get out of the entertainment industry!"

......

But right then, my manager and my phone were missing, so I couldn't even log in to defend myself.

"Let me."

Grant pursed his lips, took back the phone, and cleared all messages with one tap.

"This isn't really about you—they're targeting me."

I held his hand, hoping he wouldn't act rashly.

Grant slowly shook his head, his tone firm.

"They're using me to attack you. If I don't step up, no one will believe your explanation."

He squeezed my hand, his palm warm and steady. For the first time, I felt like I wasn't fighting alone. The storm outside faded, just for a moment. Relief.

In the small lounge, the temperature seemed to rise. I sat on the other side, watching Grant start a livestream. At such a critical moment, within minutes, viewers soared and comments flooded in:

"Grant! If you're being controlled, blink twice!"

"I'm not being controlled."

He replied slowly, addressing every skeptical comment.

"I proposed to Mariah."

"That photo wasn't bullying—she hurt her foot, I was checking it."

Grant had a calming effect, and soon the doubts in the comments faded.

I also used a staff member's phone to contact our high school homeroom teacher, who agreed to vouch for us. And got the rest of the photos from that day:

I was crying from the pain, and Grant stood by helplessly, comforting me.

In the livestream, Grant and I appeared together, sitting very close. With both our clarifications and solid evidence, the rumors gradually died down.

Until someone shouted in the comments,

"If you're a real couple, kiss for us!"

I ignored it, but soon all the comments were,

"If you're a real couple, kiss right now!"

Awkwardness filled the lounge.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Grant's face turn red.

"It's just a kiss—what's there to be embarrassed about."

I muttered to myself, but knowing Grant, he probably wouldn't...

Suddenly, I felt a light touch on my cheek, gone in an instant.

I turned in surprise. Grant avoided my gaze nervously, "Nothing to be embarrassed about."

He was clearly the nervous one, but pretended to be calm, "Just a kiss."

Sure, Grant. Just a kiss.

The livestream ended, and the room fell quiet again.

Grant looked lost, clutching his clothes tightly.

"Sorry, I was too rash—did I offend you?"

I waved it off, pretending not to care. "It's fine, it's just a kiss."

"Damn! Didn't even get to enjoy it—why didn't he keep kissing?"

I sat on the sofa, pretending to read a magazine, but was itching inside.

"Does Grant like me? If he does, why just one kiss? If he doesn't, why kiss me at all?"

"Damn man, playing hard to get—pretending to be a pure little fox?"

"One day I'll catch him and kiss him until his lips are swollen!"

Grant coughed lightly, his fingers curling unconsciously.

"Then, how about another kiss?"

My mind exploded. I turned in disbelief, "You can hear what I'm thinking?" No wonder Camila warned me to watch what I said, and Sebastian and Tyler looked at me so coldly. So they all heard me! Does that mean all my bold thoughts about Grant were heard by him? I looked at Grant. He hesitated, then nodded. I can't stay on this planet anymore. I need to move to Mars.

I slumped in my chair, staring at the ceiling at a forty-five degree angle. People hearing my thoughts must have started at the wrap party. In these days, I've probably offended at least eight or ten people. The one I offended most is probably Grant. Wanting to touch his abs, sneaking into his room at night. Thought all sorts of things, appropriate or not. But that day, after Grant heard my thoughts, why did he open the door himself? Could it be...

Grant sat up straight, reading the newspaper. My gaze swept over, and his fingers clenched instantly.

"That day, it really was just too hot."

"I don't believe you."

He hid behind the newspaper, but the tips of his ears were bright red. I couldn't help but smirk.

My manager finally showed up and handed me my phone.

"Sorry, Mariah. Something came up at home, I had to leave."

"Didn't answer calls or messages, disappeared with the assistant, then reappeared as soon as things were resolved. You think I'll buy that?"

I took my phone. I'd seen tricks like this before, but I didn't expect to be betrayed by both my manager and assistant one day.

She wiped her sweat, apologizing over and over.

"Don't overthink it, nothing major happened."

"If I'm not mistaken, the five-year contract is almost up, right?"

I crossed my arms.

"I'll be going to the agency soon to talk."

My manager's face turned pale, and she said nothing more.

I could practically see the gears turning in her head—damage control mode. But I was done playing nice.

But for the next few weeks, it was like I was being iced out. Hollywood can freeze you out faster than a broken AC. The drama I was cast in replaced me at the last minute, the reality show never aired. I tried auditioning a few times, but was always rejected. Grant heard about my situation and gently told me his crew still needed a supporting actress, but I declined. That producer who pretended to be drunk and groped me at the party even called, condescendingly offering me a minor role. I cursed him out on the spot.

Until Camila messaged, "Mariah, are you free? Come help!"

Her crew was supposed to start in three days, but one actress broke her leg and couldn't make it. I needed to play a venomous villainess who abuses the male lead. Not the most skilled, but great at being mean. I gladly accepted, dragging my little suitcase to join the crew.

It felt good to be wanted for once. I packed up, grabbed my lucky hoodie, and headed out. Maybe things were finally looking up.

Coincidentally, Grant's crew was right next door.

"Mariah, he's here again."

Camila signaled with her eyes.

Since I joined, Grant would often come by, bringing cold drinks for everyone. He kept glancing my way, watching eagerly, but never coming over.

"I'll go see."

I couldn't help but smile, but forced it down. I deliberately put on a stern face and walked over.

"Mr. Ellison, why do you keep sneaking looks at me?"

After realizing people could hear my thoughts, I gradually understood that Grant might really have feelings for me. The half-open pajamas, the quietly opened door, our wedding anniversary as his lock screen password. The livestream at the height of the scandal, rushing to the reality show to rescue me, and my favorite cheese grape drink delivered to the whole crew. His affection was always silent, but once I noticed, it was overwhelming. How did I miss it before?

The little things added up—every time I looked, there was another sign. It was like finding a secret love note tucked in every pocket. I let out a slow breath, heart fluttering.

Under the fake cherry tree on set, Grant could barely look me in the eye.

"I wasn't sneaking looks."

"Oh, really didn't look?"

I tiptoed closer to his face.

"Look at me and say it—did you really not look?"

As we got closer, I could see the tiny hairs on his face. His long lashes fluttered, sending a little breeze across my face. After a few seconds, Grant closed his eyes and surrendered.

"I looked."

The shyer he was, the more mischievous I got.

"Tell me, why did you look? Could it be you like me?"

Half joking, half serious, I looked into his eyes, not sure what I was hoping for.

"I've always liked you."

Grant didn't dodge. His eyes were clear, reflecting only me.

"Always liked you."

His words hit me like a tidal wave—sudden, overwhelming, and impossible to ignore. For a second, the whole set faded away.

All words caught in my throat.

A year ago, I went through the darkest time of my life. My parents died in a car accident, the agency cut my scenes and tried to force me into submission. In the industry, I was mediocre—just getting to borrow clothes from brands was humiliating. Until, by chance, I ran into my high school classmate, now triple-award-winning actor Grant Ellison. I was the one sitting in the corner, ignored by everyone. He was the center of attention, the focus of the spotlight. When he saw me again, he paused mid-toast. I never thought we'd have any connection. But soon after, he handed me a contract. Grant could help me resolve agency and set disputes—all I had to do was sign and agree to a contract marriage.

A sure-win deal. I looked at him warily.

"What do I have to do for you?"

He tapped his knuckles on the table.

"Just don't slip up in front of the camera."

I checked the contract a dozen times, made sure there were no traps, then signed and moved into his house. He kept his word and settled my disputes. Except when asked about him, I never mentioned his name, never used his fame. Back then, I never imagined my own inner voice would betray me. And Grant, it turned out, was hiding his true feelings.

Looking back, I realized I wasn't the only one hiding behind a script. We were both playing roles, too scared to say our lines out loud.

After wrapping up my villain role, I went to the agency that night. Announced I wouldn't renew my contract.

"Since signing, I've never gotten good roles from the agency—just leftovers no one else wanted. Eight out of ten roles I got myself, two from directors I'd worked with before, and the agency even tried to set me up?"

Facing the boss, I threw down the trending data and evidence of paid trolls from that day. A thick stack of printouts. My manager and assistant stayed silent, shrinking to the side.

"I thought, even if the agency didn't help, at least it wouldn't hurt me, but the evidence is right here. I can't just let it go."

The boss wiped sweat from his forehead.

"All small matters, I'll punish them. And you didn't get into trouble, right?"

I sneered, "Small matters?"

My manager knew about the contract marriage. They figured Grant wouldn't get involved, and with my phone gone, I couldn't clarify, letting the rumors run wild. In the end, black became white, and I couldn't clear my name.

"I have only one request: terminate the contract, or this evidence—"

I raised my phone, "—goes public."

The boss caved, of course. Hollywood runs on secrets, and I had enough to make them sweat. I walked out of there feeling ten pounds lighter.

Leaving the agency, Grant called at just the right time.

"Did it go smoothly?"

"Yeah. Thanks for helping me find the evidence—otherwise those shameless people would never have admitted it."

On the other end, Grant sounded clearly relieved.

"That's good."

"But I still feel like something's off."

I told him my guess.

"That photo wasn't found by the agency—I still don't know who released it. I think that producer is suspicious."

That greasy producer I called an 'old man' at the party even messaged me recently, smugly. Told me to beg him, maybe he'd give me a supporting role.

"Okay, I'll have someone check."

Grant paused, then finally asked,

"Are you coming home tonight?"

"Do you want me to come home?"

I tried not to smile as I asked back.

"Yes."

Grant was surprisingly direct, blurting it out.

"Then I'll come home."

After hanging up, I stopped smiling and started looking up Tyler's recent activities. It takes two to tango—one producer isn't enough to make my agency swallow this.

I was done being a pawn. If they wanted to play dirty, so could I. Time to play hardball.

Sure enough, the info I found matched what Grant sent me. Before that reality show taping, Tyler was photographed having dinner with the greasy producer. He was once considered Grant's successor—similar features, even called 'Little Grant.' Funny thing is, he's two years older than Grant. He saw Grant as a rival, but Grant never even noticed him. The greasy producer held a grudge against me, so after dinner, they teamed up to target us. As for Sebastian, he was just a pawn—a distraction.

"What do you want to do?"

Grant handed me a glass of warm water.

"Of course, fight fire with fire."

I took the water.

"They can twist photos, so can I."

I grinned, finally feeling like I had the upper hand. Hollywood loves a comeback story, and this time, I was writing my own.

At 8pm, prime time. A photo appeared out of nowhere and shot up the trending list in half an hour. Tyler and the greasy producer, arms around each other, walking into a hotel. The headline was suggestive, making both of them furious. Tyler, copying me and Grant, started a livestream to clarify. All I wanted was for him to go live and expose himself.

In the livestream, Tyler even brought the greasy producer, both frowning like they were terribly wronged.

"It's all made up. Paparazzi have nothing to report, so they make things up."

"Me and Mr. Baxter are clean. We were talking about projects, got drunk, he was helping me."

But neither could provide any evidence. Tyler frowned, getting irritated.

"We were talking about work. We're both men—what else could we be doing?"

The comments went silent for a moment, then exploded, completely out of control.

"What's going on?"

The greasy producer's eyelid twitched. He pulled out his phone—the trending list was full of evidence. He'd cut actors' scenes, harassed actresses at parties. Tyler had scandals, too—cursing veterans in the green room, bullying extras... Their faces turned pale, unable to hide on camera, and they finally ended the stream in shame. They stayed on the trending list for two days, their clarifications getting more desperate and ridiculous. In the end, Tyler announced his retirement, the greasy producer was arrested for harassment. As for Sebastian, he deleted his account and disappeared.

Watching their downfall from my couch, I couldn't help but feel a little poetic justice. For once, the bad guys didn't win. About time, too.

Online, the drama kept going. After the show, sharp-eyed viewers noticed that everyone who got in trouble had been roasted by me.

"Mariah is the heroine of a revenge novel—three problematic stars quit after she showed up."

"Not gonna lie, Mariah can really roast, and always delivers."

"Share this Mariah—drive away the bad guys!"

......

The crew took advantage of the buzz to release behind-the-scenes clips. Grant and I stood under the cherry blossom tree. I looked calm in red and black, my eye makeup seductive—a true villainess. Grant in white, ethereal, his ears red, like a righteous young man being seduced by me.

"Female A, male O in Hollywood—I'm hooked."

"Can you two star in a movie together?"

"Please, give me Mariah's mouth, and a pure little husband like Grant!"

I laughed out loud at these comments while sitting on the sofa. I nearly spilled my popcorn. Grant, confused, brought me some fruit and tilted his head slightly.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing."

I turned my phone over, not letting him see those bold comments. He naturally sat next to me. I leaned over, listening to his heartbeat.

"Can you still hear my thoughts now?"

Ever since I realized people could hear my thoughts, I've been much more careful, not daring to think too wildly.

Grant shook his head. "Can't hear them anymore."

"Then guess what I'm thinking now?"

Suddenly wanting to tease him, I leaned in, tracing my finger from his nose to his Adam's apple, then to his chest...

"No need to guess."

Grant caught my mischievous hand, his voice low and serious.

"You'll tell me everything."

Grant's love? Turns out, it really is the real deal.