Chapter 4: Lies, Scars, and Public Judgment

But he just stood there, unmoving, his dark eyes locked on me.

“Emily,” he called softly. “What if I said I regret it?”

I froze for a second.

I turned my back, avoiding his gaze, and replied calmly:

“That’s your problem.”

Evan left.

The room was quiet again, but I couldn’t sleep.

Painful and humiliating memories came flooding back, suffocating me.

On our wedding night, Evan grabbed my wrist and pushed me into the bedroom.

My hair spilled across the white sheets, dark against the stark white.

He half-knelt beside me, his fingertips brushing my cheek. But his eyes looked right past me, seeing someone else in his memory.

Suddenly, he withdrew his hand. Then he pressed his palm against mine, forcibly interlacing our fingers.

At the time, I clung to a tiny sliver of hope—maybe he didn’t really see me as a substitute?

But the next second, reality hit me hard.

He raised his phone, and in that intimate pose, took a few photos.

I asked him quietly, “Evan, what are you doing?”

Before I finished, I saw a familiar name—SavLee.

He sent those photos to Savannah.

And added: “Aren’t you going to wish me a happy wedding?”

In that instant, I felt all the blood in my body freeze.

When I came to, Evan was already standing by the bed, fully dressed, sneering:

“Aren’t you getting up? Do you want me to touch you that badly?”

Humiliated, I blushed and rushed out.

After that, I didn’t sleep all night, curled up under the covers crying. The next day, my eyes were puffy and red.

Evan just pretended not to see.

I thought, maybe I’d never forget that night for the rest of my life.

When I finally pulled myself out of those memories, it was already dawn.

When I arrived on set, I saw Evan, who had come back. Maybe he hadn’t left at all.

“Babe, good morning.”

His smile was eager and hopeful.

But I ignored him and walked straight into the dressing room, my chest tight.

Not long after, the director came in.

“Hey, Emily, you’re here!”

Then he caught himself and quickly corrected it:

“No, now I should call you Mrs. Callahan.”

If this had happened before, I would have been thrilled to hear that title. Now, all I felt was irritation.

“Mr. Callahan is available. I’d like to invite him for a cameo. We’ll add two scenes for you to act together, to stir up some buzz.”

After he finished, the director looked at me expectantly.

I paused, flipping through the script. My eyes landed on the two newly added scenes—a hugging scene and a kissing scene.

Of course. This roundabout approach is exactly Evan’s style.

The contract was already signed, and the addendum said actors had to accept reasonable and necessary script changes from the creative team.

I couldn’t afford the penalty for breaching the contract.

Helpless, I called Evan in.

He showed up carrying a Starbucks coffee in one hand and my favorite bagel in the other.

He stood in front of me, looking a little too proud of himself.

“Babe, are you hungry?”

I didn’t take the breakfast—just pushed the script in front of him.

I got straight to the point:

“Evan, what do you want?”

I thought he’d act pitiful like last night, try to trick me into softening, but he just gave a low chuckle.