Chapter 3: Venice Beach and the Breaking Point

During the Q&A session at the fan event, a reporter asked Mason, “If you had a time machine and could change the past, what moment would you go back to?”

Mason looked up, glancing lazily at the reporter, as if her question had finally piqued his interest.

He rarely answered reporters’ questions, but now a faint, teasing smile appeared on his lips.

“If I could go back, I’d definitely skip Venice Beach and not let you guys catch us there.”

Venice Beach was where we’d first been photographed together—the moment our secret marriage started unraveling, after a year of hiding. That was the beginning of the end.

From that day on, the internet was flooded with negative press about me. I lived in constant fear, not even sure what I was afraid of.

It felt like being trapped in hell.

The world closed in around me. Even grocery shopping became a risk. I’d wear sunglasses and hats, but someone always recognized me, whispering as I passed. I started to dread the sound of my own name.

Mason and I were high school classmates, but only started dating in college.

Freshman year, I pursued him—chasing after a cold, aloof guy took a lot of effort.

Whenever we fought, he never apologized; I was always the one to give in first.

He wrote a lot of hit love songs, but he never really understood what it meant to actually love someone.

Sophomore year, he sang “Typhoon,” a song he composed and I wrote the lyrics for, at the freshman welcome party.

That clean-cut boy in a white shirt went viral online.

That was the day he signed with an agency and officially launched his career.

After graduation, we got married at city hall.

But we never went public. I remember the secrecy—how it stung, how it was supposed to protect us but only made me feel invisible.

He’d hold me from behind, kissing my shoulder, his voice low and rough, a little hoarse:

“I still don’t know how to protect you. When I figure it out, we’ll go public, okay?”

His kisses started out gentle, then grew more intense, as if he was trying to fill the space between us with everything he couldn’t say out loud. It always left me breathless.

I never got the wedding on the cliff, never wore the white dress only a bride can wear.

Later, he got busier and busier, coming home less and less.

His time was always swallowed up by work.

When we were photographed together, rumors about him and a popular actress were everywhere.

I became the homewrecker and the “fake-innocent, pick-me” in the eyes of his shippers.

His agent, Tyler Monroe, said, “A genius like Mason Hale could never belong to just one person.”

For the first time, the always-calm Mason lost his temper in front of the media.

“Any fans threatening to leave because I got married, just go. I won’t stop you.”

“You’re spreading lies about her. It’s unfair. She’s not a public figure. She never sold her privacy to you.”

But his words only made the fans angrier.

And I became the perfect punching bag for all that rage.

After being cursed so much, I started to go numb.

Beep! Beep beep beep!

A car horn blared behind me, making me jump. My heart clenched. I turned, and a runaway truck was barreling straight toward me.

Bang!

Just before I lost consciousness, I forced myself to send Mason one last voice message.

“Remember to eat well. Don’t overwork yourself.”

“If your ankylosing spondylitis flares up, don’t act tough. If you’re in pain, say so. Don’t keep it in just to keep up appearances. If you don’t speak up, how will anyone know even a genius like Mason Hale can hurt?”

“If only you weren’t Mason Hale. That would be so much better.”

Our last chat had been a month ago.

I’d practically begged him:

“Can we just have a normal relationship?”

“Like when we first started, like any ordinary couple in the world.”

“You could take me on your motorcycle to the county fair for our favorite funnel cake, not just one bite before running off when we get spotted, leaving me behind.”

“After dinner, we could walk hand-in-hand to the movies, sit together, and if I get scared, you could cover my eyes; if I get excited, I could hold your hand; if I get tired, I could lean on your shoulder, not sit so far away.”

“If it snows after the movie, we could walk through it together, until your hair turns white, until mine does too. Not just go home, sleep, and rush off again, leaving me alone when I wake up.”

He never replied.

If he can’t do something, he never promises it.