A Star's Second Act

My name is Kevin Luke. The year I turned thirty, my marriage to Jennifer Scott came to an end. The moment my pen scraped across the paper, the rustling sound was like a dull blade, slowly carving through my already shattered heart. I withdrew from the entertainment industry—the very place that had carried me from obscurity to dazzling heights—now nothing more than a nightmare I couldn't bear. No more gigs, no fans screaming, no assistant bringing me warm water; only an empty schedule and a screen full of mockery remained. I curl up in a rented room that costs eight hundred a month; the walls are stained with mildew, eerily mirroring my decaying life. The trophy that once symbolized honor, I shoved into a cardboard box and sold off for next to nothing. Jennifer Scott still stands at the pinnacle, wielding power over the entertainment industry. She wears haute couture gowns, sits in VIP seats at major award ceremonies, a cigar balanced between her fingers, her gaze sharp as an eagle's, commanding half the entertainment industry's resources. She personally polished the script for The Long Night and poured in 300 million, forcibly elevating Eric Luke to the Best Performance Award throne. Eric Luke is my half-brother, sharing the same father but never recognized by the Luke family, though secretly supported by our father for twenty years. I watched him accept the trophy on my battered TV in the rented room. The white suit made him look confident, and his features shared a faint resemblance to mine — only his smile carried an ambition far greater than I ever had. Jennifer Scott stood in the front row by the stage, her wine-red velvet gown lending her a soft, lingering grace. That look in her eyes was once mine alone—the gaze she gave when I collapsed from exhaustion in the training room, the pride shining in her eyes when I won my first rookie award. At my lowest, I suffered from severe chronic gastritis, compounded by long-term insomnia that triggered nervous breakdowns, leaving me nothing but skin and bones. At three in the morning, a sudden stabbing pain seized my stomach, like countless needles piercing through. I curled up on the cold floor, cold sweat soaking my thin T-shirt, too weak even to cry for help. There was a soft knock at the door, tentative and cautious. I thought it was the landlord coming to collect rent. Struggling to sit up, my hair was a mess, stomach acid dripping from the corner of my mouth—I looked as pitiful as a stray dog. A strange woman stood outside, wearing a pale blue cotton dress, holding a thermos, her face softened by a gentle smile. "My name's Sunny Lincoln. I live next door in 302. The landlord told me you've been sick and haven't left your place for days." Her voice was like spring rain, falling gently on my dried and cracked heart. I stood frozen, letting her see me at my worst — the crust in the corner of my eyes, the stubble on my chin, the sour, lingering smell on my body. Back then, my assistant would have kept someone like this a hundred meters away. But now, I don't even have the nerve to refuse. She showed no trace of disdain, slipping inside and setting the thermal pot on the bedside table. "I made some millet porridge to soothe your stomach. Have some first," she said, taking out stomach medicine and warm water. "It's a doctor's prescription. I used to have gastritis too; this really works." I instinctively wanted to shake my head, but the cramping pain in my stomach left me no strength to resist. She held my arm gently, carefully helping me sit by the bedside, her touch as delicate as if I were fragile porcelain. The millet porridge was still warm, its faint aroma slipping down my throat and settling in my stomach, bringing a flicker of warmth. I ate ravenously, but tears flowed uncontrollably, mixing with the porridge as I swallowed—both salty and bitter. "Take it slow, no one's rushing you." Sunny Lincoln handed me a tissue, her voice still gentle. I didn't dare look at her, afraid she'd see my vulnerability, so I kept my head down, letting the tears fall freely. After finishing the porridge and taking the medicine, the pain in my stomach eased considerably. Sunny Lincoln cleared the dishes, her gaze scanning the cardboard boxes and clutter in the room, but she didn't say a word.