The Star I Made, The Star I Destroyed

Downstairs, the soft click of an engine shutting off reached me as I folded a freshly dried shirt. My phone screen lit up—a message from property management saying a new luxury car had arrived and needed owner registration. I didn't even need to look to know it was Edward Silva sending it. I've already accepted this kind of "compensation" far too many times. I picked up my phone and unlocked it, only to have a headline notification pop up, covering most of the screen. The headline blares: Edward Silva returns to the apartment late at night with Lillian Sullivan, their intimate behavior sparking rumors of an affair. The photos are crystal clear—Edward wearing the black trench coat I bought him last week, turning sideways to shield Lillian from the swarm of reporters, his tenderness almost unbearable. Lillian Sullivan, a rising starlet and the leading actress in Edward Silva's new drama. I stared at that photo for half a minute, not angry—just numb. As Edward Silva's wife and also his agent, I know better than anyone the bitter truth behind that tender look. My thoughts uncontrollably drifted back seven years. Back then, Edward Silva was just a minor actor, barely managing to snag a role with lines. I had just graduated from the Communication University, clutching the small savings my parents left me, and the property deed to my grandfather's old house, entrusted to me before he passed. He knelt before me, saying he was talented but just needed a break, asking me to help him. He said he loved me, promising that once he made it big, he'd marry me in the spotlight. I believed him. I sold my grandfather's old house—that was my only root in this city. With that money in hand, I ran all over the film and TV companies, worn out my voice, before finally securing him a supporting male lead role. To protect his "single image", we quietly registered our marriage—no wedding, no diamond ring, not even telling a single friend or family member. I became his shadow—both agent and caretaker—handling every little thing at work and covering up the dirty secrets that could never see the light of day. He cheated for the first time in the second year after he hit the spotlight. His affair was with a third-rate, barely-known model, and the paparazzi caught them red-handed. He rushed home in a panic, clutching me as he cried, saying it was just a moment of weakness—that the other person had seduced him. He said he couldn't afford to lose me, and even less the hard-won fame. I pulled every string and spent a fortune just to keep it under wraps. After that, he gave me an expensive necklace, calling it compensation. I accepted it—not because I liked it, but because it was what I was owed. Later, he cheated a few more times. The excuses were almost always the same, but the payoffs got more lavish each time. From necklaces to watches, from handbags to jewels, and now this luxury car. He seems to believe that if he throws enough money at it, he can erase all betrayals and wounds.