On camera, her eyes were swollen from crying, her makeup faintly smudged for dramatic effect. She leaned against Lucas’s shoulder, the picture of fragile devotion. He, sitting in his wheelchair, appeared pained yet dignified.
Together, they recited their well-rehearsed lines—accusing me and my family of cruelty, of tearing apart a love “too pure for the world.”
Lucas’s performance was masterful. His voice trembled just enough, his expression balanced perfectly between grief and nobility.
“I don’t blame Young Master Ethan,” he told the camera solemnly. “I only blame myself—my lowly status, my unworthiness for Selena—that brought us to this tragedy…”
"But there’s nothing wrong with love. We will fight to the end. For this true love, we have no regrets!"
The livestream’s comment section was a battlefield — overrun by trolls and clueless onlookers. The screen overflowed with insults hurled at me, mixed with waves of sympathy and support for the so-called “star-crossed couple.”
“Ethan, die!”
“Cole’s bankruptcy can’t come soon enough!”
“I feel bad for Selena and Mr. Grant!”
Any voice of reason drowned instantly under a flood of blind emotion.