I gave him a little help,
and he shot to fame overnight.
Then he started pursuing me relentlessly.
He had saved my mom, he was talented, and little by little, I fell for him.
I poured all my resources into him — even accompanied him to clients’ drinking parties, drinking until I ended up in the hospital — and I never complained.
All I ever wanted was to see him succeed.
But I was left with lasting damage: getting pregnant would be hard, keeping a pregnancy even harder.
I can still hear the doctor’s sigh on the day I lost my only child.
“Miss, this pregnancy is gone. I’m afraid it may be difficult for you to conceive again—your uterus is extremely fragile.”
He wiped his eyes and comforted me, promising he would see that my barely formed baby was laid to rest with dignity.
And the result?
“Claire, what are you playing at?”
He slapped the book from my hands and clamped his fingers around my throat.
“Cut the act. Don’t pretend you don’t know what’s going on!”
His eyes were a little wild, but when they met my calm, flat stare, his momentum faltered.
“Do you have any idea? You’re not just destroying me—you’re destroying yourself! The entire studio’s resources are invested in me!”