Chapter 7
As if burned, I locked my phone and threw it on the bed.
But in the darkness, that small screen and the words he left behind lingered in my mind like fireflies, impossible to ignore.
He understood. He didn’t see technique; he saw emotion. He understood what I was trying to express.
And these were things Berenice could never give him, nor would she ever care to.
Just then, my email notification chimed abruptly, unusually loud in the silent room.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my trembling hands, and opened my laptop on the bedside table.
Sender: Independent Comic Convention Organizing Committee
Subject: Invitation to Exhibit "The Dreamers" and Follow-up Collaboration Inquiry
My heart jumped violently.
I opened the email. The wording was precise and enthusiastic:
[Dear Ms. Candice Harrison, We sincerely invite you to participate in next month's Independent Comic Convention... Your work 'The Dreamers' received extremely high praise from our preliminary judging panel. Its profound social insight and empathetic narrative are deeply impressive...]
The content in the latter part of the email made my blood almost freeze:
[...Additionally, one of our key partners for this event—Mitchell Entertainment Productions—has also expressed great interest in the themes presented in 'The Dreamers'. Their project manager, after reading your work, believes its concept highly aligns with an art project they are currently planning, which focuses on street homelessness and social integration issues. They hope, through us, to inquire if you would be willing to further discuss potential collaboration during the convention?...]
Mitchell Entertainment...
Adrian's company...
So, that Instagram comment wasn't a coincidence? So, he not only saw it but also... recommended it to his company? He thinks my work is "highly aligned" with his project?
I stared at the words on the screen. Tears welled up unexpectedly again, but this time, it was mixed with immense shock, a sliver of faint hope, and an overwhelming tremor of being understood.
He saw the warmth. He saw the depth. He said "highly aligned"!
What did he remember? Could it be... those conversations we had in the past about art and social responsibility?
Should I reply? Should I accept?
I looked at the contact information at the end of the email. Tears fell drop by drop onto the keyboard.
But this time, my fingertips weren't just trembling. Slowly, with extreme difficulty, they moved toward the reply box.
In the next room, Berenice seemed to have started a new round of "preparation." Her voice, intermittent, full of uncertainty and performative affect, drifted through faintly:
"Hmm... I strongly support using art to give back to society... Dammit, how do I say this naturally?... No, too fake... I think helping others is inherently... ugh... Can we change the subject?..."
Listening to her stiff, fake, complaint-filled recitation, my heart shattered completely, turning to dust.
This was her attitude toward Adrian's love—a meticulously rehearsed yet full-of-holes performance that even she found painful.
And I... my feelings for Adrian, even during these days of desperate suppression and self-torment after rebirth, were ten thousand times more real and profound than hers.
But I can't speak, can't act, can't express it.
Because I'm the one who "made a mistake."
I'm the one who must "atone."
And right now, the reply box in front of me was like a silent judge.
On Wednesday morning, I drifted into the comic studio like a ghost. My eyes were red and swollen, the charcoal pencil in my hand just mechanically scratching chaotic lines across the paper.
It wasn't "The Dreamers" anymore; it was the chaos and anxiety inside me with nowhere to go.
I hadn't slept a wink. That email from the comic convention organizers burned in my mind like a fire.
The reply box felt like a massive black hole, swallowing all my thoughts.
I told myself to focus, but the words I’d heard last night—Berenice’s venomous scorn for the charity project, her undisguised hypocrisy while complaining to the mirror—coiled around me like poisonous snakes.
Just then, Maya rushed in, holding up her phone, the screen's light flashing on her shocked face.
"Oh my god! Candice! Look! The breaking news headline on Variety's website!" Her voice cracked with excitement, almost squeaking.
I looked up blankly, my heart inexplicably starting to race.
She shoved the phone screen right in front of my eyes. A huge, bold, black headline slammed into my vision like a sledgehammer:
[Producer Prince Hides Identity to Find True Love—Adrian Mitchell, Hollywood's Youngest Golden Boy Producer, Heir to the Mitchell Empire]
The accompanying picture was a very professional portrait of Adrian, his eyes sharp and confident, completely different from his usual casual "struggling screenwriter" attire.
The subheading was like a cold dagger:
[Exclusive Reveal: Billionaire Posed as 'Struggling Screenwriter' for Three Months, Seeking a Soulmate Unswayed by Wealth?]
The brush in my hand clattered to the floor, the sound jarring in the quiet studio.
My mind went blank, buzzing. Adrian? A producer? A billionaire? So what my sister said... it was all true? His identity, his wealth...
"The article says he's been hiding his identity on dating apps for three months looking for true love! My god, Candice!" Maya's voice sounded like it was coming from deep underwater, fuzzy and distant. "Did your sister know? If she didn't, isn't she going crazy right now? Didn't she always think he was a poor screenwriter?"
Did I know? Of course I didn't! If I had known... wait.
If I didn't know, what about Berenice? Were all those complaints about the "poor screenwriter" and disdain for cheap date spots... just an act?
A terrifying thought, one that froze the blood in my veins, seized me. Trembling, I almost snatched Maya's phone, desperately refreshing my sister's social media feeds and Instagram profile.
The moment the screen loaded, I saw something that made my blood run cold, something that completely overturned everything I thought I knew.
Just three minutes ago, Berenice had posted a new update—a full nine pictures!
[Finally don't have to keep it a secret anymore! Shocked, right?! My boyfriend is Hollywood's hottest golden boy producer—Adrian Mitchell! @Adrian Mitchell ❤️ #TrueLoveConquersAll #DreamsComeTrue]
The post was a carefully curated nine-square grid: the center was a slightly stiff-looking photo of her and Adrian, surrounded by eight other pictures she had "occasionally" shared over the past three months—a silhouette at an art gallery, a profile shot drinking coffee, a close-up of a hardcover book... perfectly crafting an image of someone who "loves art, not money."
She had even tagged a few famous gossip accounts and people who had seemingly mocked her before.
The blood in my veins seemed to stop flowing instantly. My limbs turned icy.
"Finally don't have to keep it a secret anymore"?
"Shocked, right"?
These words were like poison-tipped ice picks, completely piercing the last fragile line of defense in my heart called "guilt."
If Berenice truly hadn't known Adrian's identity, if she had really just seen the news, her first reaction should have been extreme shock, confusion, disbelief, even anger at being deceived and played for a fool! She should have called me, crying, asking for confirmation!
Not... like she'd won the lottery, impatiently, proclaiming it to the world with the attitude of a victorious show-off! Not this kind of undisguised ecstasy, like "the game is finally over, the grand prize is finally mine"!
My hands began to shake uncontrollably, violently.
"Maya... this isn't right," I squeezed out, my voice filled with unbelievable fear. "Berenice's reaction... it's completely wrong."
"What do you mean?" Maya asked, still reeling from the shock.
"Think about it," I grabbed her arm, my nails almost digging into her skin. "If you just found out the boyfriend you've been dating for three months suddenly went from 'struggling screenwriter' to billionaire Hollywood big shot, what would your first reaction be?"
Maya paused, frowning. "It should be... stunned? Completely dumbfounded? Then maybe a little angry? Questioning why he lied for so long? Or at least totally confused, needing time to process? How could she immediately be so... excited?"
"Yes! Exactly!" I shot up, my voice becoming shrill with agitation. "Not immediately showing off! And definitely not saying things like 'finally don't have to keep it a secret' and 'shocked, right'! It sounds like... like she knew all along and was just waiting for this moment to go public!"
Like a madwoman, I frantically scrolled back through Berenice's social media posts from the past three months.
The more I looked, the colder my heart felt, the icier my hands and feet became. A status I'd previously overlooked jumped out at me:
About two months ago, she posted a picture of Urth Caffé (where they had their first date) with the caption:
[Having coffee with a certain 'mysterious' gentleman, talking about 'priceless' dreams. ☕️]
At the time, I thought it was just ordinary teasing. But now, looking back, the quotation marks around "mysterious" and "priceless" were dripping with sarcasm!
Her earlier social media was filled with designer handbags, high-end restaurants, luxury unboxings...
And all of this content suddenly vanished completely after she started "online dating" Adrian, vanished without a trace, as if it never existed.
Replacing it were some seemingly last-minute, slightly stiff and deliberate "artsy photos" and "reading notes," with captions full of fake talk about "true love" and "inner beauty."
"She was acting," my voice trembled, the cold truth washing over me like a tide, drowning me. "From the very beginning, she was acting! She knew all along! She knew everything!"