I died when he publicly announced I was his girlfriend

chapter 3

A few days later was our seven-year anniversary.

A celebrity's birthday belongs to the fans. But our anniversary that was supposed to be the one day he was mine, and mine alone.

The ritual was always the same. He'd wake up to a gift from me. A series of surprises would follow throughout the day, culminating in a candlelit dinner. Then we'd go home and well, for him, it was probably just checking a box. Fulfilling an obligation.

A perfect day.

That morning, I watched Marcus stand in front of the mirror, carefully knotting a tie. He was dressing for something important.

I was forced to follow him, a ghost tethered to his back, all the way to his agency.

As he got out of the car, he paused, frowning and scanning the street as if expecting someone.

What was he waiting for?

Then I remembered. Our first anniversary. I had rented a ridiculous, stuffy teddy bear costume and bounced up to the entrance to give him flowers. Security almost tackled me, thinking I was a crazed fan. I was a sweaty, disheveled mess when I finally took the head off, but I was so happy, waving the bouquet and calling his name.

And what did he do?

He stood at a distance, a look of pure, mortified disgust on his face, then turned and walked inside without a word.

His publicist chewed me out later. "Marcus Reed is an Oscar winner. How can you be so thoughtless?"

I learned my lesson. No more grand, embarrassing gestures. But the flowers still came every year, delivered to the front desk for "Mr. Reed" to sign for personally.

Until the last time. Our sixth anniversary. I was at the agency for a meeting, and on my way out, I took the stairs. I saw one of the cleaning staff pulling a huge bouquet out of a trash can. She shook it, and a small card fluttered to the ground.

I knew that card.

I had written the words myself.

"My Dearest Marcus, Six years down, a lifetime to go. I hope to always be by your side. "

It felt like someone had slammed my face into the pavement. I snatched the card from the floor before the cleaner could, tore it into tiny pieces, and flushed it down a toilet in the lobby bathroom. I stumbled out of the building, the heels of my shoes rubbing my ankles raw and bloody.

As if the physical pain could somehow erase the humiliation of seeing my love treated like garbage.

Looking back, I must have been such an annoyance to him.

No wonder he never wanted the lights on when we were together.

He only ever wanted to trace my silhouette in the dark.

After all, Cassandra and I are sisters. Theres a five-point resemblance. Enough for a man who didn't want to see.

Marcus seemed distracted all morning.

It was strange. He was a notorious workaholic. The only person I'd ever seen him text back during work hours was Cassandra.

Around noon, there was a knock on his office door. Marcus instinctively straightened his tie and strode over to open it.

"Surpriiiiiise!" A massive bouquet of red roses appeared in the doorway, then lowered to reveal Cassandras perfectly made-up face.

"You were waiting for me, weren't you?" she chirped, hopping from foot to foot like an excited bunny.

I had to laugh at my own foolishness. Of course. That explained everything. Did I really think he was pacing around, anxious because my anniversary roses hadn't arrived?

Impossible.

Marcuss face softened into a look of pure adoration. He reached out and tapped the end of her nose. "What are you doing here today?"

"Just checking up on you," she said, her tone brazenly confident. "Making sure you're not hiding any other women in here."

"Never," he laughed. "No other woman has ever been up here besides you."

"Not even Serena?" Cassandra wrinkled her nose. "I thought you might have forgotten your promise to me."

"How could I?" he said dismissively. "It's only ever been you."

"Then what is she?"

Marcus just looked at her, silent.

Cassandra buried her face in his chest, her voice muffled. "Marcus, I love you so much. I regret it. I shouldn't have been gone for so long." She looked up, her eyes sparkling. "But I'm so glad you were still here, waiting."

I wanted to scream with laughter. He was always here, yes. But where was I?

And then I remembered. I remembered why I had taken the stairs on our sixth anniversary.

I had come to his office that day to surprise him.

I waited outside for what felt like an eternity. Finally, the door opened, and Cassandra walked out, clinging to his arm. The way he looked at her it was with a tenderness I had never, ever seen.

I cant describe the feeling.

He had been in there with her the whole time.

And I had been sitting right outside. Like an idiot.

Just then, my phone had lit up. A text from him.

"In meetings. Won't be home."

My own message from that morning was still visible just above it. "Hubby, come home early tonight! I have a huge surprise for you!"

My clumsy, stupid love.

"Marcus," Cassandra was saying now, shaking his arm. "When are we going to make it official?"

For some reason, Marcus seemed lost in thought. She had to shake his arm again to get his attention. "What did you say?"

Just then, one of his business partners walked in. He glanced at Cassandra, did a double-take, and then smiled. "Marcus, bringing your new girlfriend around again?"

Again?

I saw Cassandra's smile tighten, her expression turning ugly for just a fraction of a second.

That evening, Cassandra insisted Marcus take her to dinner.

"Where do you want to go?" Marcus asked her, his voice dripping with indulgence.

She smiled sweetly and named my favorite restaurant. A tiny, hidden Italian place.

I almost went insane.

No! You can't! That's my place! My secret garden!

That was where I had first awkwardly confessed my feelings to him. It held all our good memories, the few that felt real. You promised you would only ever go there with me! Why are you taking her?

I threw myself in their path again and again, a desperate, silent scream. But they walked right through me, my ghostly form offering no resistance at all.

It was utterly useless.

"It's a little chilly in here," Cassandra said, rubbing her arms.

Marcus paused, his gaze sweeping thoughtfully over the very spot where I was standing.

For a terrifying, hopeful second, I thought he could see me.

But he couldn't.

After they were seated, Cassandra flirtatiously insisted Marcus order for both of them.

And I watched, helpless, as he casually listed off all my favorite dishes, presenting them to her like a curated gift.

"I came here with someone else once," Marcus said, his voice smooth as silk. "The whole time, I just kept thinking about how I needed to bring you here."

And I, of course, was the nameless, insignificant "someone else."

When the food arrived, she held up her phone. "Wait, let me get a few pictures."

I watched as she systematically erased me. Every memory I had in this place, overwritten by her, one click at a time. A photo of the food, a selfie, a picture of their hands clasped tightly on the table.

She posted it to Instagram with the caption: "My heart knows yours. "

Every trace of my existence, just like my body, was vanishing into thin air.

Soon, his fans descended. They flooded her comments, recognizing his hands, his watch. Then they swarmed onto the main feeds, celebrating their perfect couple. For every person wishing them happiness, another ten would be on my own page, leaving comments calling me a pathetic, shameless whore.

Ever since I started dating Marcus, my DMs were a forbidden territory. A digital hellscape filled with gruesome images, bloody photos, curses, and endless abuse from his fans. They seemed to believe this was the only way to express their hatred for the woman who dared to touch their king.

And it was all thanks to the man sitting across from her.

As Cassandra was busy curating her new reality, Marcus watched her with that same adoring look. But I noticed something else. His eyes kept darting down to his own phone.

What was he waiting for?

Was he watching her post, anticipating the fresh wave of attacks against me, and waiting for me to come crawling to him for help?

Curiosity got the better of me. I drifted behind Cassandra and glanced at her screen. For a second, the blood in my veins ran cold.

It was a burner account, one I recognized.

During the darkest days of my depression, after a few failed suicide attempts, this account had messaged me, over and over.

"You worthless bitch, why aren't you dead yet?"

"Didn't you say you were going to kill yourself? Do it! Do it!! DO IT!!!"

It was my own sister? My own flesh and blood?

Was she wearing this same sweet smile on her face when she typed those words?

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with being dead.