Chapter 1Keep The Ring I Choose Me

When the anonymous diary of a secret, unrequited love from the account User0601 went viral on TikTok, the entire comment section was moved to tears by the tender, excruciatingly detailed perspective of the narrator.

The whole internet was trying to track down the girl whose birthday was on June 1st.

Then, my childhood best friend—whom I hadn’t spoken to in years—suddenly forwarded the video to me. She said she recognized who the original poster was and asked if I wanted to hear the gossip.

Her birthday was June 1st.

When the realization hit me, my first instinct was actually relief for her. I was glad someone out there had loved her so deeply, for so long.

But the smile froze, then completely shattered, when I read her next few texts:

“It’s Damian. I actually always kind of liked him.”

“But he confessed to me yesterday that he’s getting married. He said that diary was just to put an end to his youth. Said I shouldn't take it seriously.”

“Ugh, he's so stubborn. He sounded like he was about to cry on the phone…”

A single tear slipped from my eye, landing with a faint, metallic clink against the diamond engagement ring on my left hand.

I sat there, paralyzed in a state of stupid, numb shock for a long time. Then, the delayed agony tore through my chest.

Half-joking, half-serious, Cassidy sent one last message:

“Tell me—if I crash his wedding, do you think he’d run away with me?”

...

* * *

I tilted my head back, staring at the ceiling, but the tears refused to recede.

“Evie? Why’d you go quiet?” Cassidy’s voice crackled through the speaker.

I took a deep, trembling breath, desperately trying to iron out the shake in my voice. “Didn’t you say you couldn't stand him in high school? You called him a pretentious nerd. Why the sudden change of heart?”

Cassidy sighed, her tone dripping with a wistful kind of nostalgia. “We were so young back then. My pride was louder than my heart. That’s why we missed out on each other for all these years. Do you remember the high school theater club? He was the head playwright. His scripts were always so dark, so macabre and tragic. But every character I played was always perfectly protected. Because of his soft spot for me, everyone else on stage met a tragic end, but my character always got her happily ever after.”

I knew. Of course I knew. Because those were the same three years I had spent secretly, agonizingly in love with Damian Cross.

I had collected every single script he ever wrote, thumbing through the pages until the edges frayed.

It was because of him that I had chased the blinding, brutal lights of Hollywood like a madwoman. I swallowed unimaginable bitterness, clawing my way up until I was an A-list actress standing center stage, bathed in the glow of millions.

It took so much to finally catch up to his shadow.

It took so much for Damian to finally look at me.

It took so much for us to finally get engaged.

So why, out of all the days in a lifetime, did this have to happen now?

I didn't blame Cassidy for reappearing. I blamed Damian. I blamed the man who had slid a ring onto my finger while still carrying the ghost of a girl from his past in his chest.

Was I just… not enough?

I hung up the phone as if fleeing a burning building, pulled the covers over my head, and sobbed until I couldn't breathe.

My manager, Roxy, burst into the room upon hearing the noise. She panicked immediately.

“Jesus, Evie, no! Stop crying! You have an audition in an hour!” She dropped her clipboard. “Don’t forget, this is the casting for Three Years in August! You’ve waited years for this book to be adapted into a film, you cannot go in there with swollen eyes!”

She frantically yanked an ice pack from the mini-fridge and pressed it hard against my face.

I violently flinched. The biting, unforgiving cold shocked my system, forcing a harsh clarity back into my brain.

Holding the ice pack to my cheek, I lowered my eyes, sinking into absolute silence.

Three Years in August was the best thing Damian had ever written. It was also his earliest work.

And the female lead in that novel was the only character he had ever publicly admitted was based on a real person.

During the years I spent following in his footsteps, I watched him transition from an indie screenwriter to a bestselling author. His debut novel was a massive cultural phenomenon. His sheer, undeniable talent made his rise to the top impossibly smooth.

Because he had attained everything so easily, he approached life with an infuriatingly detached, indifferent air. He was famous for his aloofness. It was a sharp, fascinating contrast to the fiercely intense emotions woven into his work.

Online, Three Years in August was a beloved masterpiece, and its heroine, August, was an iconic literary figure. She was the sole recipient of the author's blatant favoritism; amidst a sea of tragedies, she was the only character allowed to be happy.

Even Roxy, who was usually incredibly conservative with her predictions, promised me that whoever landed this role was guaranteed an Oscar nomination. It was the kind of role an actress could coast on for the rest of her life.

She knew about my relationship with Damian. Her eyes dropped to the diamond on my left hand, and she smirked.

“You’re the inspiration for this character, aren't you?” she said, her voice softening. “It’s your fiancé’s intellectual property. We’ve got this in the bag! Stop crying, Evie. Everything is about to fall perfectly into place.”