Chapter 2Keep The Ring I Choose Me

Before that phone call, both I and my millions of fans were absolutely certain that the character of August was written about me.

Because during the era Damian wrote that book, I was the only girl by his side.

Even I had the utter hubris to believe that if it was ever adapted, the role belonged to me by divine right.

“I’m sorry, Miss Hamiltion. You are not a right fit for the role of August.”

At the audition space, beneath the blinding, clinical glare of the temporary studio lights, the bustling room went dead silent.

Damian’s words were spoken softly, but they dropped like an anvil.

As the screenwriter and original author, he sat at the center of the table. He held the ultimate casting power.

Everyone in the room had been glancing at the diamond on my finger. They all assumed my audition was just a formality—that the role of August had been tailor-made for me.

No one expected Damian to humiliate me. To screen me out.

Perhaps the devastation in my eyes was too loud.

Damian frowned slightly. He flipped through the character breakdowns, casually pointed to a nameless, D-list background extra who met a gruesome end, and said, “You can play this part.”

The silence in me thickened.

He looked annoyed now. “Do you absolutely have to play August?”

I let out a broken laugh. My eyes stung fiercely, but my voice was pure steel. “Yes. It has to be me.”

Damian stared at me for a long beat. Then, he smiled. It was a cruel, blinding thing.

He said, “I’ve said it before in interviews. This character is based on a real person.”

“And it isn't you.”

Someone in the room was already secretly recording on their phone. Once this video leaked, my social media would become a bloodbath.

The relentless mockery of the internet would tear into me and my loyal fans like shrapnel. Look at the desperate A-lister, rejected by her own fiancé.

My career would take a massive hit. Instead of reaping the glory of the role, I’d be branded a pathetic punchline for the rest of my life.

Driven by a sickening sense of defiance, I asked, “Then who exactly do you plan to cast?! Who could possibly play her?!”

Damian’s expression softened. The tense, suffocating atmosphere seemed to dissipate around him as he thought of someone. He smiled, his eyes crinkling.

“The girl she was based on, of course.”

That was the moment the last, pathetic ember of hope in me died.

Roxy, looking pale and panicked, practically dragged me out of the studio.

She cursed him the entire ride back. “What the hell is wrong with him?! You two are practically married! What the fuck does 'based on' even mean? This role is yours!”

“Don't let it get to your head, Evie. These pretentious literary types always love to create unnecessary drama!”

But what stressed her out more was the impending PR nightmare. Damian’s words were brutal. Once it hit the internet, it would be a media massacre.

Ultimately, she and the agency's crisis PR team made a desperate, unified decision:

We needed to fast-track the official announcement of my engagement to Damian.

By doing so, the narrative would shift. Damian wouldn't be the cruel boyfriend rejecting his lover; he would be the brilliant, uncompromising artist who refused to mix business with pleasure, prioritizing the integrity of his film above all else.

Roxy asked me for a cute, intimate photo of us to post with the announcement.

I instinctively opened my camera roll. My thumb hovered over the screen. I froze.

Nothing.

There was not a single picture.

Seven years together. I scoured the depths of my phone, and the only tangible proof of our intimacy was the ring on my finger.

It was absurd. It was pathetic.

Roxy frowned deeply, but we were racing against the clock. We had to beat the leaks.

She grabbed a male production assistant, told him to hold my hand so our fingers intertwined, making sure the diamond caught the light, and snapped a picture.

We rushed the post out. We beat the leaked audition video by exactly one second.

The internet exploded.

The brilliant, brooding author and the stunning A-list actress. The internet had been quietly shipping us for years, and the confirmation sent them into a frenzy.

My team watched the analytics skyrocket and let out a collective sigh of relief. Someone happily chimed in that a massive luxury brand endorsement was now locked in.

Suddenly, the head of PR swore loudly. Her face drained of color as she marched over to me and shoved her tablet into my hands.

“Look at this.”

Damian, who hadn't posted on X in three years, had just tweeted a single sentence:

“That is not my hand.”