Chapter 4A Seven-Year Illusion

In that instant, my patience, stretched thin over seven long years, finally snapped.

I bent down, picked up the keys, and walked to the door. Isla rushed after me, whispering urgently in my ear.

“He’s just a kid, he doesn’t know how to watch his mouth. Don’t stoop to his level.”

“The press is coming by later for a photoshoot,” she added quickly. “We’re just getting into character. Don’t get the wrong idea.”

I turned and looked at her, studying the subtle twitches of her perfectly composed face. But it was no use. Isla was a professional actress. Even when she was lying through her teeth, I couldn’t tell.

As if on cue, Aidan, emboldened by his small victory, decided to twist the knife.

He let out a low, mocking laugh. “Wow. I guess assistants these days pick and choose who they work for. Are we paying for help, or are we supposed to be worshipping them?”

He sighed dramatically. “Since you’re so unwilling, I guess I’ll just go myself.”

That single sentence ripped open a fresh wound.

Six months ago, after their fantasy drama became a massive hit, the cast and crew had a celebration at a five-star restaurant. I was at home, burning up with a 102-degree fever. Then I got a text from Isla: Get here in twenty minutes. It’s important.

I thought, it’s her victory party. She wants me there to share her happiness. So I dragged myself out of bed and rushed over.

But when I got there, it wasn’t to celebrate. It was because Aidan and a few of the directors had gotten drunk and thrown up all over the private dining room. Isla, the glamorous star, couldn’t handle the mess, so she called me to clean it up.

Sick and dizzy, I spent the next hour on my hands and knees, scrubbing vomit off the expensive carpet. Then I had to call cabs, book hotel rooms, and make sure everyone got back safely. I didn’t finish until three in the morning.

Isla never said a word of thanks. She just complained that I was “off my game” and that I was working too slowly.

For seven years, 365 days a year, I had no time for myself. My phone was on 24/7, always on standby. All for a few thousand dollars a month in spending money. What A-list celebrity’s assistant lived like that?

Seeing her still siding with him, I finally understood. Everything became crystal clear.

I took a deep breath.

“Ms. Vance,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m afraid I can no longer continue as your assistant. I suggest you find someone else.”

A flicker of shock crossed her face. Her fists clenched at her sides, and I could see the red veins in her eyes.

“Richard, don’t be ridiculous. This isn’t a game. You can’t just quit whenever you feel like it.”

Her words made me laugh out loud. A hollow, bitter sound.

For all these years, I was just her “assistant.” We never even signed a contract. I didn’t need her permission to leave.

“Then sue me,” I said. “If you think it’ll do you any good.”

With that, I grabbed my documents, my few remaining belongings, and walked out the door.

“Quitting” was just a euphemism.

She knew exactly what I really meant.