Chapter 4Your Hate, My Farewell

Scarlett had a new project recently, so Andrew must have been staying with her. As I pushed open the heavy, soundproof studio door, I found the entire set deserted. Suddenly, the clang of an iron door closing echoed behind me. Three men in crew uniforms emerged from the shadows.

“Mrs. Hayes, isn’t it? Someone wants us to add a little extra scene for you.”

I understood instantly. It was Scarlett. I stumbled backward, hitting a prop stand. My self-defense spray slipped from my bag. The men chuckled, one of them kicking the spray away with his foot.

“Don’t be nervous, this scene is simple. Our client said she wants it filmed clearly.”

I snatched up a prop knife and lunged, but received a sharp slap across the face instead.

The sky had fully darkened by the time I stumbled out of the studio. My phone screen lit up, displaying a new message from Scarlett:

“The video turned out really professional, want to see it? Andrew will be able to enjoy it soon, too! Oh, and I forgot to tell you, Andrew was in my bed all day today! He watched me send that message to you!”

The night wind whipped my torn clothes, revealing the dried blood on my legs. I slowly sank to the ground, burying my face in my knees.

So Andrew knew. This was his tacit approval. I thought his torment and humiliation were merely forms of revenge. But I never imagined he would allow something like this to happen to me. Blood trickled from the corner of my mouth, dripping onto the cold studio floor. In a daze, I remembered that summer night four years ago. At a noisy night market barbecue stall, a drunkard’s hand had just grazed my waist when Andrew seized a beer bottle and smashed it over his head. The man, face covered in blood, begged for mercy, but Andrew was like a furious beast, his fists breaking two of the man’s ribs, refusing to stop. Finally, I hugged him from behind, my voice trembling as I said, “Enough, Andrew, I’m scared.” Only then did he stop, turning to embrace me tightly, his voice hoarse and broken. “Whoever touches you, I’ll take their life.”

And now, the man who once fought for me, had hired others to ruin me.

I pulled out my phone, my hands trembling. The moment the screen lit up, Andrew’s heart skipped a beat.

“Andrew Hayes, why won’t you let me go?”

“Do you hate me or do you not want to let me go?”

“Will you only be satisfied when I’m dead?”

Every word was a needle pricking his heart. He stared at the message, his brow furrowing unconsciously. The tone of this message wasn’t about the apology he’d demanded earlier today. Last night, when he choked me, the look in my eyes exploded in his mind. In those eyes, besides hatred, there was a raw, unreadable pain. He turned to Scarlett, who was applying lipstick in front of the vanity mirror.

“Has Evie arrived at the studio yet?”

Scarlett’s movement paused imperceptibly, then she flashed a sweet smile. “Why are you asking about that, Andrew? Don’t worry about her. Shall we watch the rushes from yesterday, first?”

Andrew didn’t move. He looked back at his phone, scrolling up. It was the message telling me to go to Stage 7. He scrolled further up. It was the text I had sent him, asking to see him.

Andrew suddenly stood up. He clearly remembered he hadn’t sent Evelyn any messages today. Half an hour later, when Andrew arrived at Northwood Studios, Stage 7, it was completely empty. In the dim studio, there were only a few torn scraps of fabric. Looking closely, dark red bloodstains remained on the floor. His heart plummeted.

His phone suddenly vibrated. It was a text from his assistant: