1 The night Miles Preston won the Academy Award for Best Actor, the first thing he did wasn’t thank me.

It was to announce his early retirement to a room full of flashing lights and a world of stunned fans. By the time I reached the parking lot, the internet had already imploded.

But inside our agency’s group chat, it was a goddamn carnival. “I can’t wait to see how Becca cleans this one up,” one message read, popping up on my screen with a relentless ping. “Seriously.

She’s spent ten years trying to turn Miles into a legend, and he just flushes it all down the toilet for Summer. Now that is what I call a romantic power move.

Total boss energy.” A new intern typed tentatively: “But if Miles retires, don’t we all lose our jobs?” Zack, Miles’s longtime bodyguard and selfappointed ‘brother,’ replied with a laughingcrying emoji. “You’re new, kid.

You don’t know Becca. She’s been obsessed with Miles for fifteen years. She’s a professional doormat. No matter how much Miles messes up, she’s there to catch the fall.

It’ll just take a few more latenight dinners with investors and a few more drinks to smooth things over.

It’s what she’s good for.” “Summer was just jealous,” another added. “She told Miles she hated sharing him with a million fangirls.

He did this just to keep his girl happy.” “I’d pay to see Becca’s face right now. I bet the old girl is absolutely fuming. LOL.” Amidst the scrolling text, a voice note appeared.

It was Miles.

His voice was that familiar, gravelly baritone that used to make my heart skip—the voice I’d spent a decade marketing to the world. “Stop the chatter,” he said, sounding breathless and distracted. “I’m busy.

You guys are being too loud.” The chat erupted in whistles and lewd jokes, demanding Miles finally give Summer a “promotion” to wife. “She’s fresh out of college, Miles.

You can’t just keep her as a ‘secret assistant’ forever.

Break it off with Becca so we can finally call Summer ‘the boss’s lady’ officially.” “Do it while Becca is busy doing damage control,” Zack chimed in. “She’ll be so stressed she’ll probably agree to a divorce—wait, they aren’t even married.

She’ll agree to the breakup without even hearing the words.” “Assuming she can hear them at her age,” someone joked. “Earplugs or menopause?” I stood in the shadows of the parking garage, the cold Los Angeles air biting through my evening gown.

My thumb hovered over the screen. I didn’t type a word.

Instead, I logged into our official agency account, drafted a press release, and hit Post. “PrestonMiller Management is officially dissolved effective immediately.

Miles Preston will no longer be accepting any professional engagements.” “To our fans: To compensate for the sudden departure, the agency will be facilitating full refunds for all tickets and merchandise purchased within the last three years.

No questions asked.” In the top pinned comment, I posted Miles’s personal bank account details for the wire transfers. He wanted to retire for his new muse? Fine.

I’d make sure he could afford the lifestyle. I logged out, deleted the app, and booked a oneway ticket to the Maldives for the next morning.

For fifteen years, I had poured every ounce of my soul into Miles’s career. I was his manager, his publicist, his stylist, and his lover. I hadn’t taken a single day off.

I was the one who dragged him to auditions when he was a nobody, the one who negotiated the contracts that made him a millionaire, the one who hired his friends and gave them sixfigure salaries they didn’t deserve.

And my reward? To be called a “doormat” and the “old girl.” I’d drunk myself into a stomach ulcer to land him his first lead role.

I’d endured the wandering hands of sleazy producers at afterparties so he didn’t have to compromise his ‘artistic integrity.’ To them, it was just “a few drinks.” They were already calling his twentytwoyearold mistress “sisterinlaw.” Meanwhile, I’d told them a thousand times I hated the nickname ‘Auntie Becca,’ yet they only used it more often, laughing behind my back.

I’d brought it up to Miles once. He had just pinched my cheek, laughing. “Don’t be so sensitive, Becca. You’re just acting like an old hen. It’s just a joke.

Don’t get jealous of the young kids.” While I packed my suitcase, my phone rang.

The ringtone was a raw, acoustic song Miles had recorded for me the year we started dating. “Becca, this is just for you,” the young, teenage Miles had whispered on the track. “My exclusive song.

Every time you hear it, remember I’m yours.” Back then, he was a boy with bright eyes and a crooked smile—the cleanest, purest thing I’d ever known. I answered.

The man on the other end was huffing, his voice cold and impatient.

I expected a confrontation about the refund post, or perhaps an apology because he’d realized he accidentally sent those messages to the main group chat instead of his private ‘bro’ circle.

But he didn’t mention the chat. “Becca, I need you to send a bouquet to the St. Regis. Pink roses. The expensive ones.” I went still. “Flowers?” “Yeah.

Summer’s young, she needs the whole ‘romance’ thing. She’s playing hard to get, says no flowers, no fun.

Just get it done, okay?” I clutched the phone, a dry, bitter laugh escaping my throat. I remembered our first time. There were no roses. No fivestar hotels.

Just the scent of sweat on high school gym clothes and a cramped, dirty backseat of a borrowed car. That was the year Miles’s grandmother—his only family—passed away.

He was selfdestructing, trying to pick fights, threatening to drop out. I gave him everything I had to fill the hole in his heart. I used my college savings to pay his rent.

I kissed away his tears. I whispered forever into his ear until he believed it. Later, when he got his first big paycheck, he bought me a threehundreddollar ring.

He told me, “Becca, we’re going to make it. Forever.” Ten years later, Miles had everything, and he couldn’t even remember my birthday. I looked at the clock. Midnight.

The first hour of my thirtieth birthday. “Sure,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I’ll send them.” Miles paused, perhaps sensing something off. “Actually, never mind.

I’ll ask Chris to do it.

Your eyes have been bothering you lately, you shouldn’t be driving at night.” “Okay,” I said, ready to hang up. “Becca,” Miles added suddenly. “Look, people crave novelty.

I’m an actor; it’s in my nature. But you know how this ends. I’ll marry you eventually. Let me have my fun before we settle down.

It’s not a big deal, right?” In the past, those words would have shattered me. I would have screamed, cried, and begged him to see my worth. But tonight, I was just… tired.

Too tired to even say the word breakup. “I get it,” I said. “Have fun, Miles.” I hung up and immediately messaged a real estate agent. I told her to list the apartment.

We had rented this place when we first moved to the city. We were so broke we shared one bowl of instant noodles for dinner. Later, when he became a star, he moved into a penthouse.

But I couldn't let go of this place. I’d bought it secretly, keeping it as my sanctuary. My home. As I finished packing, the front door clicked open.

Miles walked in, tossing a small velvet box into my lap. “Happy birthday,” he said. “I saw what the guys were saying in the chat. They went too far.

I’ll tell them to knock it off later.” I opened the box. It was a necklace—a generic, goldplated chain.

It was the kind of ‘gift’ luxury boutiques give away as a consolation prize when you spend fifty thousand dollars on a handbag.

Three days ago, I’d seen Summer posting a photo of a new Birkin. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots.

This was the scrap left over from her shopping spree. “Thanks,” I said, closing the box. Miles blinked, clearly thrown by my lack of emotion.

Two years ago, when he’d promised a proposal and left me waiting at a reserved restaurant for three hours because “Summer was having a period cramp crisis,” I had started a war.

We didn’t speak for two weeks. Last year, he stood me up again, and I’d cooked a fivecourse meal only to throw it in the trash at 3:00 AM. He expected a fight.

He thrived on the drama of my devotion. “Look,” he said, reaching out to pinch my chin. “Don't be like that. I didn’t stand you up this year. I brought you an Oscar.

I’ll tell the guys to stop mentioning Summer around you.

Is that what you want?” I flinched away from his touch. “Miles, did you check Twitter?” His hand hovered in midair, his expression darkening. “The refund notice?

I assumed that was just some creative PR stunt you cooked up to pivot my image. Isn’t that your job? Or are you looking for a thank you note for doing your chores?” I nodded slowly.

I see. That’s why the group chat had gone quiet. They weren't ignoring the dissolution of the company because they were slow—they just didn't believe I’d actually do it.

They were so certain I was a permanent fixture in Miles’s life that they viewed my professional suicide as just another “tactic” to protect him. “You’re right,” I smiled. “It’s a tactic.” Miles watched me for a second, then softened his voice. “Once the heat from the retirement announcement dies down, I’ll take you on a trip.

Maybe we can finally do that engagement thing you’re always hinting at.” The engagement thing. He’d been dangling that carrot for years. The first time was after his first hit show.

We were young, rich for the first time, and he’d promised me a castle wedding. Then he met Summer, the “poor little intern” with the gambling father and the sick mother.

Miles, the “savior,” hired her, gave her a massive salary, and told me, “We can’t get married now, Becca. It’ll hurt the brand.

Let’s wait until I have a little more saved for that castle.” Every year, there was a new reason.

My birthday, his awards, even the time I got pregnant and had to go to the clinic alone because Summer’s cat was sick and she needed him to go to the vet with her. “I’d be there, Becca, but if a paparazzi sees me at a women’s clinic, it’ll ruin the movie.

Summer is crying her eyes out over this cat, just be a good girl and handle it, okay?

I’ll make it up to you with a ring.” Miles must have seen a flicker of that memory in my eyes because he cleared his throat. “I’m serious this time. I already ordered the ring.

We’ll go to that island you like.” I didn't want to play anymore. But looking at his face—the face of a man who had mastered the art of the sincere lie—I felt a spark of spite.

For the girl I used to be, the one who skipped meals to buy him acting classes. “Show me,” I said. “What?” “The ring order. Since you already bought it.” Miles froze.

I snatched his phone off the coffee table. He was too surprised to stop me.

I opened his banking app and scrolled through the recent transactions. 80,000–Hermes.∗∗80,000–Hermes.∗∗ 52,000 – Wire transfer to Summer Hart. $39,000 – Cartier (Men’s and Women’s matching bracelets).

And then, a $20 transaction from an online wholesale site. I clicked it. It was a plain silver band. In the chat with the seller, he’d asked: “Can you engrave the letter ‘B’ on it?

It’s for a ‘longterm associate.’” Then I went to his messages with Summer.

I searched for the word “Island.” Last week, Summer had thrown a tantrum about being a “secret.” Miles had booked a private island to pacify her. “I’ll take you next month, baby,” Miles had written. “We’ll have to bring Becca along, though.

She’s still the manager. If we get spotted by a drone, I can just say it’s a business retreat. It keeps the press off your back.” I started to laugh.

It started as a giggle and turned into a jagged, hysterical sound that pulled tears from my eyes. “This is your grand proposal, Miles? A twentydollar ring from a bargain site?

And a ‘romantic’ getaway where I’m the chaperone for your mistress?” I threw the phone at his chest. “Fifteen years.

I’ve given you fifteen years, and in your head, I’m worth exactly twenty dollars.”