Chapter 4: Rivalry in the Spotlight

"Ms. Foster once dated the Whitmore family’s golden boy. Why did you break up?"

I answered smoothly, "Personality differences. We broke up peacefully." I kept my voice light.

She pressed on, "I heard you took a million dollars, then broke up out of nowhere."

I darkened my face, meeting her malicious gaze. I let the silence hang a second.

Interviews are usually released unedited. That thought made my skin crawl.

Emily wanted to paint me as a gold-digger and heartless, so I’d be attacked by the public. Nice try, Emily.

I winked at the displeased screenwriter across from me, and gave a faint smile. "Where’d you hear that? You don’t have my bank statement, and you didn’t see me take a million in cash. If you can’t prove it, that’s already slander—I could sue."

Thanks to Mrs. Whitmore, to avoid harming the family’s reputation, she transferred the money to the foster home director’s account. No one but me, the director, and her knew.

The host was speechless. She blinked, lips parted.

She glanced behind me, then changed the subject. Quick recovery.

"Then has Ms. Foster ever thought of getting back together with the prince?"

The studio had prepped me for this. I took a breath.

I shook my head. "They say you don’t go back to your ex, and a proper breakup should be final. Of course, if Mr. Whitmore wants to contact me, we’ll just be friends, nothing more."

There was a loud crash behind me.

I looked over—the stagehand was scrambling to prop up the reflector, afraid it would hit someone. The whole room tensed.

Mason had arrived at some point, and he looked like a thundercloud.

He glared at me, his eyes full of suppressed hurt, like a little wet dog abandoned on the sidewalk.

He gritted his teeth. "Quinn Foster, you’re really something." His voice was low, but the front row reporters all heard it.

They excitedly aimed their flashes at us, shutters clicking away.

I shifted my gaze, slowly looking at Mason not far away, his eyes red. It hurt to see.

The venue wasn’t big—at most ten steps between us.

Suddenly, I remembered a lot. Memories crashed in.

For Mason’s birthday, I stayed up all night carving a horn cufflink for him, my fingers blistered.

He said it was the most precious gift he’d ever received.

But he’d rather throw away the suit that lost the cufflink than wear it again.

For our anniversary, I canceled my schedule and cooked a Thanksgiving-style dinner as a surprise.

He was always picky, but that night, he ate everything. Even licked the plate.

But he’d joke about the fancy restaurant and grand fireworks he’d booked—romantic and charming.

That was his ideal anniversary.

…

Mason and I seemed to stand at opposite ends of the steps.

I had to look up to see him.

Family background, vision, values—every single thing felt like a wall.

So I got anxious, desperate to fit into his world.

At that time, Mason was proud and wild, thinking my worries were silly. He just didn’t get it.

His way of comforting me was direct and crude—just throwing money at the problem.

But money can’t fix the cracks in love.

In the end, everything exploded when the foster home lost funding, and Mrs. Whitmore casually threw a million dollars at me.

I finally realized, between Mason and me, there was a world between us.

The camera shutters kept clicking.

I smiled faintly. "Gotta keep moving forward, right?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mason awkwardly tear off his cufflink and walk away without looking back.

A big piece of my heart suddenly felt empty. The ache was real.