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I told him, "Fans are like detectives these days. If they find out the divorce isn’t real, the 'cheater' tag is yours forever."
He signed the papers and stamped his fingerprint without another word.
Waiting for the divorce decree.
He murmured, "Once this blows over, we’ll remarry. Tell the fans we reconciled."
The moment the fresh decree was in my hand.
I couldn’t hold back a scornful laugh. "If you want to get married, marry Bella. I’m done. Honestly, it’s pathetic. Calling Bella your 'sister'? What brother kisses his sister like that on a street corner?"
His head snapped up. "What are you implying?"
I stared at him, disgust plain in my eyes, biting out each word: "I think you’re disgusting. Kissing your own 'sister'? It makes me sick. Standing near you makes the air feel dirty. So stay the hell away from me!"
His face lost all color.
He looked pitiful.
But I felt nothing. No urge to soften.
I blocked his number, his socials, everything.
I quit the agency that managed his career.
It was time to live for myself.
I founded my own talent agency.
Several stars I’d previously managed, now A-listers, signed with me.
Their endorsement, plus my reputation, attracted talented newcomers.
My business soared.
Alexander’s career, meanwhile, plummeted.
He was a great actor, but great acting needs the right role.
Without me choosing his scripts.
He had terrible taste, and his agency just used him to prop up their rookies.
Every project he touched flopped spectacularly.
During that year, as if trying to provoke me.
Wherever I went, he showed up with Bella.
Public displays of affection, kissing in front of me.
My heart remained untouched stone.
A whole year divorced. He worked non-stop.
Not one hit.
Finally, desperate, he came to my office.
"All that… with Bella in front of you…" he stammered, "It was just to make you jealous. I still care, Evelyn. Deeply. Bella and I… it meant nothing. My marital status is still single. I’ve been waiting… hoping you’d come back."
I arched an eyebrow. "Want to remarry? Go get tested for STDs first. Then maybeI’ll consider it."
He paused, confused. "What do you mean?"
I leaned back, tapping my chin casually. "Oh? You didn’t know? Bella has an STD. If you’re clean, well, I guess that would prove nothing happened between you two."
Recognition dawned, then horror. His face turned ashen.
I kept my tone innocent. "You look awful. But why? You said nothing happened. If you never slept with her, you can’t catch it, right? Nothing to worry about." I offered a reassuring smile.
His expression cycled through shock, anger, and shame.
He practically stumbled out of my office.
I knew about Bella’s clinic visit from a friend who worked there.
I’d raced to get tested myself immediately after hearing.
STDs spread through direct contact and other vectors too, not just sex.
Telling him sex was the only way? That was pure strategy. A test.
Thankfully, my results were clear.
I dug deeper into Bella’s past.
Found out she’d worked in an unregulated club before "discovery."
After "helpfully" informing Alexander of this charming detail,
I didn’t hesitate. I called the police.
For pushing me into the river.
Thank God the director had kept the footage. Solid proof of attempted murder.
The day they arrested her, cornered by reporters shouting questions about the attempted murder charge,
She snapped. "If I’m going down, he’s coming too!" And she blasted Alexander’s STD diagnosis to the world.
Alexander’s name shot to the top of every trending list. All black. All bad.
He was finished.
No studio would touch him.
His pre-divorce affair with Bella was dragged back out – proof, pictures, timelines. When the wall crumbles, everyone pushes.
There was no coming back.
Hollywood forgives men for cheating. But an STD? No one wanted that risk.
His mountain of scandals triggered breach-of-contract clauses in all his endorsements.
Every penny he owned went to paying penalties. He was bankrupt.
As for Bella? Attempted murder, proven. She went to prison.
Later, I met someone new.
Out on a date with him one freezing winter day,
A shivering figure in thin rags begged near a storefront. The grimy face looked vaguely familiar.
My new boyfriend, kind-hearted, saw the pitiful sight.
Handed the beggar a hundred-dollar bill.
The beggar kept his head down, muttering a quiet "Thank you."
When I glanced back, holding my boyfriend's arm as we walked away, the beggar had vanished.
I didn’t look back again.
It’s best to move forward.
This time, with absolute certainty, I knew I’d found the right person.
We would be happy. Together. Always.
