I didn't even make it past the doorway.
My clutch dropped first, the jeweled clasp clattering on the marble floor. I barely heard it.
The gown pooled around my feet in heavy, shimmering folds, the hem soaked and stained from the wet pavement outside the venue.
I stood there for a full minute.
Frozen.
Arms limp at my sides.
Chest tight.
Listening to my own ragged breathing echo in the too-large foyer.
My heels felt fused to my feet.
My legs trembled, but i forced them forward.
One step.
Another.
The house was dark except for the small sconce lights i'd left on.
Soft, expensive glow.
But there was nothing warm about it.
My reflection passed in the tall, gilt-edged mirror.
A ghost.
Eyes ringed in smoky liner, mascara dried in stiff, perfect spikes.
Lips painted red, though the corners were cracked from pressing them together too hard all night.
Hair that had taken four hours and two stylists to twist into sleek perfection, now disheveled at the temples from where someone's thrown drink had splashed onto me.
I looked like an actress in a horror movie.
One who didn't know she was already dead.
I didn't bother turning on more lights.
I just walked, slow and mechanical, through the living room with its white sectional couches i never sat on.
Past the crystal vases.
The portraits of my parents, of me as a child in frilly dresses at embassy events.
Past the grand piano no one played anymore.
My heels clicked on the polished floor until i reached the staircase.
There, I hesitated.
It felt like too much effort.
Too far.
But i climbed anyway.
One step at a time.
My vision swam when i reached the landing.
I let my fingers trail along the hallway wall for balance.
Finally, I reached my room.
The one place that was supposed to be safe.
But even the familiar scent faint gardenia from the candles, clean linen made my stomach turn.
I kicked the door shut behind me.
Fumbled for the light switch.
Soft, warm light spilled over the room.
My bed with its absurd number of pillows.
My vanity lined with expensive products.
The shelf stacked with awards and trophies that felt like they belonged to someone else.
I stood there, looking at all of it.
And i felt nothing.
I made it to the bed.
Sat on the edge.
My gown crinkled under me.
But i didn't move to unzip it.
I couldn't.
I couldn't even lift my arms.
I just sat.
Staring at the floor.
My eyes blurred.
Not with tears at first.
Just exhaustion.
Bone-deep.
Soul-deep.
The entire night replayed in grotesque detail.
The gala was supposed to be my show of strength.
My statement without words.
I wasn't going to hide.
I wasn't going to run away to some resort.
Or fly to Europe.
Or cry to the press about "privacy" and "mental health."
No.
I was going to show up in my custom gown.
Smile.
Pose for photos.
Say i'm fine with every blink of my mascaraed eyes.
I thought if i did that, they'd see.
They'd know i wasn't the monster they decided i was.
But they didn't.
They lined up outside the venue.
Thousands of them.
Phone cameras rolling.
Placards with slurs scrawled in neon paint.
Security tried to clear them back.
But they shouted anyway.
"HOMEWRECKER!"
"SLUT!"
"KILL YOURSELF!"
And then the eggs.
The tomatoes.
The cups of who-knew-what.
I heard the first wet smack against the side of the car as my door opened.
My bodyguard tried to shield me with his arm.
But i felt the cold splash on my hair.
I smelled the egg as it dripped onto my collarbone.
My gown was ruined before i took three steps.
Cameras flashed.
The press, vultures, snapping photos of my stiff, expressionless face.
The fans screaming hate.
My own colleagues watching from the carpet, eyes wide.
Some filming.
Some just... turning away.
Because it was easier to pretend they didn't see.
And i walked.
I walked the entire carpet.
The cameras didn't stop.
The questions kept getting shouted:
"Margaux, is it true?!"
"Did you break them up?!"
"Are you going to apologize to Jayda?!"
I didn't answer.
I didn't even blink.
My PR had told me: Say nothing. Don't give them anything.
So i didn't.
I didn't defend myself.
Didn't explain.
Didn't beg.
Because it wouldn't matter.
They'd already decided.
I remembered slipping into the ballroom.
The hush that fell.
Hundreds of industry people.
Fellow actors.
Directors.
Producers.
Journalists.
People i'd shared shoots with.
Laughed with.
Called friends.
They stared.
Some nodded politely.
Most didn't.
Some i'd mentored, who used to gush about how they idolized me... they turned away.
Pretended they didn't see me.
I forced myself to stay.
Hours.
Posed for photos.
Talked to the three people who dared to approach me.
Held a champagne glass without drinking it.
My mouth hurt from keeping the neutral smile in place.
My heart hurt more.
Because even when i tried to meet their eyes to silently say Please. You know me.
They wouldn't look.
They wouldn't see.
Now, in my room, the tears finally fell.
Silent at first.
Hot tracks down my cheeks.
I let them.
I wasn't on camera anymore.
No one was watching.
No one to perform for.
My fingers curled in my gown's stiff, ruined fabric.
My breath hitched.
My ribs hurt with how hard i tried to hold it in.
A sob forced itself out.
Then another.
And another.
Until i was gasping.
Mouth open.
Soundless.
Ugly.
Broken.
I let myself fall sideways onto the bed.
Face pressed to the expensive sheets.
Makeup smearing onto the white linen.
Mascara making dark spiderwebs on the pillow.
I didn't care.
I didn't move.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Over and over.
Notifications lighting it up.
I turned my face the other way.
Refused to look.
I knew what it would say.
Homewrecker.
Die.
Bitch.
Or worse.
People analyzing every blink i made on that carpet.
Saying i looked smug.
Unrepentant.
Arrogant.
Because i didn't collapse.
Because i didn't apologize.
Because i didn't confess to something i didn't do.
They'd all seen Jayda's post.
The sad little IG story with the broken heart emoji.
The cryptic line about being ghosted.
And the timing.
Of course it was the timing.
She posted it the night Ken and i were seen out celebrating the drama's rating milestone.
We were in a private room at a bar.
Half the cast.
Half the crew.
Producers.
But none of that mattered.
In the photos, he was next to me.
We were laughing.
That was all it took.
I thought about the headlines.
The YouTube gossip videos.
The X threads.
The TikToks with dramatic soundtracks, showing "proof" of our "affair."
Me looking at Ken onstage at a promo event.
Me smiling at him in a scene.
Me hugging him after a particularly brutal shoot.
Evidence, apparently.
Of my crimes.
I pressed my fists to my eyes until the blackness behind my lids hurt.
I wanted to go back.
To just... rewind.
To before the show.
Before the drama.
Before i ever auditioned.
But that wasn't how this worked.
And even if i wanted to run...
Where would i go?
This was my country.
My industry.
My face on the billboards.
My name on the checks.
My life.
And they wanted me gone.
Dead, even.
But I wasn't leaving.
Even if it killed me, i wasn't leaving.
I'd built this life from nothing but privilege and raw, stubborn will.
And i'd be damned if i let them chase me out of it.
So i cried.
And i let myself be pathetic.
And i let myself feel every jagged edge of what they'd done to me.
And when i finally fell asleep, it was with salt on my lips and the taste of blood in my mouth from biting down too hard on the scream that wanted to come out.
Because tomorrow?
Tomorrow i'd get up.
And do it again.
Because i didn't have a choice.