The first time I realized I was hated by millions of people, I was still wearing my wedding dress.
It was 2:13 a.m. in Lake Como. The celebration had ended hours ago. The guests had left, the flowers were wilting, and the villa had gone quiet, except for the faint tapping of my thumb on the screen.
I should've been asleep beside my new husband, warm under the covers, floating in the glow of our vows.
Instead, I was sitting on the bathroom floor of the honeymoon suite, the hem of my custom Dior gown crumpled beneath me, watching the internet unravel my life in real-time.
"He downgraded."
"She's nothing but a rebound."
"Nova should've been the one in that dress."
That last one came with a photo, a heavily filtered image of Nova Lane from last year's Grammys. She was wearing red. Back arched. Eyes smoky. Aiden's hand was on her waist in the photo, frozen forever in time like some cinematic love story they never got to finish.
Only, they had finished. Over a year ago. The world just didn't want to believe it.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and kept scrolling. The comments came in waves, each more creative in cruelty than the last.
"He married the seat filler."
"Nova wrote Bleed You Dry about him and he still married someone else? MEN."
"This new girl gives concierge vibes. Who is she even?"
Who was I?
They asked like I hadn't existed before him. Like I hadn't modeled for global brands, worked with stylists who'd once begged Nova for a feature. Like I hadn't been someone before I became his someone.
But I wasn't stupid. I knew exactly who I was now.
I was the villain in their fairytale.
Because once upon a time, Aiden Cruz and Nova Lane were the couple. The fire and the match. Two shooting stars colliding in front of the whole world. They had fan pages, shipped names, interviews that made people cry. For a year straight, they ruled the charts and the red carpets.
And then it ended.
And four months later, he was dating me.
But what the world didn't know, what they refused to believe, was that he had dated me before Nova too. Quietly, briefly. When his fame was still blooming and my life hadn't yet been swallowed by paparazzi flashes. We reconnected when they were on one of their "breaks." Only this time, we didn't let go.
But in the eyes of the internet, it didn't matter.
I wasn't Nova. And for them, that was enough to make me public enemy number one.
The bathroom door creaked behind me. I startled, but then Aiden's voice came, low and tired.
"Lee?" he called. "You okay?"
I wiped my face before he could see.
"Yeah. Just… my stomach felt weird. Must've been the cake."
He stepped in, still shirtless, hair messy. Even exhausted, he looked like the star people built fantasies around. My husband.
He crouched beside me.
"Why are you still in the dress?"
I shrugged. "Guess I didn't want it to end yet."
He smiled, touched my cheek.
"Come to bed, Mrs. Cruz."
I should've smiled back, should've kissed him, let the magic of the night cover the poison I'd just scrolled through.
Instead, I nodded and stood, letting him unzip the gown as if I wasn't coming undone on the inside, too.
By morning, it was trending.
#JusticeForNova.
#AidenCruzWeddingScam.
#LeahThePlaceholder.
Even people I knew, acquaintances from industry events, fellow models, stylists were reposting Nova's latest story: a blurry photo of her crying, captioned, "Some cuts never really heal."
She hadn't named us. She never did. But she didn't have to.
Her fans filled in the blanks.
By noon, I was being tagged in fake news articles, side-by-side comparisons of Nova and me, conspiracy videos, even breakup theories that claimed our marriage was a publicity stunt and that Nova was the "real" love Aiden never got over.
And the worst part? He didn't say anything.
Not to the press. Not on socials. Not even to me.
I sat across from him at brunch, poking at a croissant while he sipped his espresso, as if the world wasn't on fire around us.
I tried to bring it up gently.
"People are going crazy online," I said, scrolling aimlessly. "I think it's getting worse."
He didn't look up. "It'll blow over."
"Nova posted again."
He paused. Finally glanced at me. "What did she say?"
"Nothing direct. Just another sad quote. A picture of her in a black dress. Her fans are reading into everything."
He leaned back, sighed. "That's how she's always been, Leah. Emotional, Messy, Addicted to attention."
"She knows what she's doing," I whispered. "And everyone's eating it up."
He rubbed his temples. "Don't give them your attention. Please. This is our time. Not theirs."
But it wasn't just theirs. It was mine.
And they were taking it from me.
The first time I cried wasn't because of what Nova said, but because of what I couldn't say.
I couldn't defend myself without sounding bitter. Couldn't clap back without proving them right. Couldn't tell the world the truth about what really happened, how Nova cheated first, how she weaponized fans, how she played heartbreak like a symphony.
Even when Aiden defended me to friends behind closed doors, he never did it online. He hated drama. Hated press wars. Said the silence would speak louder.
But all I heard was noise.
It wasn't until week three of the honeymoon that I deactivated my Twitter. By then, the hate had mutated.
Fans were doxxing my family. Digging up old photos. One TikTok influencer even did a video analyzing my "low-value feminine energy" compared to Nova's "undeniable star power."
I watched in silence as my reputation crumbled. Watched strangers decide who I was.
But the breaking point came quietly.
It was a morning like any other. I was brushing my hair, watching the sun come through the villa window when I saw the headline:
"Nova Lane Breaks Down in Interview: 'I Gave Him Everything.'"
The clip played automatically. Nova in a velvet chair, perfectly lit, eyes glassy.
"I thought we were forever," she said, voice soft. "I really did. And I guess… some people can move on quicker than others."
It was brilliant. Subtle. No names. But a dagger nonetheless.
And suddenly, the internet hated me all over again, harder this time. The hate was righteous now. Fueled by heartbreak and empathy.
Even though it wasn't my heartbreak.
Even though I had never once said a word against her.
That night, I sat in the dark, knees pulled to my chest, and whispered something I hadn't said since I was a child:
"I don't know if I can survive this."
But I did.
Because somewhere in the ashes of public humiliation and whispered threats, something else began to burn.
A need.
Not to be liked. Not to be adored.
But to be free.
Free from the comparisons.
Free from the narrative.
Free to write a story where I was the main character, not the villain, not the extra, not the side chick or the lucky girl or the mistake.
Just me.
And that night, for the first time, I opened a new notebook and scribbled three words on the first page.
Build. Don't beg.
It was the beginning of something I couldn't name yet.
But one day, it would be called Monroe Skin.