I didn't bring it up again. The online hate, Nova's cryptic posts, the videos accusing me of being a fame-hungry manipulator.
Not at breakfast, not during the sunset cruise around the lake, not even when Aiden handed me a ring box with a second wedding band tucked inside, whispering, "For when the cameras aren't looking."
Because what was I supposed to say?
Thanks for the ring, babe. Your ex just called me a homewrecker using metaphors and her fans are sending threats to my cousin in New Jersey.
It's funny how you can be the center of a storm and still look calm in every photo.
We were trending as #CoupleGoals in some circles, still being called a "publicity stunt" in others. But no one really knew what went on behind the filtered photos and matching outfits.
No one knew how it felt to be smiling in a dress you couldn't breathe in while your phone buzzed with hate in your purse.
I learned early on to compartmentalize.
Smile now, Cry later, Fix your concealer, Straighten your posture. Don't look like the weak one, because if you do, they win.
Still, there were cracks.
We were four weeks into our honeymoon when I noticed how often Aiden's attention drifted when we were alone. How many times he left the room to take calls, music labels mostly, producers sometimes and once, just once, I heard the name "Nova" slip through.
I didn't ask.
He'd say it was about clearing samples or old rights or whatever legal ghost artists always had to deal with.
I let it go.
But it stuck in my head like gum in expensive hair.
We returned to LA a week later or more accurately, to the compound that passed for his "modest" home in the Hollywood Hills. I had a two-bedroom apartment in the city before this. Suddenly I was sleeping in a house with a ten-car garage and marble floors that echoed when I walked alone.
His team had arranged everything, down to the pantry stocked with my favorite oat milk. There were welcome-back balloons and luxury gift baskets from brands I hadn't even tagged.
And outside?
Paparazzi.
Not a hundred. Not a swarm.
Just three men in black clothes, crouched in bushes with long lenses like it was a safari.
I didn't know then that this was a slow day.
I'd been in the public eye before. Modeling campaigns. A couple of runways. A Met Gala once, as a plus one, not an invitee. But nothing, nothing, prepared me for what it was like to be his wife.
It wasn't just that I'd married Aiden Cruz, the popstar with four platinum albums and an army of streaming fanatics.
It was that I'd married Aiden Cruz after Nova Lane.
And her shadow? It stretched longer than I thought humanly possible.
We hosted a welcome dinner two nights after we landed.
Not by choice.
His publicist, Devlin, had called with his usual chirpy enthusiasm. "Just something casual! Friends, close contacts, a few media faces for warmth, maybe some light content. You know how fans love a little glimpse!"
I didn't know how to say no without sounding difficult.
So I nodded, smiled, and found a designer to rush-ship me a silk dress that said "I'm rich, not rattled."
The night came fast.
The guest list read like a streaming playlist, rappers, influencers, a few fashion house reps. Some nodded politely. Others stared like they were still trying to figure out how I ended up with him.
Nova's name came up twice. Once in a casual, "Oh, I saw her interview, intense, right?" way. The second time… not so casual.
"You remind me of her," said a woman with icy blonde hair and overfilled lips. She twirled her wine glass, eyes scanning my dress.
I blinked. "I… remind you of Nova?"
"Yeah, like… same vibe. But softer. She was always so..." She stopped. "Loud."
I didn't respond. Just smiled and excused myself.
By the time the dinner ended, my cheeks hurt and I had half a blister on my heel. Aiden didn't seem to notice. He was glowing from the praise, the laughs, the effortless dance of fame he was born into.
We were back upstairs when I finally said it.
"I don't want to do that again."
He pulled off his blazer, looked confused. "Do what?"
"The dinner. The show. Pretending like everyone in that room didn't secretly think I wasn't good enough."
He exhaled slowly. "Lee…"
"I know what they say. I read what they say."
"Then stop reading it."
"That's not a solution."
He crossed the room, put both hands on my arms. "No. But we are. You and me. That's the only reality that matters."
I wanted to believe him. God, I did.
But reality, for me, came with a public comment section.
The next morning, Nova posted a video.
She was on a talk show, a soft-lit, carefully curated PR-safe set. Big chair, Low voice, Sad piano music in the background.
They asked about the breakup.
Nova looked down, gave a tiny, calculated laugh.
"I'll always love him. That kind of love doesn't just disappear, you know? We had… plans. Dreams. But sometimes, you wake up and realize someone else is living them."
The clip went viral in less than two hours.
"He married her just to forget Nova."
"Poor Nova. He stole her future."
"This is why I don't trust men."
I was tagged over 10,000 times in a single day.
And when I checked his page?
Nothing.
No support post, No story, No acknowledgement.
Just a photo from the dinner with the caption: "Back home."
I stared at the screen.
I didn't need him to fight my battles. But God, I wanted him to see that I was in one.
That night, I sat on the bathroom floor again, just like on our wedding night. Same floor, Different house.
My phone buzzed. A DM.
From Nova.
No text, Just a photo, Old, From their last vacation together.
She was in a bikini. He was behind her, smiling. His hand was on her waist. The caption read: "Back when love was real."
It was dated exactly one year before our wedding.
I didn't show it to Aiden.
I didn't reply.
I just stared at it for a long time and whispered, "You can keep the past, Nova. I'm building something better."
I didn't know what it would be.
Not yet.
But I knew it had to start now.
Because if I waited for someone to rescue me from this narrative, I'd be buried in it forever.