I clenched my teeth, fighting through the searing pain. “I’m not apologizing. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Her voice was sharp, furious. “Fine. Have it your way.”
She hung up without another word.
...
The next day, while I was being treated at the hospital, she showed up again. But not for me and the cameras.
A crowd of fans surrounded her as she signed autographs, smiling for the paparazzi.
“Frank Carmichael and I are just close friends,” she cooed sweetly. “He’s currently composing a piano solo for my new drama. Please support him!”
I stared at her in disbelief. She glanced at me for the briefest moment, panic flashing across her face. But then she quickly looked away, refusing to meet my eyes.
When the crowd finally dispersed, Margot walked over to me, the faint smell of minty cigarettes trailing behind her. My stomach churned as she approached.
The scent hit me first—minty cigarettes.
It was unmistakable, the same brand Steven always smoked. My stomach churned, and I instinctively stumbled back a few steps, desperate to put some distance between us.
Margot noticed my reaction and frowned, a flicker of concern crossing her face. But then her gaze landed on my bandaged left hand. Her expression twisted into something sharp and mocking.
"You really went all out with this little act, didn’t you?" she sneered. "Coming here just to change the dressing? Let me see how bad it really is."
Without warning, she reached out to grab my injured hand. I yanked it away and shoved her aside.
Margot let out a soft cry, and in an instant, her bodyguards sprang into action, pinning me to the ground like I was some kind of threat.
“Ahhh!” I cried out as one of them wrenched my broken left hand behind my back. The pain was excruciating. I felt the bandages tighten as fresh blood seeped through them.
Margot didn’t even flinch. Instead, she coolly turned her phone screen toward me, forcing me to stare at it. My stomach dropped. The screen was filled with hateful comments and insults.
She had posted a statement on Instagram, casually admitting to her relationship with Steven. But that wasn’t the worst part. She’d accused me of being the third party—the homewrecker who tried to ruin their relationship.
I stared at the words on the screen, disbelief and anger mingling with despair.
The insults were endless:
[Frank Carmichael, a piano prodigy? More like a two-bit fraud.]