We were on the set of a celebrity talk show, my ex and I. The host posed a dramatic question to the panel. “If you knew you were about to die and could only leave one letter, what would you write?” I paused, then wrote down three wishes on the card provided. When it was my turn to share, I read them aloud. “First, I hope everyone forgets me—” A sharp, derisive laugh cut me off. Mario Atkinson’s face was a mask of icy contempt. “Aren’t you full of yourself, Cora?” he sneered. “Who do you think is going to remember you? Who gives a damn if you live or die?” I managed a patient smile and said nothing. He didn't know. This letter wasn't a prop for a game. It was my last will and testament. 1 The taping was halfway through, and by now, everyone was used to Mario’s constant digs at me. After his latest barb, the host just laughed it off, smoothing things over with practiced ease. “Mario, always the comedian, hahaha.” He then turned to me, his voice gentle. “Cora, would you mind sharing the rest of your letter?” I nodded, my expression carefully neutral. “My second wish is to find a new home for Mochi. And the last is to donate my entire estate to charity.” Sensing the unspoken question, I quickly added, “Mochi is my calico cat.” The other guests nodded in understanding. More accurately, Mochi was our cat. Mario’s and mine. I’d found him on a rainy day, a tiny, shivering thing following my every step. I couldn’t leave him. My work kept me on the road, so when I was away, Mario would look after him. He claimed to hate pets. He’d pinch his nose while cleaning the litter box, muttering under his breath the whole time. But no one took better care of that cat than he did. He’d spend hours researching the best food and a fortune on toys and treats. When we fell apart, he left Mochi with me. As I finished speaking, Mario, right on cue, went in for another kill. He let out a cold, merciless laugh. “Cora, with a list that detailed, you’d better actually be dying.” The other guests had given vague, sentimental answers. Mine, by contrast, was unnervingly specific. The atmosphere turned thick with tension. The host froze, unsure how to salvage the moment. It was Liam, the actor sitting next to me, who broke the silence. “Mario,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Maybe try to keep it classy. We’re on camera.” He then smoothly passed me a bottle of water. I took it, my movements slow. Liam and I had just starred in a hit drama together, and the entire internet was “shipping” us. The studio encouraged us to play it up for the publicity, so I didn’t refuse his gesture of support. Mario’s gaze, however, was fixed on the water bottle in my hand, his eyes burning holes into it. Just as I braced myself for another cutting remark, he lowered his gaze and said something strange. “I’m thirsty.” For a beat, I was confused. Then, I offered him the bottle. He took it, but he didn’t drink. He just toyed with it for a moment before casually tossing it into a nearby trash can. His eyes, full of malice, flicked to Liam. “Sorry,” he said, the word dripping with venom. “I don’t drink that brand.” It was the ultimate power play, a move only someone like Mario could get away with. Backed by the immense wealth of the Atkinson family, he was untouchable. The host, wiping sweat from his brow, cautiously tried to steer the show back on track. “Mario, would you mind showing us what you wrote?” For the first time all night, Mario smiled, looking surprisingly agreeable. “Of course.” But when the camera zoomed in on his card, the host’s breath caught. Mario’s bold, aggressive handwriting filled the screen. Everyone stared, stunned into silence. He had written: “Before I die, I have to take Cora with me.” He smirked, reading the words aloud with a swaggering arrogance that filled the studio. The others looked at me with pity. But my face remained a calm, placid mask. It was only natural that Mario Atkinson hated me. After all, the way I had broken up with him was unforgivable. 2 Mario was fiercely possessive. My career as an actress, however, made intimate scenes with co-stars unavoidable. The show with Liam had a kiss scene. When Mario found out, he went ballistic. He demanded we go public with our relationship, right then and there. But we were in the middle of a massive publicity campaign for the show, centered on my on-screen romance with Liam. From a professional standpoint, it was the worst possible time. I told Mario we had to wait, at least until the show’s run was over. His eyes were bloodshot. He gave me a long, deep look, then turned and walked away without another word. I got swamped with work. By the time I had a moment to breathe and tried to call him, I found he’d blocked me on everything. He refused to see me, vanishing for days. The next I heard of him was a single post on his social media. 【My girlfriend, @CoraScott.】 Those four words nearly crashed the internet. But I didn’t know about it at the time. The day he posted it, I collapsed on set. I woke up a day later in the hospital. “Ms. Scott,” the doctor said, his eyes full of a terrible pity. “I’m so sorry. It’s late-stage cancer.” The words didn't register at first. There was no screaming, no hysterical crying. Just a profound, hollow silence in my head. Before I could fully process it, my phone rang. My agent. He’d been trying to reach me for two days, afraid to bother Mario, and was now unleashing his fury on me. Why did I go public? I had to deny it, immediately, do damage control. He ranted for half an hour. I didn’t hear most of it. I just kept murmuring, “I’m sorry,” and “I understand,” like an automaton. After I hung up, I sat on the edge of the hospital bed for a long time. This was the moment I should have been calling Mario. Explaining that the show with Liam was filmed two years ago, before he’d even moved back to the country. Explaining that I loved him, truly loved him, and had never crossed a line with anyone else. Explaining that yes, I wanted to tell the world I was his. But now… none of it mattered. How long does someone with late-stage cancer have? Six months? A year? It was all too short. And so, Mario, I can’t drag you down with me. As the last rays of sunset streamed through the window, I finally moved. My fingers found my phone, and I responded to his post. 【This joke isn't funny, @MarioAtkinson.】 Within an hour, my reply had over a million shares. My fans flooded his comments. Do you have any idea how disgusting this is? Spreading rumors like that! Get out of the industry, you creep. As if our Cora would ever look at you. You got called out. How embarrassing for you. This is sick. Trying to force a woman to be with you? Pathetic. Overnight, he became a laughingstock. Rumors swirled that his family, ashamed of the scandal, was threatening to cut him off. Through it all, Mario said nothing. I expected him to release our old photos, our text messages, anything to prove his innocence. But he did nothing. He just took the abuse, the endless tide of hatred, all of it, alone. Then, he sent me a voice message. For the first time, the proud, arrogant Mario Atkinson sounded… broken. “Cora,” he pleaded, his voice trembling with panic. “Do you love me? Just tell me.” A sob caught in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, swallowing the bitter taste of unshed tears. It took a long moment before I could type a steady reply. 【Not anymore.】 He never messaged me again. A man as proud as Mario would never beg. And just like that, without another word, we were over. 3 By the time I came back to myself, the host had managed to wrap up the segment. After a thirty-minute break, we started the second game: Truth or Dare. No one in this industry has a perfectly clean slate, so the "truth" questions were always carefully softball. I was relieved. But during the game, Isabelle, another actress on the panel, kept taking subtle jabs at me. We had a history. We’d competed for the same leading role once, and she’d lost. She’d held a grudge ever since, "accidentally" liking negative posts about me and then offering flimsy, insincere apologies. I was too focused on my work to care. Her antics always felt more pathetic than threatening. Until now. I lost a round, and she looked at me with undisguised malice. “Cora, truth or dare?” “Truth,” I said calmly. Her smile widened. She had been waiting for this. “So, what’s the real story? You and Mario. Was it ever a thing?” The host went strategically silent. Every eye in the room darted between me and Mario. Everyone knew the story. It was Mario’s great public humiliation, the one topic that was absolutely off-limits. And she had just thrown it onto the table. Mario didn’t look angry. His fiery gaze was locked on me, waiting. I lowered my eyes, saying nothing. “Don’t want to answer?” Isabelle taunted after a moment. “Fine. The penalty is ten shots of tequila.” She was determined to corner me. Just then, I looked up, my nails digging into my palms, and forced a light, easy smile. “No,” I said, my voice clear. “We never dated.” A collective gasp went through the room. Mario’s face darkened. A chilling smile touched his lips as he immediately backed me up. “That’s right.” “As if I would ever be with someone like Cora.” But in the next second, his knuckles went white. The wine glass in his hand shattered, the sound echoing in the silent studio. Shards of glass bit into his flesh, staining his hand crimson. He didn’t even flinch, didn't so much as frown. The room erupted in panicked shouts for a medic. The day’s filming was abruptly cut short. Most of the cast rushed over to check on Mario. But a deep, aching pain was spreading through my body, draining me of all strength. I went back to my room, took my medication, and fell into a heavy sleep. 4 At four in the afternoon, a staffer woke me. We were all gathered together and informed that we would be responsible for making our own dinner. “I hear Cora’s a fantastic cook,” Mario said, his eyes glinting with malice. Of course. It was always about me. I instinctively looked up, my gaze falling on his bandaged right hand. I felt a small flicker of relief. He could still move it. The cut wasn't too deep. At his comment, the other guests turned to me. “Well then, we’re counting on you for dinner!” Isabelle chirped. “Thanks, Cora!” “I’m a disaster in the kitchen, so I’ll stay out of the way.” “I think I see a guitar over there, I’ll go check it out.” In less than a minute, I was alone. I sighed and started preparing a meal for a dozen people. It was a lot of food. At one point, I turned my back for a second and a pan burst into flames. Before I could panic, Liam appeared out of nowhere and swiftly covered it with a lid. “I can’t cook,” he said with a gentle smile, “but I can definitely wash and chop vegetables. Just tell me what you need.” My eyes stung. "Thank you," I said, my voice thick with gratitude. With Liam’s help, the work went much faster. Two hours later, the last dish was done. As I carried it to the table, I noticed Mario standing in the shadows, his expression unreadable as he watched me. I had no idea how long he’d been there. The illness had left me so deeply tired. I didn't have the energy for another confrontation. I just averted my eyes and walked past him. At the dinner table, he started in on me again. He took a bite of food, then immediately spit it out. “So, the ‘great cook’ thing was just another one of your personas, Cora?” he asked, a mocking smirk on his face. For some reason, I just felt weary. How could he not know my cooking? He was the one who used to beg me to cook for him every time he had a day off. He was the one who would always clean his plate, down to the last grain of rice. I looked him straight in the eye, and a genuine, brilliant smile spread across my face. “It’s okay,” I said, my tone as casual as if I were discussing the weather. “If all goes to plan, this will be the last time you ever have to eat my cooking.” The ugly smile froze on his lips. For once, Mario Atkinson was silent. I don’t know what he was thinking, but for the rest of the meal, he ate with a strange intensity. No one else saw it, but under the table, his left hand was trembling uncontrollably. I’d only had a few bites when a wave of nausea hit me. I rushed to the bathroom, retching over the sink. I saw the tell-tale red in the basin and frantically washed it away. When I came out, I ran right into Mario. He stared at my pale face, his expression complicated. “Are you sick?” he asked. A mischievous impulse took over. I leaned in and whispered, “I’m pregnant.” His pupils constricted. He stammered, “Is it… mine?” I laughed softly. “I’m kidding.” “Cora!” he roared. Ignoring his fury, I turned and walked away. Back in my room, I locked the door, and the last of my strength gave out. I collapsed onto the bed. It was a good ten minutes before I could push myself up to take my medicine. Just as I swallowed the last pill, my phone pinged. A message from my mom. 【Honey, why did you send me so much money? Is something wrong?】 My eyes burned. I buried my face in the pillow and typed back. 【Everything’s fine.】 【I’m just heading out of town for a long shoot. It’s going to be a while. Take care of yourself, Mom.】 She didn’t suspect a thing. 【Okay, sweetie. I’ll put this in a savings account for you. By the way, I mailed you some of my homemade nougat. It should be there soon. You know how your blood sugar gets low. Keep some with you.】 She went on and on, fussing over me. To every instruction, I replied with a simple, “Okay.” Years ago, she had left my abusive father with nothing but me. She’d since remarried and built a new, happy life. I couldn’t bear to be a burden to her again.
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