A month before the Miss America pageant, Rhys Calloway—the boy I’d loved since high school—made a woman out of me. I thought our secret trysts were the culmination of years of quiet devotion, a promise of forever. Then came the final night. He watched me throw up backstage, his face a mask of utter contempt. “Anya Hollis, Miss Front Runner,” he spat, looking down at my barely showing bump. “Let’s see how beautiful you look now. With a baby weighing down your sash, how will you ever win?” He didn't stop there. “Oh, and about the father? There were so many men that night, I honestly can’t tell you who got the lucky draw. There were just too many.” He left without another word, dropping a fat envelope on the dressing table—severance pay disguised as a generous tip. When we met again, he was an untouchable A-list celebrity, and I was merely the kept woman of his studio head. But now, Rhys Calloway was suddenly, desperately, trying to be the father. 1 Victor Shaw was pinning me to the mattress, and I was trying to whisper “good night” into the phone to my seven-year-old son, Leo. Victor snatched the phone mid-sentence, his breathing ragged against my neck, and thrust harder into my body. “Scream for me, Anya!” he growled, his breath hot in my ear. “Scream for your son to hear!” My body trembled, responding to his punishing rhythm while my hand clamped tight over my mouth. It wasn't until Victor was entirely sated that he tossed the phone back to me like a stray bone. I scrambled to retrieve it, seeing the screen was already dark—the call had been disconnected long ago. “Just messing with you,” he chuckled, reaching for his belt. “Hey, you like all that celebrity gossip, right? I’m meeting a big star tonight. I’ll take you along, you know, for a little show-and-tell.” I nodded and helped him buckle his designer belt before quickly changing into the kind of dress that left nothing to the imagination. I knew exactly what his “show-and-tell” meant. Victor wanted to use me as a conversational prop. In all the years I’d been his mistress, he’d constantly leveraged me to assert his repulsive masculine confidence. Sleazy fox. Dirty whore. Take her out for a spin. These were the proud pronouncements I heard most often coming from Victor’s mouth. So, I followed him to the commercial event with professional apathy. That’s why I was able to hear the voice—the one that still lived deep in the coldest chamber of my memory—with unsettling clarity. “Thank you, thank you for the media attention. Our new movie is scheduled for release next month.” The next second, a camera swung around, pointing its lens directly at me. “Wow, what a beautiful woman! You look exactly like the former Miss America contestant who vanished years ago!” the reporter yelled. A crowd turned its head. My eyes met his. Rhys Calloway's lengthy speech instantly dissolved into a stutter, the hand gripping the microphone freezing mid-air. Rhys had dominated the headlines since he debuted. But I’d never imagined we would cross paths like this. Eight years had carved him into something flawless, effortlessly projecting an aura of sophistication and cool celebrity power. Beside him stood his beautiful co-star from the new film. I fought to keep my expression neutral, forcing out the practiced denial I'd internalized over the years. “I’m sorry, you’ve got the wrong person.” Victor Shaw, seeing the attention, swelled with pride. He grabbed a handful of my hair, a possessive tug, and steered me into the main hall. After the brief ceremony, Victor called me to the standard dinner party. Unlike most producers, Victor secured his investments by trading me. When we arrived at the venue, the host spotted me and immediately started joking. “This mistress of yours, Victor, why does she look so familiar? She’s got a real movie-star face!” “She’s a pretty little thing, but I’m bored of her,” Victor slurred. “If you like her, buddy, I’ll send her over to keep you company right now.” As he spoke, Victor circled his arm around my thigh, his oily fingers immediately sliding underneath my short dress. Rhys Calloway’s stunned gaze sharpened, shifting into something cold and devoid of feeling—unconcealed disgust. I knew he had recognized my status: trash, the dirt beneath his feet. A circle of men began chanting, pouring expensive champagne down my throat, glass after stinging glass. The sharp alcohol burned my esophagus. I suddenly remembered what I used to tell my fans: An independent woman doesn't need to depend on a man. How laughable now. The man I had once depended on was standing across the room, full of ambition and embracing a beautiful actress. I, the once-promising pageant queen, had been reduced to a sugar baby for a man old enough to be my father. “Don’t just talk about it, Victor! Let us see this little mistress of yours in action!” the host yelled, his eyes undressing me. Victor, a seasoned shark in this industry, instantly recognized the desire in the host’s eyes. Sacrificing a plaything for the happiness of an investor was always a profitable transaction. So, despite his possessiveness, he nudged me to sit next to the host. I was quick to catch on, leaning into the host's side with a practiced, saccharine smile. Pleased by the attention, the host pulled out a thick wad of bills and tossed them directly at my face. “It’s hot in here! We need to cool down!” he roared. “Tell you what, little beauty: Ten bills for every article of clothing you take off. How does that sound?” The room erupted in cheers. The only sound that cut through the noise was the heavy clink of Rhys Calloway setting down his glass. I instinctively looked his way. My humiliation—the host’s hands, the offer—had been witnessed by Rhys in its entirety. A faint, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. So, I played the game. I let the money fall, picked up the bills obediently, and slipped off my designer jacket. The second time, the host commanded me to remove my silk blouse. I swiftly unbuttoned it, letting it slide to the floor, revealing the generous swell of my breasts, barely covered by lace. There was no hiding now. I heard the collective intake of breath, the sound of men swallowing, and the faint, muffled clicks of flash photography. The third time: bra or skirt. But this time, the host’s aim was off. The stack of tens scattered across the floor. I knelt without a shred of dignity to gather the cash. That’s when Rhys Calloway stepped forward. His polished leather shoe landed squarely on the last hundred-dollar bill, his eyes boring into mine. “A mistress desperate enough to play this game really is pathetic,” he sneered. Ignoring the ridicule hanging above my head, I looked up and smiled. “Mr. Calloway, could you please move your foot?” Rhys hesitated for a few agonizing seconds before retracting his expensive shoe. I scooped up the bill and prepared to decide between my bra and my skirt. But a voice cut through the drunken commotion. “That’s enough! I’ve had paparazzi following me all week. I don't want anyone taking pictures of this.” Rhys Calloway’s face was dark with anger. The atmosphere instantly deflated. Then, his beautiful co-star, Eliza Reed, suddenly rose and asked me to accompany her to sign autographs for some fans outside. As we walked away from the men’s scrutiny, Eliza slipped her own tailored blazer over my bare shoulders. Outside, there were no fans. Eliza gently took my hand, carefully wiping the area that Rhys’s shoe had reddened. “You… you’re so beautiful. Why would you do this? Why would you earn money this way, with these disgusting men?” I took a moment to study the actress. She was wearing a perfectly tailored Dior suit, radiating a quiet elegance and the kind of innate superiority that comes with a life of comfort. People like her could never understand why a woman with working hands and feet would choose to earn “dirty money.” How could I explain? I desperately needed the cash—the fast cash. My seven-year-old son, Leo, was waiting. My mother was waiting in a hospital bed for me to pay the astronomical medical bills. And all of this, every single consequence, was thanks to her co-star, Rhys Calloway. “Anya, your parents raised you to be more than just a girl who sells herself…” I didn't know how Eliza knew my real name, but her voice was surprisingly kind, devoid of the filth and judgment I was accustomed to hearing. I wanted to tell her: I never had a father, and my mother became a vegetable the year everything happened. No one was left to teach me how to be human. But I said nothing, choosing silence. Perhaps my calmness unnerved her. Eliza suddenly thrust a thick wad of cash into my hand. “Go home.” My emotional dam, held up all night, finally shattered. I ran out of the building, collapsing onto the sidewalk next to a dumpster, and sobbed until my throat was raw. I didn't know how long I cried until a horn sounded behind me. A Maybach rolled down its tinted window, revealing Rhys’s face. “Get in.” I shook my head. “No, I’m fine.” Rhys scowled, exited the car, and bodily scooped me up, placing me on the leather passenger seat. The burning alcohol sloshing in my stomach made me too dizzy to argue. I mumbled an address. Rhys drove without a GPS. He knew the address. Eight years ago, a month before the pageant, he used to sneak here and light fireworks for me. Now, I realize he was probably only rehearsing. As I reached for the door handle, Rhys turned and looked at my rundown complex, a cruel smile on his lips. “After all these years, it looks like our beauty queen hasn’t been doing so well, has she?” My hand froze on the door. I stayed silent, too long for his patience. He suddenly leaned over, his fingers wrapping around my throat, a painful, possessive squeeze. “Anya Hollis, I remember you running your mouth about ‘independent women’ to your fans. What happened? Couldn’t snag a second crown, so you decided to sell yourself?” He tightened his grip. “Oh, right. You were too busy carrying some bastard’s baby to even show up for the final round.” As he finished speaking, Rhys bit down hard on my collarbone. I cried out, struggling, but he held me fast. “Is that producer of yours that good? So good that his love bites cover up the teeth marks of others? Does he even know his little toy is a former pageant champion?” Rhys’s voice was dripping with sarcasm when he said pageant champion. If he knew the hell I’d lived through over the past eight years, he would be laughing until he cried with triumph. When I started desperately wiping away the spot he’d bitten, Rhys’s tone shifted, a mix of contempt and genuine anger. “I’m your sugar daddy’s boss, Anya. You should be down on your knees, like a good little dog, begging for my favor.” I realized he was right. I smiled, the expression cold and empty. “Mr. Calloway, you’re absolutely correct. I must maintain a dog’s deference. So, I have to go home and call my master to lull him to sleep.” Rhys released my throat in an instant, his face contorted in disgust. “Anya, you’re nothing but a cheap whore now, passed around by everyone. Why not come be my mistress instead?” His gaze lingered on my exposed collarbone. “I’m younger, richer, and more famous than he is. Or have you gotten so used to being gang-banged that you prefer a geriatric producer?” I was too tired to fight. I simply stepped out of the car. The familiar voice stopped me again. I froze. “How much is Victor paying you?” “Two thousand. A month.” He laughed, a single, sharp burst of utter contempt. “Two thousand? You really are cheap as dirt.” The air behind me grew heavy, but I didn’t dare turn around. *Flashback At the time of the last pageant final, Leo was already four months along. But I loved Rhys too deeply to consider an abortion. That changed when Rhys found me vomiting and told me, word for word, the process of my drunken assault. I realized the passionate nights I remembered were only the crude boasts of thugs in the audio he played for me. I fled the contest in shame. But photos of me, cropped and edited to look like I was eagerly soliciting sex, were already everywhere. In an instant, I went from a rising star to a depraved tramp who'd willingly slept her way to the top. My endorsements were dropped, and the agency sued me for a massive breach of contract fee. When I first escaped overseas, intending to have an abortion, the doctor told me my uterus was damaged. I desperately needed a lifeline, and the first flutter of life inside me—the fetal heartbeat—was all the spiritual anchor I had left. I couldn't do it. During my third trimester, I hated Rhys Calloway with every fiber of my being. I swore I would find him, slap him twice, and demand to know why he had done this to me. But after Leo was born, the hatred faded. I only wanted to see him, to hear his voice—even a call across the ocean. Nothing. I grew afraid of people, unable to even hold a job as a dishwasher. When I returned to the US, I met Victor Shaw, who was fifteen years my senior. He found me working as a hostess at a corporate event and asked if I needed money. When basic survival becomes a luxury, pride and morality are worthless. So, I became a mistress, without a trace of guilt. I didn't worry about divine retribution; my punishment had begun the moment I met Rhys Calloway. Rhys had only been with me for revenge. Because his little sister had been hit by a car the year I won the crown. Her name was Jillian Calloway. She was my most aggressive, most ambitious pageant rival. Before my sudden rise, Jillian had been the industry favorite, even having cosmetic surgery to maintain her fame. When a black fan called her too short, she broke her leg to lengthen her height. When a judge called her face "chubby," she starved herself. But a person’s dream is always built on the failure of another. And I was the one who had stepped on Jillian's failure. From the first audition, I was the undisputed favorite, smoothly sailing to the crown. I still remember the scene backstage in the dressing room. Jillian knelt on the floor, weeping hysterically, clutching at my dress. “Anya, that’s my trophy! Mine! Please, please, just give it back!” I shrieked, terrified. Security guards rushed to pull her away, but she wouldn't release me. A fan who had been taking photos with me got fed up, grabbed a nearby chair, and slammed it against Jillian's body. “If you can’t handle losing, go home and play dress-up! What are you doing at a pageant? A plastic surgery nightmare like you isn’t fit to compete with my sister! You’re absolutely disgusting!” That night, Jillian was crucified on social media. The ugly rumors multiplied. The former first-place beauty queen was instantly reduced to a public spectacle, a rat anyone could kick. Jillian began appearing in sensational gossip columns, leading a life of self-destruction. I tried to tell myself it wasn't self-destruction, but a desperate search for a spiritual anchor. My fans didn’t see it that way. They believed she was faking it for sympathy because she constantly railed about my sudden appearance. They were relentless. Jillian’s social media DMs were soon filled with vile abuse. I assume my fans said terrible, mocking things to her. I never read them, but they must have been horrific, because shortly after, Jillian suffered a complete mental breakdown. On her birthday, she was struck and killed by a car, wearing her old pageant bikini. It was after that day that Rhys Calloway, my seemingly perfect crush, transformed into my own personal hell. He pursued me relentlessly, doing everything he could to win me over. It wasn't long after he started acting that we were officially together. Until the international pageant finals. Rhys watched me throw up backstage, his face twisted in disgust. “Anya Hollis, Miss Front Runner. Let’s see how beautiful you look now. With a baby weighing down your sash, how will you ever win?” “Oh, and about the father? There were so many men that night, I honestly can’t tell you who got the lucky draw. There were just too many.” Then, he described the assault in sickening detail, playing the audio for me. Rhys’s calculated cruelty destroyed every foundation I had built. I still remember my expression in the mirror that day, and I see it often in my nightmares. My expertly made-up face reflected shock, humiliation, shame, and sheer terror. I wanted to scream, but the tears came first. “I don’t believe you, Rhys Calloway! Tell me it’s a lie. Tell me this isn’t true…” For eight years, that memory has clung to me like a disease, flaying me inch by inch. But the nightmare wasn't over yet. Rhys jumped out of the car, strode over to me, and yanked my collar. “Anya, how can you live so comfortably? That was a life! Don’t you ever wake up thinking about the knife you handed to the people who killed my sister?” I couldn’t confirm if I was living “comfortably.” After Jillian’s death, I was too busy trying to survive to think about anyone else's fate. “I’m sorry,” I said, choosing the path of apology. “It was my fault.” The driver who hit Jillian was wrong. The judge who criticized her appearance was wrong. The paparazzi who stalked her was wrong. The fans who told her to die were wrong. And I, as their idol, was not innocent. But we have all been punished… Rhys’s face was contorted in a terrifying mask. He grabbed my wrist, squeezing until I thought the bones would crack. “Sorry? If you were truly sorry, why don’t you just die too? Anya, why wasn't it you who was hit by that car?” After his roar, he shook, his voice dropping to a fragile whisper. “Tell me! Why haven't you died yet? Go die now!” Die? I had tried.
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