And now my life is just about as perfect as could be, or at least I think it is. I really have nothing to measure against, and I certainly never got praise or positive feedback from my grandmother. Most of my movies since have been blockbusters. I can now pick and choose my roles, or choose not to do anything at all for a while. I’m rich beyond measure, have a gorgeous fiancé who thinks I’ve hung the moon and stars, and adoring fans all over the world.
Which makes it really weird that my smile seems so fake at events like these. I try my hardest to look approachable, humble yet filled with confidence to be in the limelight. Truth be told, I hate shit like this. I’m not in it for the accolades.
Brad tugs on my arm and we turn toward a covered tunnel that will take us into the theater. I see Brad’s female costar and her husband take our spots for their round of photos and endless fashion questions.
“Eden,” someone calls out near the tunnel, and I see a paparazzo standing there holding his camera in a relaxed pose near his chest. I start to widen my smile so he can snap his picture, but his next words freeze me in place. “Do you have any comment about the photos that were just leaked to Inside Gossip about fifteen minutes ago showing your fiancé with another woman?”
My head starts spinning and Brad mutters, “Fuck,” under his breath. That makes my head spin even more, because that was an admission to me.
I turn my head to look at him with astonishment and the camera flash goes off from the man who had thrown that question at me. I’m sure he’s capturing the most surprised, stunned look that has ever graced this actress’s face.
But this isn’t a fucking act.
This is real life.
“Brad?” I whisper, and my voice is filled with a begging that I know he hears clearly. Begging him to tell me it’s not true.
Before he can admit or deny, the photographer calls out to me again. When I turn back to him, trying to compose my facial expression, his next question practically punches me in the gut. With his camera in front of his face and snapping pictures, he asks, “And what are your thoughts about the fact it was with his costar for this movie…Lilliana Prentice?”
My head snaps around and my body follows so I can focus my gaze on Lilliana. She and her husband are standing there with their arms wrapped around each other, smiling for the paparazzi.
I whirl back around and face Brad, who is now rubbing his temple as if he has the world’s biggest headache, his gaze pinned to the ground.
“You’re fucking Lilliana?” I hiss at him. Hurt and embarrassment rise through me and I begin to feel light-headed.
“Here are the photos,” the photographer offers, and I look back to him to see him leaning over a barrier to hand them to me. I stomp over to him, grab the photos with a snarl, and start flipping through them.
Brad appears at my side, trying to grab them away from me. “Eden…don’t. Let’s not do this right here. It’s my movie premiere, for fuck’s sake.”
But I turn my back on him, hastily flipping through photo after photo of Brad and Lilliana in intimate embraces in various locations. None of them are naked pictures, but all of them show them kissing deeply with roaming hands.
Except one…and I immediately recognize it as the pool in my backyard. Lilliana is lying on my chaise lounge and my fiancé is bent over her, rubbing oil on her back. Where the hell was I?
Brad takes another grab at the photos, and I spin back to look at Lilliana, who by this time is walking our way with her husband, not even aware of the shitstorm brewing.
She locks eyes with me, and that Hollywood glam smile she’d had on immediately slides off. Her gaze darts to Brad, then back to me, and she knows I know. I take two aggressive steps toward her and she backs up. Her husband—I think his name is Phil—releases his hold around her waist and I take a moment to note the confused look on his face.
“You fucking bitch,” I snarl at her, but my anger’s not just for her. It’s for Brad too. More so for him, actually. I whip around to face the faithless cheater. “You fucking bastard. How could you?”
“What’s going on—” Phil starts to ask, but I don’t answer. I merely thrust the stack of photos into his chest and he grabs them from me.
“Eden,” Brad says placatingly, his arms outstretched. “I’m so very sorry, but now isn’t the time to hash this out.”
“Oh yeah,” I say in a loud voice so anyone within a twenty-foot radius can hear me. I don’t intend to be that loud, but I’m nearly hysterical. “Wouldn’t want anything ruining your movie premiere now, would we? Certainly not breaking news that you can’t keep your dick in your pants with your skank of a costar.”
“Now wait a minute,” Lilliana begins, but I whip around on her.
“Shut your mouth,” I warn her menacingly. “I do mixed martial arts, and this slit in my dress is high enough that I could kick you in the face.”
Lilliana’s mouth snaps shut.
“Eden,” Brad says again. “Honey.”
And that tips me over the edge. I glare at Brad, and then march right up to the photographer who started all this.
“Want an exclusive?” I ask him sweetly.
He nods, practically salivating.
“Brad Wright has a problem with premature ejaculation,” I tell him untruthfully. “And he’s so insecure about it he often wets the bed when he sleeps.”
The photographer turns to Brad. “Brad…is it true…do you have erectile dysfunction?”
The camera flashes but I pay it no mind. I turn around and walk gracefully but quickly back down the red carpet, breaking into a trot as I get nearer to the street. Reporters call out to me, other actors and actresses I know look at me with worry as tears start to fill my eyes. When I get to the end of the carpet, I turn right and frantically start searching for my limo. It can’t be too far away, as we’d just alighted and were among the last to arrive.
Worst-case scenario, I’ll grab a cab.
“Come with me,” I hear a man say, and my elbow is taken in a firm grip. I look up and see Lilliana’s husband there. His face is red and his jaw is set in a hard line. “My limo’s right there. I’ll get you out of here.”
I don’t hesitate. He’s now my comrade in jilted arms. We’ve been screwed over and we’re in this together. At least for now until I can get a ride home.
Phil—again, I think that’s his name—quickly gets me into his limousine and asks for my address as he slides in beside me. I give it to him and he passes it to the driver, and then we’re on our way.
Suddenly a handkerchief is dangling in front of my face, and I realize I’ve got tears streaming down it. Phil gives me a sympathetic smile and pushes the handkerchief at me. I gladly take it and in a watery voice, say, “Thank you, Phil.”
“Actually, it’s Paul,” he says, but his smile doesn’t waver.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur as I soak up the tears from the corners of my eyes. “Please forgive me.”
“Forget about it,” he says with a wave of his hand.
“Guess we ruined their premiere night, huh?” I say with a half sob, half laugh.
“You did make quite a spectacle of yourself,” he agrees.
“Did you have any clue?” I ask him, because I was completely in the dark.