My Fake Boyfriend’s Real Vendetta

The night my boyfriend, Carlos, won his Oscar, I was in his villa in the Hollywood Hills, setting up a surprise party.

A champagne tower stood tall, waiting for the star of the night.

I killed the main lights and slipped into the shadows of the terrace, ready to throw my arms around him the moment he walked in.

But instead, I overheard him in the entryway, loosening his tie as he spoke to his agent on the phone, discussing a secret he’d been plotting for a long time.

"Don't worry. At my father's annual charity gala next week, I'll bring his 'stepdaughter' and the bastard child in her belly. I'll give him and that woman a surprise they'll never forget."

A fierce wind swept across the hilltop, rustling the white sheer curtains—an omen rippling through the dark.

Carlos didn't even step into the living room. He slammed the door and left, the roar of his car tearing a gash in the night sky.

The champagne tower before me crashed down, shattering and spilling across the floor.

So our four years of love had been nothing more than a meticulously planned act of revenge.

Our four years of romance at the University of Southern California were fake.

He used the alias Carlos Vance, taking his mother's surname, not only to hide his identity but to get close to me.

His promise to give me and our child a home was fake.

His plan to introduce me to his family was nothing but a prelude to publicly humiliating my mother.

His stepmother—my mother.

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1

The night wind was bone-chillingly cold.

My hands trembling, I pulled out my phone and dialed my mother, Charlotte, my voice unsteady.

"Mom, you mentioned before that my stepfather has a son who left home years ago."

"What... what's his name?"

The line was noisy on her end, filled with the cheerful din of celebratory music, but my mother's voice was as gentle as ever.

"He took his mother's surname, Vance. He did that to spite your stepfather. But his real name is Carlos Blackwood."

My heart plunged into an icy pit.

The phone slipped from my fingers, landing on the carpet with a dull thud.

My mother's gentle voice drifted from the phone, but each word was a nail scraping against my raw nerves.

"Oh, Carlos. He's refused to come home for so many years, struggling all alone in Hollywood. He’s a poor boy, really."

"Your stepfather said he just won an Oscar tonight. How amazing! What's wrong, sweetie? Why are you suddenly asking about him?"

Carlos's words from the entryway echoed in my ears.

"Her mother drove my mother to depression and death. This is a debt I must repay."

His hatred was a knife, and every word was a fatal cut.

So, he really was my stepfather's son.

The sunny, handsome upperclassman from college, Carlos Vance, was Carlos Blackwood.

Tears welled in my eyes.

I took a deep breath, forcing a smile as I tried to sound calm.

"It's nothing, Mom. I was just asking."

After hanging up, I shakily got to my feet, ignoring the mess on the floor.

I went into his study and found his prized Leica camera, an object he usually wouldn't even let me touch.

On the phone, Carlos had mentioned a name I'd never heard before.

Evelyn.

In four years, I had never even heard her name.

I opened the darkroom, the pungent smell of developing fluid stinging my nose. On the rolls of newly developed film were artistic photos, all of them of the same woman.

The woman in the photos had a cold, stunning beauty, yet her eyes revealed an absolute trust and intimacy with the person behind the camera.

My hands trembled as I flipped through the photos.

The composition of light and shadow in every single one showcased Carlos's deep, unconcealable love for this woman named Evelyn Laurent.

A teardrop fell onto a photo.

I looked up, blinking hard, trying to stop the tears from falling.

But my eyes refused to obey, tears falling as steadily as the rare, heavy rain now lashing against the windows.

At two in the morning, the sound of an engine cutting off came from outside.

Carlos switched on the entryway light. He was dressed in a black shirt, and I watched his hands—those hands with their well-defined knuckles—flick the switch.

He stood under the dim yellow glow.

I sat on the sofa, staring at his exhausted yet still breathtakingly handsome face, and asked softly,

"Carlos, who is Evelyn?"

A few hours ago, he had sealed my fate to his agent over the phone.

"Aurora doesn't deserve to have my child. Once my revenge is complete, I'll make her abort it. Evelyn is returning soon, and I can't let this child affect my future with Evelyn."

Hearing the name Evelyn Laurent.

Carlos's weary eyes instantly narrowed, pinning me with the fury of someone whose secret has been discovered.

"How do you know about her?"

I didn't answer, just picked up the script he had prized for years, and spoke in a hoarse voice.

"It's written on the title page. To Carlos, my future superstar. —Evelyn."

This script, Carlos had guarded it like a jewel for three whole years.

Along with the script, there was a cufflink.

Carlos had worn it on his wrist all this time.

He had never taken it off.

I had asked indirectly about the cufflink's origin, but he had just stroked it gently and told me,

"It was a gift from someone who helped me in my career."

I had dismissed my doubts and didn't press further.

I never imagined that this so-called benefactor was his true love.