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.

Carlos's face darkened, his expression grim as he strode over and plucked the script from my hands.

"Who let you into my study?"

"Don't you have any idea how important this is to me, Aurora?!"

It was the first time in four years he’d ever raised his voice at me, the mask of the gentle, perfect boyfriend slipping for the first time.

My eyes reddened as well, and I looked straight at him.

"How important? More important than me?"

Carlos carefully placed the script back on the bookshelf and locked it.

His six-foot-two frame felt particularly imposing at this moment. With his back to me, he said in a low voice,

"Ten years ago, I ran away from home. If it weren't for the person who gave me this script, I might have died on the streets of Hollywood."

As if realizing he had said too much, Carlos turned back to me and added,

"Aurora, she is my benefactor, and my mentor."

I forced a bitter smile.

"Are you sure? Just a benefactor?"

Carlos frowned, but his gaze flickered for a moment.

"Of course."

For four years, Carlos and I had never even had a single argument.

He was a newly crowned Hollywood movie star.

I was a dancer on the verge of signing a principal contract with the Paris Opera Ballet.

Everyone thought we were a match made in heaven.

But today, on the day he won his Oscar, and with me twelve weeks pregnant.

I had to overhear such a conversation.

And see so many private photos filled with love.

The cruel truth sliced through the sweet facade like a scalpel.

It made me realize that these four years of what I thought was genuine love were all part of a script meticulously designed by Carlos for his revenge on my mother.

My heart ached so much I could barely breathe.

I had always known that Richard had a son, and I knew he had issues with Richard and my mother remarrying, refusing to come home for years.

But I never knew that he was Carlos.

The same Carlos who had filled my college years, the man I had been in love with for four whole years.

Tears streamed from the corners of my eyes.

With red-rimmed eyes, I spoke in a voice that threatened to break,

"Carlos, in these four years, have you ever lied to me?"

Carlos looked at me, a complex struggle appearing in his eyes.

He raised his hand, as if to wipe away my tears, the gesture still terrifyingly gentle.

"Never, Aurora. I love you so much, how could I ever bear to lie to you?"

He truly was a phenomenal actor.

Carlos had a face that could make all of Hollywood swoon.

A pair of captivating eyes, a high-bridged nose, and chiseled features. When he lied, not even his eyelashes trembled.

At our graduation ceremony, in front of thousands of people, he had knelt on one knee and said he would marry no one but me.

He'd even given me control of all the money he earned from acting.

Everyone said that Aurora James was the happiest woman in the world.

Even I thought so.

But his next words shattered what was left of my frozen heart.

"Next week, I'll take you home to formally introduce you to them."

Carlos's hand caressed my cheek, but his eyes were as cold as ice.

"It's just that, Aurora, you know I don't have a good relationship with my dad. But to marry you, I'll go back and see him. So you must wear the gown I've prepared for you and make a stunning entrance as my fiancée at his charity gala in Beverly Hills."

He wanted me, his stepsister, to appear at my own mother's side, pregnant with his child, and be introduced as his fiancée.

What a vicious, sick melodrama.

How absurd.

How laughable.

Carlos held me tightly.

But his embrace felt so cold.

Tears silently streamed from the corners of my eyes.

It turned out that from the very beginning, he had never felt a single genuine thing for me.

The next day, I went to a private clinic to schedule an abortion.

The doctor was a kind, elderly woman. She looked at my chart, hesitating, before finally just patting the back of my hand.

Afterward, I went back to the apartment and packed up the crib and baby clothes I had bought.

The joy and anticipation I once felt for this child's arrival were now matched by the intensity of my pain.

But there was no way I would let my child be born into a family filled with hatred and scheming, to become a tool for Carlos's revenge.

With tears in my eyes, I donated all those baby items to a charity.

After I was done, I replied to my mentor's email.

"I've made up my mind. I'll sign the principal dancer contract with the Paris Opera Ballet."

A month ago, because of Carlos's plea to "stay with me."

I had considered giving up the opportunity to go to Paris.

Thinking back now, it was utterly foolish.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed with a reminder notification.

It was for the Malibu beach restaurant that Carlos had carefully selected and booked to celebrate our fourth anniversary.

So today was our fourth anniversary.

He had said he was preparing a huge surprise for me today.

I didn't want to go, but holding onto a final sliver of hope, I went to the restaurant as planned.

But there was no sign of Carlos.

Soft music filled the restaurant, and outside the window, waves crashed against the sand while neon lights outlined the coastline.

I waited for three hours, the sky outside darkening until the Ferris wheel at the distant Santa Monica Pier burst into light.

Many people in the restaurant flocked to the terrace, gazing at the romantic words spelled out in lights on the giant Ferris wheel in the sky.

"Welcome Home, Evelyn"

Almost instantly, I knew why Carlos's phone had been unreachable.

This fourth anniversary of ours, to him, was nothing more than an insignificant scene in his script of revenge.

Evelyn's return was the main event.

Joyful cheers erupted from the pier, and Carlos's figure appeared in the Ferris wheel's private gondola.

Beside him stood a graceful woman.

Carlos smiled and waved to the people below.

His expression was one of someone who had just won a great victory.

As if he had won the whole world.

I mechanically cut into the long-cold steak on my plate. It tasted like ash.

A fog of unshed tears blurred my vision.

I set down my knife and fork heavily, unable to stop myself from thinking about the day Carlos confessed his feelings to me.

His spirited expression.

His words, "Aurora, be my girlfriend!"

Now, the memory of it felt jarring, ridiculous.

My appetite was gone. I got up and went to the restroom.

But as I came out, I happened to see Carlos and Evelyn sitting down at the table next to mine.