Chapter 3

Even so, I had to eat. I set up my booth at the market as usual.

Before I could even unfold my display rack, a pack of masked teenagers swarmed my stall.

"That’s her! The manipulative psycho!"

Before I could react, thick red paint splashed across my face and clothes.

Raw eggs and bruised vegetables rained down on me like hail.

"Get out of our city!"

"Stop stalking Julian!"

They ripped my storage boxes open, dragging out the clay figures one by one, smashing them onto the pavement, and grinding them beneath their sneakers.

Those delicate, lifelike figurines—pieces I had spent sleepless nights crafting with aching fingers—were reduced to smears of colorful mud on the concrete.

They kicked my wooden cart over, splintering the frame with a loud, sickening crack that felt like my own ribs snapping.

Someone shoved me hard. I hit the ground, curling into a tight ball to shield my face.

Passersby and neighboring vendors gathered, pointing and whispering.

"She looked like such a quiet, honest girl. Who knew she was so shameless?"

"Trying to trap a movie star... serves her right."

Not a single person reached out a hand.

They looked at me as if I were a piece of garbage clogging the sidewalk.

That night, my landlady knocked on my door.

She didn't step inside. She lingered on the threshold, wearing a pained, awkward expression.

"Summer... I think it’s best if you pack your things and leave."

"Fans are camped out downstairs every day. It’s ruining the building's reputation."

"I run a small property. I can't afford to get sued or harassed by celebrity fanbases."

Evicted.

Dragging my battered cart behind me, soaked in paint and humiliation, I wandered through the freezing streets at two in the morning.

Suddenly, my stomach convulsed violently.

I lunged for a nearby trash can, retching until my throat burned.

In the end, all that came up was bitter stomach acid.

A terrifying thought struck me like lightning.

My period was over two weeks late.

Panicking, I sprinted to a 24-hour pharmacy and bought a pregnancy test.

Under the harsh fluorescent light of a public restroom, staring down at two unmistakable pink lines, my breath caught in my throat.

Here I was, completely destitute, discarded by the world.

A child—something that should have been conceived in love and joy—felt like the cruelest punchline to an agonizing joke.

I was pregnant.

Desperate, I dialed a number.

Not Julian’s. His high-powered agent, Patricia Kane.

I had saved her contact during a quiet dinner Julian once brought me to.

The line connected quickly. Patricia’s voice dripped with impatience.

"Who is this?"

"Patricia, it's Summer."

A few beats of silence, followed by a dry sneer.

"Oh. You. Didn’t the check clear?"

"No, it's not that." I took a shaky breath, my voice trembling. "I'm... I'm pregnant."

"It's Julian’s baby."

Dead silence stretched over the receiver.

Then came a laugh, colder and sharper than the winter wind outside.

"Summer, do I look like an idiot to you?"

"Using a baby to extort an A-lister? That is the oldest, most pathetic trick in the book."

"Keep dreaming."

"Julian will never acknowledge this."

"Take my advice: find a private clinic, take care of it quietly, and don't make your life any harder than it already is."

*Click.*

She hung up.

I held the phone against my ear, frozen.

Just as the darkness began to swallow me whole, my phone rang again. It was my aunt from my hometown.

She was weeping hysterically on the other end.

"Summer! You have to come home! Your mother... she collapsed!"

"The doctors say her cancer is back! She needs emergency surgery, and it’s going to cost thousands!"

She texted me a photo of the medical estimate.

The string of zeros under the total balance felt like needles stabbing into my retinas.

I sold everything I owned.

My broken cart, my professional clay tools, even the small vintage gold necklace my mother had given me for my eighteenth birthday.

I liquidated every cent of my savings.

I wired the entire sum to my aunt's account.

"The money is there," I told her through tears. "Get the best specialists. Use whatever medicine she needs."

Hanging up, I opened my banking app to see a balance of $12.43. A laugh escaped my lips.

Turns out, when you are backed into a corner, you truly have nothing left to lose.

Dignity, love, career... all of it was gone.

No, wait.

I still had something.

I looked down, resting my trembling palm over my flat stomach.

I still had him.