The Truth in the Lens
That day, the sky was overcast, and raindrops fell like broken beads, drumming relentlessly against the windshield.
I sat in the passenger seat, my hand clutching the seatbelt tightly, watching Mark Collins concentrate on steering the wheel.
"Stacy, just hold on a little longer, we're almost home," his voice carried a hint of exhaustion.
I nodded, saying nothing.
Who would have thought that such a brief sentence would mark the turning point of our fate.
A piercing screech of brakes tore through the night, immediately followed by a dizzying, earth-shattering crash.
Almost instinctively, I lunged toward Mark Collins, shielding him with my own body.
Shards of glass, sharp as knives, whirled through the air—one slicing deep across my face.
The pain surged like a tidal wave, yet all I could hear was Mark Collins' frantic shouting.
"Stacy! Stacy! Wake up!"
When I opened my eyes again, I was already lying in a hospital bed.
The sharp scent of disinfectant filled my nostrils; above me, the white ceiling and the IV bags gently swayed.
Mark sat by the bedside, his eyes red and swollen, his face etched with guilt and anguish.
"Stacy, I'm sorry. It's my fault you got hurt." He gripped my hand tightly, his knuckles whitening from the pressure.
I wanted to comfort him, but I found that even speaking was unexpectedly difficult.
The nurse gently changed my bandages, and only then did I realize a jagged scar had formed on my face.
"Stacy, once I've made a success of my career, I promise I will proudly marry you," Mark Collins' voice trembled but brimmed with determination.
I touched the freshly stitched wound on my face, forced a smile, and nodded gently.
Back then, I naively believed that even if I could never appear on camera again, as long as I had his words, it would all be worth it.
Over these three years, I gave up the chance to return to the workforce and devoted myself entirely to Mark Collins's business.
From organizing project data to competitor analysis, from market research to technical optimization, every document was a testament to my dedication.
He always said, 'Thank you for your hard work.' But I never felt tired.
Because I believed we were building a future that belonged to both of us.
I waited for three years, waiting for him to keep the promise he made in that hospital room.
Today is the celebration banquet for Mark Collins's company.
I heard they just secured a major project—a milestone breakthrough for the company.
I specially hired a special effects makeup artist to paint a realistic "scar" on my face.
I want to surprise him— even with my scar, you'll still love me, won't you?
Before leaving, I stood in front of the mirror for a long time, carefully scrutinizing my makeup.
The "scar" was so vivid that even the texture of the skin was clearly visible.
I nodded with satisfaction, picked up my handbag, and headed toward the celebration banquet.
The banquet hall was brilliantly lit, with music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses blending together into a dizzying buzz.
I stood in the corner, waiting for Mark Collins to take the stage.
The moment he stepped onto the stage and grabbed the microphone, my heart nearly leapt out of my chest.
"To achieve what I have today, I needed a perfect woman standing by my side." His voice carried through the microphone across the entire room, his face glowing with a radiant smile.
My heart clenched suddenly, both nervous and hopeful.
The crowd began to cheer, and I held my breath, waiting for him to say my name.
But in the next moment, he reached into the crowd and pulled someone out—Ruby Taylor, an intern at the company.
She wore a white dress, and somehow her eyes and brows bore a striking resemblance to mine.
"Ruby is outstanding; she's helped me a great deal." Mark Collins draped his arm around her shoulder, his gaze filled with a tenderness I had never seen before.
The applause washed over the room like a tide, but I felt a chill surge from my feet up to my head.
What perfect woman? What 'helped him a lot'? Then what about all the sacrifices I made over these past three years?
I instinctively touched the 'scar' on my face and suddenly realized—it was only painted on.
I wanted to surprise him, but now I've become the biggest joke.
I turned and ran out of the banquet hall, the cold night wind brushing against my face, and finally, tears slipped down uncontrollably.
"Stacy? What are you doing here?" came Ruby Taylor's voice from behind me.
I looked back and saw her holding a glass of champagne, a triumphant smile playing on her lips.
"You heard what Mr. Collins said just now, right?" She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Some things should have ended a long time ago."
I clenched my fists, my nails digging deep into my palms.
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing much," she shrugged. "I just think Mr. Collins deserves better."
After saying that, she turned and walked back into the warm, bright Banquet Hall, leaving me shivering alone in the cold wind.
I didn't even notice when the raindrops began to fall, cold and biting against my skin.
I stood there, letting the rain mix with my tears as they slid down my face.
Every little moment from the past three years flashed through my mind, each detail like a knife cutting into my chest.
I once believed that love could overcome any hardship.
Only now do I realize some promises were never meant to be kept from the very beginning.
I wiped my tears away and turned to walk away.
Tonight's surprise has turned into a nightmare, and I will never dream those dreams again.
I stood in the cold wind for what felt like hours, until my hands and feet went numb.
Ruby Taylor's words, 'Mr. Collins deserves someone better,' stabbed at my heart like a thin needle—impossible to pull out or swallow.
Why should I leave like a coward?
I pulled out my mobile phone and opened the 'Marriage Proposal Surprise' plan saved in my photo album.
That was something I spent an entire week writing. It had a detailed plan — first, show up with the "Scar," then wipe it away in front of everyone, telling Mark Collins that I'm not afraid of the wounds from the past, that I just want to move forward with him properly.
Looking back at these words now, they seem childish and absurd.
My finger hovered over the delete key, hesitating for a few seconds before finally pressing it.
The moment the file vanished, it felt as if a corner of my heart emptied too, though more than anything, it was a sober, resolute clarity.
I can't just let this go.
I hailed a taxi home.
That was the house where Mark Collins and I lived together for three years; every corner holds our shared memories.
On the bookshelf in the living room sat piles of Project Data and competitive analysis reports I'd organized over those three years.
I walked over and took them down one by one to flip through.
The first two showed nothing unusual, but when I reached the third, I froze.
It was last year's analysis report that helped Mark Collins land his first major project, and the cover bore the signature 'Ruby Taylor.'
I remember very clearly — I spent three sleepless nights completing that report, every data point and conclusion double-checked by me.
Back then, Mark Collins patted my shoulder and said, "Stacy, you're incredible. I really couldn't have done it without you."
So how did it end up being Ruby Taylor's credit?
I kept digging, and what I found chilled me to the bone — all the key documents were signed under Ruby Taylor's name.
It turned out he had already secretly replaced my contributions with someone else's name.
Rage flooded over me like a tidal wave, but I didn't cry.
What good would crying do? Tears won't bring back his conscience or the three years I've lost.
I needed to take action.
I suddenly remembered Lisa Carter, who I met when I was an on-camera reporter; she's now a senior journalist in the finance section, known for digging up industry secrets.
I found her contact information, took a deep breath, and dialed.
"Hello, Stacy? Long time no contact. How have you been?" Lisa's voice was still as bright and cheerful as ever.
Hearing her voice made my nose sting suddenly, but I managed to keep my emotions steady.
"Lisa, I have an important lead for you—something that could make the headlines."
"Oh? What kind of lead is it?" Lisa's tone carried a hint of curiosity.
"It's about Mark Collins and his company. " I paused, then recounted everything—what happened at the celebration banquet and how he credited my achievements to Ruby Taylor—word for word.
There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone.
"Mark Collins, that guy actually did something like this?" Lisa Carter's voice was filled with surprise. "Stacy, don't worry, I've got this under control. Do you have any evidence?"
"Yes. " I pointed to the documents on the table. "I have all the original reports here, plus the chat records of work discussions with Mark Collins."
"Great!" Lisa Carter's voice suddenly brightened. "What do you want to do? I'll support you."
"I'm going back to the celebration banquet to expose them publicly. " I looked out at the night beyond the window, my eyes growing resolute. "I want everyone to know exactly whose efforts Mark Collins' success really belongs to."
"Alright!" Lisa Carter answered decisively. "When are you heading over? I'll arrange for the photographer to go ahead to ensure everything at the scene gets captured."
"Tonight—the Celebration Banquet isn't over yet."
"Okay, I'm coming over now. Let's stay in touch at the scene."
After hanging up, I stared at the documents on the table, feeling a heavy weight lift from my chest.
Mark Collins, Ruby Taylor, what you owe me—I'm going to take back piece by piece tonight.
I rifled through the wardrobe, found a black suit jacket, put it on, and looked at myself in the mirror.
The reflection showed no trace of my former gentleness—only cold, unwavering resolve in my eyes.
The celebration banquet—I'm coming.
After leaving home, I didn't head straight to the hotel.
I knew tonight's events were far from over.
The night breeze carried the chill of early autumn, yet it made me feel unusually clear-headed.
I flagged down a taxi and gave the name of the hotel where the celebration banquet was taking place.
Outside the car window, the city lights twinkled in the darkness, like countless eyes watching my every move.
My palm was slightly sweaty—not from nervousness, but from anticipation.
"Ms., we're here." The driver's voice pulled me out of my thoughts.
I paid the fare, pushed open the car door, and was met with a rush of warm air.
On the red carpet outside the hotel, late guests were still arriving one after another.
I took a deep breath and made my way toward the entrance.
"Stacy!" A familiar voice called out to me.
I turned around to see Lisa Carter standing not far off, waving at me.
She wore a sharp beige trench coat, her face bearing the keen expression of a professional reporter.
"You made it. Are you okay?" She hurried up to me and, seeing the suitcase I was dragging, asked with concern.
"I'm fine.""I shook my head and handed her the suitcase. "Find a place to put this for now. I'm going in."
"Okay, don't worry. The photographer is already inside. I told him to wait for your signal before shooting." Lisa Carter patted my shoulder. "Do you want me to come in with you?"
"No, I can go in by myself.""I took a deep breath. "I want him to know that I, Stacy Xavier, am not someone to be pushed around."
Lisa nodded and took the suitcase. "Be careful, and call me anytime if anything happens."
I straightened my black blazer and pulled a black mask from my bag to put on.
The 'Scar' I painted before was long gone. Now, wearing a mask is all for the 'surprise' later.
I didn't use the main entrance but went around to the side door where no one was checking in.
The security guard at the side door stopped me. 'Ms., do you have an invitation?'
'I'm a friend of Mark Collins. I already talked to him; he told me to come in this way.' I kept my tone calm, doing my best to appear composed.
The guard hesitated briefly—probably because I was well-dressed and mentioned Mark Collins. In the end, he let me through.
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