I died when he publicly announced I was his girlfriend

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It was the day Marcus Reed finally told the world—told Instagram—that I was his girlfriend.
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The day he started searching for me like a madman.
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It was also the day after I died.
***
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My last day on earth was brutally ordinary.
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I was at a club in West Hollywood with friends when I saw him. Marcus.
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He had my sister, Cassandra, tucked under his arm.
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I watched him lean in, his lips brushing her ear. A blush bloomed across Cassandra’s cheeks.
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"Marcus, you're terrible," she purred, her voice a perfect confection of innocence and invitation.
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He threw his head back and laughed, a rich, movie-star sound that filled the space. Then, right there, in front of everyone, he tangled a hand in her hair, tilted her head back, and gave her a deep, searing kiss. She made a show of pounding a fist against his chest, a playful protest that melted away as she burrowed her face into his neck.
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My own heart felt like it was caught in a fist, a dull, acidic ache spreading through my chest.
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He had never once introduced me to his friends.
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I’d seen the news of Cassandra’s return to the States online. It was the number one trending topic, right alongside the hashtag that broke me:
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#MarcusAndCassandraForever
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Marcus Reed. The youngest actor in history to win two Oscars. In every interview, for years, he’d spoken of a secret love, a woman he was waiting for. Now, his wish had apparently come true. My entire feed was an endless scroll of fans celebrating, wishing them a lifetime of happiness.
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But the one who had been by his side for seven years… that was me.
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One of Marcus’s friends finally spotted me. Brandon, a trust fund kid with a vacant smile.
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"Hey, isn't that Serena Jones?" he shouted, his voice slurring slightly. "Yo, you didn't actually fall for Marcus, did you?"
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Every head turned. A stage, a spotlight, and me at the center of their cruel little play. Phones went up, their screens like a dozen unblinking eyes.
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My friends stiffened, their faces hardening with anger. One of them started to roll up her sleeves, ready for a fight, but I placed a hand on her arm, stopping her.
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I looked at them, at their expectant, mocking faces, and I nodded calmly.
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"Yes," I said, my voice even. "I do love him."
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The table erupted in laughter.
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It's strange. I think when your heart breaks past a certain point, you just go numb. I gave them another small nod and turned to leave.
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Someone uploaded the video, of course. My social media accounts exploded.
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Nathan texted me. "Want me to get my team on this? We can bury it."
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I typed back. "No. It doesn't matter."
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I must have seemed so eerily calm that my friends didn't see the cracks forming beneath the surface.
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When I got home, I sat in the silence for a long time. Then I picked up my car keys.
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I drove up into the canyons, found a sharp curve on a dark road, and aimed for the edge.
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Cassandra brought Marcus back to my parents' house.
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My parents were almost never in the country. It was my house, really. My sanctuary.
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A wave of nausea washed over me. I knew exactly what this was. A performance. And I knew who the audience was.
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It was a special kind of cruelty, meant to kill the heart even after the body is gone.
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They were so impatient they couldn't even make it past the foyer, their mouths finding each other in a desperate clash. That face, the one I had adored for so long, was now fixed on another woman with the same intoxicating intensity. He kissed her, held her, wove his fingers through her hair with a reverence he’d never shown me, as if trying to absorb her into himself.
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Even that wasn't enough. Marcus swept her into his arms and, with a single, careless motion, cleared the entryway table with his forearm.
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I watched as the silver frame containing our picture—the only one we ever took together—skittered across the floor and shattered against the wall.
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The motion-sensor light in the hall flickered on.
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Marcus froze, as if waking from a dream.
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"Marcus, what's wrong?" Cassandra murmured, the strap of her dress slipping from her shoulder. Her arms were still looped around his neck, her face flushed with desire.
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"Nothing," he grunted, the spell broken. He seemed agitated, dragging a hand through his perfect hair. He set her down, a clumsy attempt to soothe her. "Someone filmed us at the club. I need to call my publicist. If this blows up, it won't look good."
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My sister pouted, but she was a professional at playing her part for Marcus. She just leaned against him, her voice a delicate, wounded whisper.
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"I think my sister was upset tonight. It's all my fault."
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"It's not your fault," Marcus said, his voice softening as he nuzzled her nose with his. "You're the only one I've ever loved. From the very beginning."
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Cassandra pursed her lips. "Then what about her?"
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She’d been using that tactic since we were children. The innocent victim.
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Marcus reached out and gently pinched the tip of her nose, an intimate, playful gesture. He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "Who do you think I love?"
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Cassandra’s blush returned.
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"Want me to make you some pasta?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
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"Marcus—" she giggled.
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He laughed, scooping her up and spinning her around before setting her down gently on the sofa.
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"Wait right here, baby."
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A tremor of pure dread started in my feet and shot up my spine, making my scalp prickle. I wanted to look away. I wanted to flee.
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But I couldn't move.
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Some strange force tethered me to Marcus, forcing me to watch him cherish my own sister.
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It was sickening.
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They say those who take their own lives are doomed to repeat their final moments for eternity.
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I was wrong. The worst moment of my existence wasn't the feeling of my car plunging into the abyss. It was this. This soul-crushing, deliberate act of erasure.


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The kitchen light cast a warm glow on his broad shoulders. He looked so domestic, so caring.
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I watched Marcus, clumsy and unfamiliar, rinsing vegetables in the sink. Water splashed onto his designer shirt, a garment worth more than my first car, but he didn't notice. His eyes were shining. This wasn't the bored, dismissive performance he always gave me.
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In all our years together, Marcus had never lifted a finger in the kitchen. He accepted my care, my cooking, my devotion, as if it were his due. Even intimacy felt like a favor he was granting me.
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He took it all for granted.
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I’d tried, of course. I’d begged him playfully to cook for me just once. He always had an excuse. Too busy with work. Had to watch his diet for a role.
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Only once, when I was doubled over with cramps so bad I couldn’t stand, he’d brought me a heating pad and a cup of tea.
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I had been so ridiculously happy.
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In that moment, I truly believed people could change.
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And they can. I see that now. The person they change for just wasn't me.
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I remember once, I accidentally saw a text chain between him and a friend.
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"You're still with that girl?" the friend had asked.
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Marcus's reply was casual, devastating. "It's easy. No drama. And she's clean."
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My family has money, but we weren't in his league. Not Hollywood royalty. From the moment I first saw him, I was lost.
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He was a star of impossible magnitude. The number of wealthy, beautiful women chasing him was endless. By comparison, I was a nobody.
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I got his number through a mutual acquaintance, added him, and then stared at his name at the top of my contacts, too terrified to say anything. I just watched his life through his rare posts, and it was enough.
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He was my god.
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So when he agreed to be my boyfriend, I was filled with more terror than joy.
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I couldn't understand why he would choose me. The entertainment industry was overflowing with goddesses. I was pretty, maybe, but in that world, I was plain.
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It happened at a booth in that same club. I was playing dice with friends when he walked over. The colored lights caught the planes of his face, and for a second, I felt like my god had descended from on high, just for me. I couldn't speak.
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He smiled and held out his hand.
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"Want to be my girlfriend?"
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My friends knew about my crush. They also knew the scene. A proposal like that, in a place like this, was a hundred-percent a dare. A joke.
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But even knowing that, I reached out and took his hand.
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And with that one gesture, I stepped into a hell I could never escape.
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Cassandra finished her pasta. They cuddled on the couch for a while, but they didn't go all the way.
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Watching them touch made my non-existent stomach churn.
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This had always been my space, my home. Now they were tangled up in the bed I bought, on the sheets I chose, making love in the one place I had to hide from the world. They wouldn't even leave me that.
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In every sense of the word, Cassandra was using the man I loved. And when she was done, she’d whisper, "Tell me you love me."
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The phantom headache I’d died with intensified.
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Marcus’s phone was buzzing constantly. Being famous meant being a permanent resident of the trending topics page.
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After Cassandra fell asleep, he slipped out onto the balcony for a cigarette, not wanting the smoke to bother her. The phone's blue light cast his face in an eerie, melancholic glow.
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I drifted closer to see the screen. The hashtags were all about me. #Homewrecker. #CloutChaser. #Desperate.
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There were also forwarded messages from his friends. Screenshots of the video from the club with chains of laughing emojis and comments like, "LMAOOOO this bitch is pathetic."
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I watched him scroll through it all, his expression unreadable. Then he closed the app and opened his call log. He frowned when he saw there were no missed calls from me. His face grew darker.
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Of course there weren't.
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I'm dead.
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He called his publicist. I heard him ask why the story was still trending, why it hadn't been taken down.
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His publicist laughed. "I thought you didn't care about this one? Don't worry, the fans know the drill. Last time…"
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"Take it down," Marcus cut him off. "I don't want Cassandra to see it and get upset."
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"Got it," the publicist said, his tone shifting immediately. "True love, huh? Makes a guy different. I'll handle it."
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Marcus took a long, deep drag from his cigarette and said nothing.
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"By the way," the publicist asked, "has she been bothering you again?"
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"No," Marcus answered quickly. "Gotta go."
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A tiny, familiar pang of pain echoed within me.
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I knew it. How could it ever be about me?
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Of course, it was because Cassandra was back. He needed to scrub his life clean of any inconvenient attachments.
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I won't bother you again, Marcus.
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Never again.


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A few days later was our seven-year anniversary.
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A celebrity's birthday belongs to the fans. But our anniversary… that was supposed to be the one day he was mine, and mine alone.
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The ritual was always the same. He'd wake up to a gift from me. A series of surprises would follow throughout the day, culminating in a candlelit dinner. Then we'd go home and… well, for him, it was probably just checking a box. Fulfilling an obligation.
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A perfect day.
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That morning, I watched Marcus stand in front of the mirror, carefully knotting a tie. He was dressing for something important.
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I was forced to follow him, a ghost tethered to his back, all the way to his agency.
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As he got out of the car, he paused, frowning and scanning the street as if expecting someone.
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What was he waiting for?
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Then I remembered. Our first anniversary. I had rented a ridiculous, stuffy teddy bear costume and bounced up to the entrance to give him flowers. Security almost tackled me, thinking I was a crazed fan. I was a sweaty, disheveled mess when I finally took the head off, but I was so happy, waving the bouquet and calling his name.
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And what did he do?
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He stood at a distance, a look of pure, mortified disgust on his face, then turned and walked inside without a word.
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His publicist chewed me out later. "Marcus Reed is an Oscar winner. How can you be so thoughtless?"
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I learned my lesson. No more grand, embarrassing gestures. But the flowers still came every year, delivered to the front desk for "Mr. Reed" to sign for personally.
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Until the last time. Our sixth anniversary. I was at the agency for a meeting, and on my way out, I took the stairs. I saw one of the cleaning staff pulling a huge bouquet out of a trash can. She shook it, and a small card fluttered to the ground.
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I knew that card.
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I had written the words myself.
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"My Dearest Marcus, Six years down, a lifetime to go. I hope to always be by your side. ?"
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It felt like someone had slammed my face into the pavement. I snatched the card from the floor before the cleaner could, tore it into tiny pieces, and flushed it down a toilet in the lobby bathroom. I stumbled out of the building, the heels of my shoes rubbing my ankles raw and bloody.
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As if the physical pain could somehow erase the humiliation of seeing my love treated like garbage.
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Looking back, I must have been such an annoyance to him.
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No wonder he never wanted the lights on when we were together.
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He only ever wanted to trace my silhouette in the dark.
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After all, Cassandra and I are sisters. There’s a five-point resemblance. Enough for a man who didn't want to see.
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Marcus seemed distracted all morning.
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It was strange. He was a notorious workaholic. The only person I'd ever seen him text back during work hours was Cassandra.
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Around noon, there was a knock on his office door. Marcus instinctively straightened his tie and strode over to open it.
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"Surpriiiiiise!" A massive bouquet of red roses appeared in the doorway, then lowered to reveal Cassandra’s perfectly made-up face.
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"You were waiting for me, weren't you?" she chirped, hopping from foot to foot like an excited bunny.
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I had to laugh at my own foolishness. Of course. That explained everything. Did I really think he was pacing around, anxious because my anniversary roses hadn't arrived?
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Impossible.
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Marcus’s face softened into a look of pure adoration. He reached out and tapped the end of her nose. "What are you doing here today?"
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"Just checking up on you," she said, her tone brazenly confident. "Making sure you're not hiding any other women in here."
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"Never," he laughed. "No other woman has ever been up here besides you."
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"Not even Serena?" Cassandra wrinkled her nose. "I thought you might have forgotten your promise to me."
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"How could I?" he said dismissively. "It's only ever been you."
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"Then what is she?"
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Marcus just looked at her, silent.
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Cassandra buried her face in his chest, her voice muffled. "Marcus, I love you so much. I regret it. I shouldn't have been gone for so long." She looked up, her eyes sparkling. "But I'm so glad you were still here, waiting."
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I wanted to scream with laughter. He was always here, yes. But where was I?
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And then I remembered. I remembered why I had taken the stairs on our sixth anniversary.
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I had come to his office that day to surprise him.
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I waited outside for what felt like an eternity. Finally, the door opened, and Cassandra walked out, clinging to his arm. The way he looked at her… it was with a tenderness I had never, ever seen.
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I can’t describe the feeling.
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He had been in there with her the whole time.
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And I had been sitting right outside. Like an idiot.
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Just then, my phone had lit up. A text from him.
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"In meetings. Won't be home."
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My own message from that morning was still visible just above it. "Hubby, come home early tonight! I have a huge surprise for you!"
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My clumsy, stupid love.
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"Marcus," Cassandra was saying now, shaking his arm. "When are we going to make it official?"
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For some reason, Marcus seemed lost in thought. She had to shake his arm again to get his attention. "What did you say?"
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Just then, one of his business partners walked in. He glanced at Cassandra, did a double-take, and then smiled. "Marcus, bringing your new girlfriend around again?"
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Again?
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I saw Cassandra's smile tighten, her expression turning ugly for just a fraction of a second.
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That evening, Cassandra insisted Marcus take her to dinner.
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"Where do you want to go?" Marcus asked her, his voice dripping with indulgence.
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She smiled sweetly and named my favorite restaurant. A tiny, hidden Italian place.
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I almost went insane.
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No! You can't! That's my place! My secret garden!
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That was where I had first awkwardly confessed my feelings to him. It held all our good memories, the few that felt real. You promised you would only ever go there with me! Why are you taking her?
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I threw myself in their path again and again, a desperate, silent scream. But they walked right through me, my ghostly form offering no resistance at all.
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It was utterly useless.
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"It's a little chilly in here," Cassandra said, rubbing her arms.
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Marcus paused, his gaze sweeping thoughtfully over the very spot where I was standing.
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For a terrifying, hopeful second, I thought he could see me.
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But he couldn't.
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After they were seated, Cassandra flirtatiously insisted Marcus order for both of them.
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And I watched, helpless, as he casually listed off all my favorite dishes, presenting them to her like a curated gift.
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"I came here with someone else once," Marcus said, his voice smooth as silk. "The whole time, I just kept thinking about how I needed to bring you here."
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And I, of course, was the nameless, insignificant "someone else."
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When the food arrived, she held up her phone. "Wait, let me get a few pictures."
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I watched as she systematically erased me. Every memory I had in this place, overwritten by her, one click at a time. A photo of the food, a selfie, a picture of their hands clasped tightly on the table.
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She posted it to Instagram with the caption: "My heart knows yours. "
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Every trace of my existence, just like my body, was vanishing into thin air.
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Soon, his fans descended. They flooded her comments, recognizing his hands, his watch. Then they swarmed onto the main feeds, celebrating their perfect couple. For every person wishing them happiness, another ten would be on my own page, leaving comments calling me a pathetic, shameless whore.
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Ever since I started dating Marcus, my DMs were a forbidden territory. A digital hellscape filled with gruesome images, bloody photos, curses, and endless abuse from his fans. They seemed to believe this was the only way to express their hatred for the woman who dared to touch their king.
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And it was all thanks to the man sitting across from her.
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As Cassandra was busy curating her new reality, Marcus watched her with that same adoring look. But I noticed something else. His eyes kept darting down to his own phone.
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What was he waiting for?
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Was he watching her post, anticipating the fresh wave of attacks against me, and waiting for me to come crawling to him for help?
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Curiosity got the better of me. I drifted behind Cassandra and glanced at her screen. For a second, the blood in my veins ran cold.
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It was a burner account, one I recognized.
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During the darkest days of my depression, after a few failed suicide attempts, this account had messaged me, over and over.
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"You worthless bitch, why aren't you dead yet?"
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"Didn't you say you were going to kill yourself? Do it! Do it!! DO IT!!!"
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It was my own sister? My own flesh and blood?
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Was she wearing this same sweet smile on her face when she typed those words?
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I felt a chill that had nothing to do with being dead.

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