After My Lover Erased Himself to Be My Ghost

I didn’t stop moving. If I stopped, the silence of my Malibu house would catch up to me. So I threw myself into the machine.

I booked a grueling international press tour for my new thriller. London on Monday. Paris on Wednesday. Tokyo by the weekend. I packed my days with fittings, morning shows, and endless script reads. I smiled for the cameras. I wore sharp tailored suits and backless silk gowns. I answered the same questions from fifty different journalists with the exact same polished laugh.

I was Saylor Montgomery. I was Hollywood royalty. I was untouchable.

My days were loud and blindingly bright. But my nights were a void. I drank black coffee at two in the morning and memorized lines until my eyes burned. I didn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I smelled cinnamon and brown sugar. I saw a raw, pink patch of skin under a boy's left eye.

Maya watched me closely. She was my shadow, handing me bottled water and fixing my schedule. Sometimes she just stood in the corner of a green room and stared at me. She knew I was bleeding out. But I played the role of the untouchable queen so flawlessly that even Maya bought the act most days. I didn't cry. I kept my right thumb pressed hard against the inside of my left wrist, feeling my frantic pulse. That was my only leak.

I told Maya to cut Briggs off completely. Change the gate codes, alert security, scrub him from my life. But Hollywood is a very small town. Gossip always bleeds through the cracks.

Three weeks after I left him on the beach, I was in a makeup chair in a New York hotel room. Maya stood by the window, scrolling through her tablet.

“He sold the watch,” she said quietly.

I opened my eyes. The makeup artist paused, holding a brush in mid-air. “Give us a minute,” I told her.

The artist nodded quickly and left the room. The door clicked shut.

“What watch?” I asked, keeping my voice perfectly flat.

“The vintage Rolex you gave him for his birthday,” Maya said. She didn't look up from her screen. “He took a massive loss at a pawn shop in the Valley. Word is he’s completely broke, Saylor.”

I stared at my reflection. My face was perfectly contoured. Cold and hard like marble. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because he’s desperate,” Maya pushed back, finally meeting my eyes. “He called his agent yesterday and begged for anything. Commercials, walk-ons, extra work. He said he doesn't care about the pay. He’s taking cash advances on his credit cards.”

I felt a sharp prick in my chest. I pushed it down. “People run out of money, Maya. That isn't my problem anymore.”

“He made a huge payment forty-eight hours before a deadline,” she added. Her voice was gentle, but her eyes were sharp. “To some long-term care facility upstate. Greenfield, I think. I don't know what it’s for. But he's drowning.”

A facility? For a brief second, my mind spun. A rehab? A sick relative? A secret debt? I gripped the padded arms of the makeup chair. My knuckles turned white.

“I don't care,” I said firmly. “He made his choices. I made mine. Don't bring his name up again.”

Maya sighed. She recognized the tone. It was the tone that ended conversations permanently. “Understood,” she murmured.

But the universe wouldn't let me forget him.

A month later, I was back in Los Angeles. I was sitting alone in my trailer on the Sony lot, reading over a new script. My phone buzzed on the glass coffee table. The caller ID flashed. It was Robert Mitchell, the legendary director of *Forged in Fire*.

I had pulled strings to get Briggs his supporting role in that movie. After the breakup, I thought about making a call and having him fired. It would have taken one sentence. But I didn't. I wasn't that petty. I let him keep the job.

I picked up the phone. “Robert. Tell me you're wrapping on schedule.”

“Saylor,” Robert’s gruff voice boomed through the speaker. “I owe you a drink. A very expensive one.”

I leaned back on the velvet sofa. “Oh? Did the studio finally up your budget?”

“Better,” he chuckled. “It's about the kid. Briggs.”

My breath hitched. My right hand immediately flew to my left wrist. I pressed my fingers into my pulse. “What about him?”

“I don't know what happened to that kid,” Robert said, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute awe. “But I'm not wasting it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. I kept my words slow and measured.

“We shot the orphanage scene today. The big one. Where his character loses his mentor.” Robert paused, exhaling heavily. “Saylor, the kid just broke down. It wasn't acting. It was something else entirely. It was dangerous. Raw. The whole crew went dead silent. He was shaking, crying like he had absolutely nothing left to live for. It was the most authentic grief I've seen on a camera in ten years.”

I closed my eyes. The trailer felt suddenly freezing. The image of Briggs standing alone on the dark Malibu beach flashed in my mind. The wind whipping his hair. The tears spilling over his laser-scarred cheek. *You were never him. And now you're not even you.*

“I rewrote two more scenes for him tonight,” Robert continued, oblivious to the silence on my end. “I'm expanding his role. He’s going to steal this entire movie, Saylor. I just wanted to call and thank you. Shoving him my way was the best favor you could have done for me.”

A heavy knot formed in my throat. He was hurting. He was channeling the absolute wreckage I left him in, and he was turning it into art. He was using the pain I caused him to survive.

“You're welcome, Robert,” I whispered. “I have to go to set now.”

“See you at the premiere, Saylor.”

I hung up the phone. The trailer was dead silent again. I looked at the script in my lap, but the words just blurred together into meaningless black shapes.

My chest burned. I wanted to call him. For one weak, pathetic second, I wanted to pick up the phone and ask him if he was eating. If his cheek still hurt. If he was okay.

But I didn't. I forced myself to stand up. I walked over to the full-length mirror on the door. I smoothed down the front of my designer dress. I checked my red lipstick. It was perfect.

I rebuilt the wall, brick by cold brick. I opened the door and stepped out into the blinding California sun. I had a scene to shoot. I was Saylor Montgomery, and I never looked back.