A fever hit 103°F in the middle of the night. I called Curtis Delgado. No answer.
Half-delirious, I used his card to buy some fever meds.
By the next morning, "Emma Henson the Gold Digger" was trending.
The endorsement deal I'd fought so hard for? Gone.
My already shaky reputation was dragged through the mud.
I'd barely clawed my way back from bankruptcy, and now I was sinking all over again.
I had no choice but to find Curtis and explain—apologize, even.
But when I reached the door to his private room, I heard his voice. Mocking. Casual.
"You know the best way to control a woman?"
"It's not spending money on her. It's making her owe you."
"Destroy her career. Bury her in debt."
"Then she can't leave even if she wants to."
I stared at the contract in my hands. The penalty clause. Seven figures.
Suddenly, it all made sense.
Why my family went bankrupt.
Why my career had stalled for years.
Every misfortune in my life—all of it traced back to Curtis Delgado.
1.
While I stood there frozen, my phone buzzed with dozens of new messages. Hate mail.
The same garbage on repeat.
Greedy. Shallow. Never going to change.
Found a man like Curtis and still couldn't appreciate him.
Someone tracked down my hometown address and sent funeral wreaths. Dead rats.
Others dug up my old films and demanded they be pulled from streaming.
My social media was a cesspool.
Every comment section filled with venom.
People were photoshopping my face into memes. Vicious ones.
Get out of the industry. Disappear.
All because I bought a box of fever meds with Curtis's money.
I pulled up the first post that had started the pile-on.
It read:
"This S-surnamed actress is the most shameless person I've ever seen."
"Her family went bankrupt. Curtis Delgado invested billions to bail them out."
"And how does she repay him? She schemes her way into his bed and becomes Mrs. Delgado."
"Years of marriage, spending money like water. And her private life? A mess."
"She makes millions per endorsement, but she stiffs her own employees—and can't even buy a box of fever meds without making her man pay."
"I've never seen a celebrity this cheap and petty."
The post was surgical. Targeted.
Not a word about what I'd sacrificed for Curtis over the years.
Just that box of meds. Fifteen bucks and change.
The little things reveal character, it said.
Lies dressed up as moral judgment.
I'd been so out of it with the fever yesterday, my head swimming.
Today, thinking a little clearer, I finally noticed.
The person who'd posted the smear was Curtis's new secretary. Margot Pruitt.
I'd met her before.
Young. Pretty. And hostile—every time she saw me, she looked ready to spit fire.
At first, I figured talented people were just temperamental.
Now I understood. She'd already cast herself as the next Mrs. Delgado.
I clicked through to her profile. It was full of her life with Curtis.
Ski trips. Galas. Wine country estates.
The glossy, gilded world of the elite.
But the photo that stopped me cold was from last night's charity gala.
Margot in a couture gown worth more than most people's houses. Jewelry dripping from her neck. Standing beside Curtis under the lights, smiling for the cameras.
It clicked.
Why the organizers had revoked my invitation at the last minute.
Why Curtis hadn't answered my calls.
He'd already moved on. Margot was the new favorite.
And now, with his blessing, she couldn't wait to tear me down so she could take my place.
