The scent hit me first—minty cigarettes.
It was unmistakable, the same brand Steven always smoked. My stomach churned, and I instinctively stumbled back a few steps, desperate to put some distance between us.
Margot noticed my reaction and frowned, a flicker of concern crossing her face. But then her gaze landed on my bandaged left hand. Her expression twisted into something sharp and mocking.
"You really went all out with this little act, didn’t you?" she sneered. "Coming here just to change the dressing? Let me see how bad it really is."
Without warning, she reached out to grab my injured hand. I yanked it away and shoved her aside.
Margot let out a soft cry, and in an instant, her bodyguards sprang into action, pinning me to the ground like I was some kind of threat.
“Ahhh!” I cried out as one of them wrenched my broken left hand behind my back. The pain was excruciating. I felt the bandages tighten as fresh blood seeped through them.
Margot didn’t even flinch. Instead, she coolly turned her phone screen toward me, forcing me to stare at it. My stomach dropped. The screen was filled with hateful comments and insults.
She had posted a statement on Instagram, casually admitting to her relationship with Steven. But that wasn’t the worst part. She’d accused me of being the third party—the homewrecker who tried to ruin their relationship.
I stared at the words on the screen, disbelief and anger mingling with despair.
The insults were endless:
[Frank Carmichael, a piano prodigy? More like a two-bit fraud.]
[Disgusting. Destroying other people’s relationships and playing the victim? Get lost.]
[You're an embarrassment to all the great pianists in the world! Why aren’t you dead yet?]
It felt like the entire world had turned against me. I looked at her, my voice trembling, barely audible over the lump in my throat.
“How could you…?” My voice cracked, and I felt tears welling up in my eyes.
She faltered for a moment, noticing my shallow breathing and my pale, clammy face.
"Can’t you control your strength?" she barked at one of her bodyguards, smacking him across the face.
Then, in an almost contradictory gesture, she crouched down, helped me up, and called for a doctor.
“If you had just apologized earlier,” she said softly, “none of this would’ve happened.”
I stared at her, my chest heaving. My phone buzzed incessantly in my pocket, vibrating with hateful calls and notifications.
One after another, they poured in:
[Why aren’t you dead yet?]
[Go kill yourself, loser.]
[You’re a disgusting fraud. Rot in hell.]
Margot plucked the phone from my pocket and turned it off with an exasperated sigh.
“Don’t listen to them,” she said, almost like she cared.
I let out a bitter laugh. “Isn’t this exactly what you wanted?”
Her eyes darted away, avoiding mine. She shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t think it’d go this far,” she murmured. “I’ll fix it, okay? You don’t need to worry about it.”
I glanced down at my broken, unresponsive left hand, the hand that was supposed to be my entire future.
My voice was hollow when I said, “Margot, let’s just end this. Let’s break up.”
She froze. Then her head snapped toward me, her tone sharp and incredulous. “Are you out of your mind?” Her voice rose, almost shrill. “Frank, I said I’ll handle it! What more do you want?”
Her anger only solidified my decision. I forced a small, tired smile. “Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”
For the first time, she faltered. Her expression softened, and she took a step closer, trying to reel me back in. “Frank, without me, who else would support you? Be realistic. Think it over. Calm down.”
Her usual tactics—manipulation disguised as concern. But I wasn’t falling for it this time.
“I’ve already made up my mind,” I said flatly, refusing to engage any further.
Just then, the doctor called my name for an X-ray. Margot reached out to steady me, as though she planned to come along. But before we could take another step, her phone rang.
Steven’s name lit up the screen. She answered immediately, her voice soft and syrupy. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
“Babe, I think I’ve got a fever,” Steven whined on the other end. “Can you come see me?”
Margot glanced at me for half a second before pulling her hand away.
“Of course, honey,” she cooed into the phone. “Be good and wait for me. I’ll be right there.”
She didn’t even hesitate. She just turned on her heel and left, her heels clicking against the floor as she walked away.
This time, I didn’t call out to stop her. I just watched her figure grow smaller and smaller, disappearing down the hall.
Strangely, all I felt was an eerie calm.
...
Later, the doctor told me what I already suspected: my left hand’s fracture was severe. It would take months of therapy and rest before I’d even be able to play again. If ever.
By the time I returned to the villa, the house was pitch black. Margot hadn’t come home yet. I stood there in silence, staring at the emptiness of the place we once shared.
Our two-year relationship had never felt like we were together. At best, it was a hollow arrangement between two strangers who happened to share the same space.
I thought back to the first day we moved in together. I had been so full of excitement, eager to share my life with her, to be close to her. But that night, she brushed me off with a tired smile.
“I’m exhausted,” she’d said. “Let’s save this for another time, okay?”
I believed her. She worked hard, constantly on set, constantly under pressure. I told myself I’d wait, that I’d respect her boundaries.
But that 'other time' never came.
