I woke up to my phone screaming.
It took me a second to find it tangled in the sheets.
I pressed it to my ear without checking who it was.
"Hello?"
"Margaux!" My manager's voice was way too cheerful for 3 PM. "Guess what?"
I groaned. "If this isn't urgent, I'm blocking you."
He ignored me. "Your movie. Four hundred million pesos. Day two gross."
I blinked.
"Wait. What?"
He was practically squealing. "Four hundred million, Margaux! Second day pa lang. You and David are killing it."
I sank back against my pillows.
Of course.
Well.
Of course.
David Lopez is a household name.
Golden boy.
People would pay to watch him read the dictionary.
And me?
My haters would pay just to have something new to complain about.
Watch me on the big screen, dissect every expression, call me fake, talentless, arrogant.
I didn't care.
Okay. That's a lie.
But four hundred million was four hundred million.
If there was anything i learned in showbiz, it's that you celebrate wins, even if you have to do it with shaking hands and tear-streaked makeup.
I stared at the ceiling.
Then i grinned.
Fuck it.
I was going to celebrate.
I called Ken right away.
Ken Rivera.
A-lister.
My best friend since we were kids. Technically a family friend first, our parents ran in the same circles, sent us to the same ridiculous summer camps.
But he was the one person in this world who never gave up on me, even when it was career suicide to be seen with me.
"Answer your damn phone," I muttered when it rang twice.
He finally picked up on the third ring.
"Marga. It's early."
"Don't call me Marga. Guess what."
"You're pregnant."
I rolled my eyes. "Classy. No. The movie's at four hundred million. Day two."
He whistled. "Well, well. Look at you. The bank heiress turned box office queen."
"Shut up," I said, but i was smiling.
I shifted the phone to my other ear.
"Bar tonight," I said. "My treat. Bring your girlfriend."
He went silent for a second.
"Yeah. Sure."
"You don't sound sure."
"It's nothing."
"Ken."
He cleared his throat. "I'll figure it out. Send me the address."
I narrowed my eyes at the wall.
"You okay?"
"Always," he said.
Which meant no.
But i didn't push.
Instead, I texted him the bar's address.
Come. Celebrate with me. Bring her.
I added a smiley face.
You know.
Just to make it clear there was no angle here.
God knows people loved inventing those.
I spent the rest of the day getting ready.
A long bath.
Hair in rollers.
Makeup heavier than usual.
A dress that walked the line between watch me shine and don't accuse me of being too much.
I even practiced smiling in the mirror.
This was supposed to be a good night.
—
The bar was already buzzing when i arrived.
VIP room.
Good music.
My team was there, my stylist, two screenwriters i adored, David couldn't make it but sent a bottle over.
I ordered shots for the whole table.
When Ken arrived, he was alone.
I raised an eyebrow.
"Where's your girlfriend?"
He looked tired.
"Didn't come."
"Why?"
He hesitated. Then just shook his head.
"We're done," he said quietly.
"Oh."
I didn't ask for details.
That wasn't how we worked.
I just handed him a shot.
"To breakups and blockbusters," I said.
He clinked his glass against mine, eyes tired but warm.
We toasted.
We drank.
We were laughing about something dumb, I think i called him an overrated leading man and he told me my eyeliner was crooked, when the first flash went off.
We drank more than we planned.
Ken tried to pace himself, but i didn't.
Every toast felt deserved.
Every shot felt necessary.
Four hundred million.
That had to mean something.
So i kept lifting my glass.
To success.
To survival.
To spite.
Ken's hand was steady on my back when i nearly fell off the chair laughing.
"You're a mess," he said, but he was laughing too.
"I'm a rich mess," I slurred back.
He rolled his eyes and ordered me water i barely touched.
-
I didn't remember the ride home.
Ken insisted on dropping me off himself.
I think i told him i was fine.
I think he didn't believe me.
The next thing i remembered clearly was my bedroom ceiling spinning overhead as i kicked my heels off, tugged my dress halfway over my head before giving up.
My face hit the pillow like a knockout punch.
No prayers.
No skincare.
Just blackness.
-
I woke up late.
Head pounding.
Mouth dry.
Still half-dressed, eyeliner smudged like a raccoon.
My phone buzzed relentlessly on the nightstand.
Groaning, I grabbed it.
I squinted at the screen.
Messages.
Missed calls.
Notifications in the hundreds.
I had a dozen missed calls from my manager.
Three from Ken.
and countless group chats lighting up.
Confused, I opened the first link someone sent me.
And there it was.
The headline.
"Spotted: Margaux Imperial getting cozy with Ken Rivera—Third Party?"
Below it, the photos.
Just the two of us.
Never mind that there were ten other people in the room.
Never mind that i was paying for the entire damn celebration.
Just me and Ken.
Me with my head thrown back laughing, his arm draped over the back of my chair.
My gut turned to ice.
I scrolled further.
More shots.
Me leaning close to whisper something.
Him laughing.
My hand on his arm.
Perfect tabloid fodder.
And then the real gut punch:
A screenshot of his ex's Instagram story.
Black background. White text.
"Some people just have no respect."
Black heart emoji.
Posted at 2 a.m.
My fingers trembled as i dropped the phone onto the bed.
I felt sick.
I could already imagine the comments without reading them.
Homewrecker.
Third party.
Can't she keep her hands off taken men?
She's disgusting.
Poor Ken's ex.
My notifications kept buzzing.
Ken tried to call again.
I let it ring.
I couldn't answer.
I sat there, on the edge of my bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around myself.
My heart pounded so hard it hurt.
This was supposed to be a win.
Four hundred million.
But all anyone would talk about was me.
—
It was everywhere.
Twitter. Facebook. TikTok. Instagram.
My name trending again, this time with hashtags like:
#MargauxImperialHomewrecker
#ProtectKen'sEx
#DisrespectfulQueen
There were memes.
Threads.
Voiceovers mocking the way i laughed in the bar photo.
Clips of me from old interviews, edited to look like I had this pattern—of flirting, of stealing, of ruining.
I didn't even open the quote tweets anymore.
Every time i scrolled, it felt like being swallowed whole.
Like something monstrous had wrapped itself around my name and was chewing me slowly in front of an audience.
And just when i thought it couldn't get worse—
She did an interview.
Ken's ex.
It was soft-lit, framed like she was doing this reluctantly, vulnerably, gently.
She looked straight into the camera and said,
"Honestly? I don't even remember us officially breaking up."
"He just… stopped showing up. Stopped calling. I guess… I got ghosted."
And that was it.
That was all it took.
People were foaming at the mouth.
They put it all on me.
Apparently i was the reason Ken ghosted her.
Apparently I "seduced him" during a vulnerable time.
Apparently i've always been like this.
I stared at my phone for hours, trying to figure out what to say.
Trying to figure out what i could say.
Then i cracked.
I called Ken.
He answered on the first ring.
"Margs."
"I can't do this," I whispered. My voice was shaking. "I don't know what to do. I, Ken, I really don't know what to do."
He was quiet.
"I'm so sorry," he finally said. "I didn't know she would say that. I didn't even know she still thought, God! I thought it was over. We haven't spoken in weeks."
I closed my eyes. "This is your mess. You clean it up."
He didn't argue.
I think he knew i was one bad headline away from shattering.
I took a deep breath.
Posted on Instagram.
Black background. White text.
"Ken and I have been friends since we were kids. That's all we've ever been. I didn't steal anyone nor flirt anyone! "
Simple. Calm. Honest.
I turned off the comments.
Not that it mattered.
No one believed me.
They reshared it with eye-roll emojis.
They called it a typical damage control post.
They screenshotted it and wrote: "Not her playing victim again."
They still called me a homewrecker.
They still called me trash.
They still tore me apart like I didn't bleed like them.
The irony?
The movie with David was at its peak.
Breaking records.
Packed cinemas.
Fan edits of our scenes going viral.
Billboards glowing in every major city.
It should've been the best time of my career.
But it felt like hell.
I couldn't even enjoy it.
I couldn't even breathe.
By the end of the day, I couldn't get up.
Not to eat.
Not to shower.
Not to open the curtains.
I just lay in bed, watching the shadows crawl up my walls.
My phone buzzed nonstop.
My manager, the studio, press handlers, my publicist, Lucas.
I didn't answer any of them.
For the first time in years, I felt like i was drowning.
Like something inside me had finally snapped.