Tainted Moonlight

Emma Warren was the hottest A-list celebrity in Hollywood.

Few knew that her manager, the man her fans relentlessly cursed as a deadbeat, was her first love, the one who'd been by her side every step of the way.

I'd been savaged by her fans for five years; they'd Photoshopped hundreds, even thousands, of obituaries for me.

To all of it, Emma had only one response:

"Just bear with me a little longer. I can't have my relationship exposed right now."

Yet, the same Emma, who preached about protecting her image, turned around and secretly agreed to a PR stunt with a new actor, a "couple" reality show, all behind my back.

She offered no explanation, merely looking at me with weary eyes, asking me to understand, not to make a fuss.

But she didn't know; I wasn't planning on making a fuss.

I was busy picking out the best Photoshopped obituary from those thousands.

After the show wrapped, she and her fake boyfriend walked arm-in-arm, giving interviews to the media.

A reporter asked, "What are your thoughts on your former manager's sudden passing?"

...

Emma Warren had severe allergies.

So every time she went on a reality show.

I was always the most anxious one.

I sat on the carpet, my eyes scanning the checklist, making a final confirmation.

"Your allergy medication is in the zippered pocket. Your usual eye drops are right next to it. It might get cold in the mountains at night, so your jacket is in the right corner. And..."

Emma leaned silently on the sofa, tapping her phone screen, her brow unfurrowed.

My voice had probably become irrelevant background noise.

She waited for me to finish my lengthy monologue, then lazily lifted her eyelids to glance at me.

"Got it. The production team will prepare these things. You don't need to bother."

"And I'm not going on some wilderness survival show."

I fell silent, my hands, which had been neatly arranging the suitcase, suddenly stilled.

Right. I'd almost forgotten. She was going on a sweet dating reality show.

This show was custom-made for the hottest celebrity "couples" of the moment, with unprecedented hype.

A few seconds later, I lowered my eyes, smiling faintly.

I folded the densely written checklist in half, then in half again, tucking it into the side pocket of the suitcase.

"Okay, I won't say more."

Emma looked satisfied. She grabbed the baseball cap from the sofa, put it on, and was about to leave.

Her assistant scurried over and took the suitcase from my hand.

"Julian."

I called out to her.

She turned, her brows almost imperceptibly furrowing.

She probably thought I was about to nag her again about carrying an umbrella for rain, or reapplying sunscreen.

Or perhaps, that question I'd asked a thousand times: When can we go public?

Sunlight poured in from the open door, bathing her in a dazzling but ethereal golden glow.

I felt a little dizzy watching her, my eyes stinging.

"Emma, if this is my last day as your manager, what... what would you think?"

She froze, her eyes beneath the brim of her cap staring at me unblinkingly for several seconds.

A celebrity's eyes can look soulful even when gazing at a dog.

For a moment, I almost believed the Emma before me was the Emma from ten years ago, who only loved me.

It made me want to bury my head in the crook of her neck,

To tell her I was sick, that I was scared.

But not until my eyelashes were truly wet with tears.

Only then did Emma slowly pull the corners of her lips into a faint smile, and give me a hug.

"Julian, stop being dramatic! You know I'd only be happy for you. After all, you've worked so hard these past few years, haven't you?"

She sounded genuinely happy, her voice significantly softer.

"I'll bring you a leaving gift. Just wait for me at home, okay?"

Thump.

I watched her back disappear from my sight, quietly, as I had countless times before.

From sixteen to twenty-nine, I had waited obediently for her for over a decade.

I truly couldn't wait anymore.

I walked to the coffee table, picked up my phone, and sent the message I had already drafted.

"After amicable discussion, I am no longer serving as Emma Warren's manager, effective immediately. Thank you for the past, and I wish you a bright future."

The moment the message went out, my phone's notifications began to erupt.

I didn't click on the details.

But even without opening them, I could imagine the frenzy below.

I refreshed, and a few top comments automatically popped up.

"Universal celebration!!! Today is a good day! Our girl finally broke free from that controlling old man!"

"Ahhh, my darling's career is now smooth sailing! No more pervert staring at you like a hawk!"

"Heaven has eyes! This old man was always telling her what to do. Emma must have tolerated this creep for too long. Tonight, we must do a giveaway!"

The screen's light reflected on my face, highlighting my red-rimmed eyes.

I silently submitted the request to deactivate my account.

My decade. A stubborn and ridiculous decade.

It was over.

I had a tumor in my brain.

The day I was diagnosed, I hunched alone in the hospital corridor for a long time.

Fear surged like a tide.

Almost instinctively, I called Emma, my hand trembling.

I wanted to tell her the doctor said I only had three months left.

I wanted to say I was so scared, that I was still so young, and I didn't want to die.

But before I could even speak, Emma's graver voice interrupted me.

"I'm doing a fake relationship with Xander Knight for a reality show."

"Julian, you've controlled my entire career for over a decade. Don't stop me this time, okay?"

Emma's calm insistence on the other end of the phone made my silence and despair feel utterly out of place.

I opened my mouth blankly, all my words crushed between my lips.

Control?

I understood her ideals and ambitions,

So I tried my best to protect her from potential exploitation.

She used to always cling to my arm, saying she was lucky to have me.

But now, all that had become "control"?

Two weeks ago, Emma and I had a huge fight about her fake relationship with Xander.

The public relationship I wanted, I'd waited over a decade for, because of her plea to protect her image.

But in the end, I was waiting for her to fake a relationship with another male celebrity.

In a fit of anger, I broke up with her.

I still remember the look in Emma's eyes that day.

It was angry, scrutinizing, and tinged with a coldness.

She had pushed hard against my chest, gritting her teeth and saying:

"Julian, have you thrown enough tantrums? How do you think you got everything you have now? Without me, what are you?"

"Do you actually see me as your girlfriend? Or just a piece of art to satisfy your vanity?"

That sentence was like a bucket of ice water, extinguishing all my hopes.

I never knew that my desperate efforts to secure business deals and resources for her,

In her eyes, had become "control" and "vanity"!

And at this moment, Emma's voice rang out again from the phone,

"So, is there something you called for? If not, I'm hanging up. Xander is waiting for me to discuss the show."

What else could I say?

Congratulate her on going to "date" someone else, while her boyfriend was dying?

I silently hung up the phone.

That day, I sat alone in the hospital corridor for a long time.

Lonely and desperate.

I didn't want to spend my last days in a hospital.

So I bought a plane ticket to the Alps.

It was a place I'd always wanted to visit.

And a place Emma had promised countless times to visit with me.

Unfortunately, every time we planned a trip over the years, something always came up to disrupt it.

Later, I thought this was probably fate's way of telling me.

Emma and I were never meant to be.

It was pouring rain in Geneva.

Perhaps I got a little wet while out exploring, because the next day I developed a high fever.

I dragged my heavy body to a pharmacy to buy fever medicine.

By the counter, near me, were two young girls, squealing at their phones.

"Ah, Emma Warren is so beautiful! She and Xander Knight are perfect together!"

"Yeah, yeah, handsome guy and beautiful girl, they must be real! Just look at the way Emma looks at him!"

The sudden mention of Emma's name made me pause.

But then I instinctively pulled my cap lower, just wanting to pay and leave quickly.

Perhaps my overly deliberate avoidance drew attention, because the chattering behind me paused.

"...Hey, look at that guy. Doesn't he look like..."

My spine stiffened, my fingers clenching inside my sleeve.

Before I could walk away quickly, two student-aged girls had circled around to face me, their eyes astonishingly bright.

"It really is you!"

The short-haired girl exclaimed, excited, nudging her taller friend.

I took a breath, forcing a smile:

"I'm no longer Emma Warren's manager."

"We know! Our fan groups are all celebrating! Today's a holiday!"

The short-haired girl spoke quickly, her eyes glinting with an insistent gleam:

"Hey, perfect! There's a coffee shop nearby. The latest episode of 'Seven-Day Lovers' just aired. Emma and Xander's interactions are super sweet! Let's watch it together!"

The invitation was full of malice and a desire to see me squirm.

During my years as Emma's manager, the biggest rumor about me was that I was overly possessive,

Shamelessly treating Emma as my own girlfriend.

Looking at the smug, youthful faces, determined to stir up some drama, I let out an absurd laugh.

"Sure."

I also wanted to see what my girlfriend looked like when she was "dating" someone else.

In a corner of the coffee shop, the reality show was streaming on a tablet.

The scene showed Emma taking a bite out of Xander's half-eaten tart.

Watching Xander's helpless expression, Emma smiled brightly.

Xander looked at the laughing Emma, shaking his head with an air of resignation.

They exchanged glances, and it seemed like pink bubbles were floating in the air between them.

"They're a perfect match!" the tall girl shrieked, cupping her face.

The short-haired girl glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, deliberately asking loudly:

"Hey, what do you think? Are they super compatible? Everyone online says they're the best couple of the year!"

I saw that Xander had already taken a bite of that tart, and I saw the way Emma looked at Xander.

I knew her too well, so I knew it wasn't all acting.

At least, when the two of us first started out and only had enough money for one bowl of ramen,

Emma wouldn't have eaten from the same bowl as me.

At least, she could always deduce his favorite music and food from the smallest clues in Xander's social media.

And me, I was right in front of her.

Yet she never noticed my increasingly pale complexion, or the frequent nosebleeds.

She never noticed the painkillers scattered around the house, nor did she realize I spent night after night beside her, in too much pain to sleep.

A part of my heart felt like it was pricked with a fine needle, a dense, aching soreness spreading through me.

But I just froze for a few seconds, then offered a genuinely heartfelt smile:

"Yes, they really are a perfect match."

My reaction clearly caught them off guard.

After all, for years, tabloid headlines had always featured reports of me scowling at Emma interacting with other male celebrities.

They exchanged a disgruntled glance, then the short-haired girl suddenly remembered something and leaned closer to me:

"Hey, we once heard a fan account say that backstage, you slapped Emma. Is that true or false?" Her words made my body jolt, my head swimming.

That was in the third year of our careers, when I was caught by paparazzi delivering a Valentine's Day gift to Emma.

This led to massive online abuse from Emma's fans.

They called me disgusting and a pervert, claiming I was obsessed with my own artist.

Almost every day, I'd wake up to hundreds of Photoshopped obituaries and hateful comments flooding my DMs and comment sections.

Those days, Emma was like a powder keg, but her eyes held a mix of pain and concern for me.

In the dressing room, she looked at my face and seriously said she wanted to quit the industry, that she couldn't bear to see me treated that way.

Emma's eyes were terrifyingly red. She wouldn't listen to anything I said, stubbornly insisting she would announce her retirement.

Finally, I slapped her across the face.

"If you quit, then all these years of me being cursed at will have been for nothing!"

"Do you remember what you told me back then, that you would fight your way to the top?"

Emma's head was turned by my slap, but she eventually burrowed fiercely into my arms.

Her tears fell onto my neck, as hot and passionate as her sincerity then.

"Julian, wait for me. I'll take you to the highest place."

The girls' insistent voices, urging me for an answer, became distant and blurred.

"Hey, say something!"

"Why did you do it?"

Yes, why?

Why do people's feelings change so suddenly?

"I..."

A broken syllable squeezed from my throat, and then my world plunged into complete darkness.

The smell of disinfectant filled my nostrils.

I struggled to open my eyes.

"He's awake!" The short-haired girl scurried over, looking relieved.

"Are you okay? The doctor said you almost burned up with fever."

I gave a weak smile, looking at their bewildered faces, wanting to say something.

Just then, the TV screen in the corner of the room flickered, showing the backstage interview segment of "Seven-Day Lovers."

"So, Emma, having worked with so many excellent male co-stars, what is your ideal type like?"

I turned my head to look at Emma, elegant and refined on the TV screen, and my heart skipped a beat.

"Hmm... I like someone lively and cheerful, like a little sun. It's perfectly fine if they're a bit clingy; it's cute. Preferably not like a nagging parent, telling me what to do all the time, not too rigid, and not too materialistic..."

Every word was like a tiny hammer, gently tapping my heart.

Lively, a little sun, clingy.

She was describing the Julian of ten years ago, the naive Julian who scraped by with her in a basement apartment.

Controlling, mature, materialistic.

She hated the Julian of ten years later, the Julian who had endured multiple online attacks and finally learned to be cautious with his words and actions.

I let out an absurd laugh, my eyes burning and dry, but not a single tear fell.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and looked at the two girls by the bed, their expressions complex. My voice was hoarse as I said:

"Please, don't tell anyone that I fainted today."

The two girls were obedient; they didn't mention my illness.

But they did upload a secretly filmed video of me saying Emma and Xander were a good match to the internet.

Emma called me.

But her very first words caught me off guard.