From His Widow to My Own Rebirth

On our wedding anniversary, I put on lingerie and waited for Ethan to come home.

I waited from morning until late at night, until a news notification popped up.

Movie star Ethan Lucas found dead after jumping from hotel rooftop, confirmed to be a suicide for love following actress Stella Summers.

Last words: 'My greatest regret in this life is not being with Stella. If there's a next life, I will definitely marry Stella.'

Not a single word about me.

Later, fans said I drove the Best Actor to his death.

They blocked my door and threw red paint. They shoved me. They cursed at me.

I was pushed down the steps and hit my head on the stone slab.

When I opened my eyes again, I was standing in the dressing room backstage at a film festival.

In the mirror was my twenty-five-year-old self, having just won Best Screenwriter.

My eyes reddened.

In this life, I would live for myself.

The door was pushed open.

Ethan Lucas stood before me in the dark suit he'd worn to accept his award. Twenty-six years old, with features so handsome they were almost sharp.

His expression softened slightly when he saw me, and a smile touched his lips.

"Evelyn, congratulations. You won Best Screenwriter."

I nodded slightly.

"Why don't you come in and sit?"

"No, I'm in a hurry."

He froze for a moment.

In my past life, I never refused him, even when he called at 3 AM demanding I revise the seventeenth draft.

"Then I'll come out to talk to you."

He stepped forward and deliberately lowered his voice.

"I know you also remember our past life."

Wind swept in from the end of the corridor. I didn't respond.

"This lifetime will be different. Everything I owed you, I'll make up for it all."

When he said this, there was light in his eyes, so sincere you'd almost believe him.

But I remembered that in our past life, he'd said similar things during our first year of marriage.

"I can't focus on filming when you're not with me," so I gave up that international co-production project and flew with him to Vancouver.

Only later did I learn he didn't need my company. He needed me to free up my hands to help Stella revise that scene she could never get right.

"Thank you for the kind thought, but it's not necessary."

I took half a step back.

At that moment, the sound of high heels clicking on the floor came from inside the lounge, and Stella Summers walked out.

As soon as she saw me, she smiled and opened her arms wide.

"Evelyn!"

The hug was perfectly measured, and when she released me, she naturally hooked her arm through mine.

"Your acceptance speech was amazing! I was watching the livestream inside and cried so hard my makeup ran, you know?"

"That monologue from the female lead was written like it was custom-made for me. If I could ever play one of your characters someday, my life would be complete."

The exact same lines.

In my past life, she'd said the same thing, and then I spent fifty years creating over a dozen roles custom-tailored for her. She put her name on them and won two Best Actress awards.

Right up until I died, everyone in the industry thought those works came from Stella Summers's hand.

"Stella, you're very talented. You don't need my scripts to win awards."

I pulled my arm free.

Stella's smile froze for half a beat.

She quickly glanced at Ethan, and her voice grew even softer.

"Evelyn is too modest. Ethan said so too--he wants you to write his next project. The three of us working together would be perfect."

When she said this, she placed herself and Ethan side by side in the front, with me as the attached third party.

The best positions were always theirs. I was just a bonus item.

"We'll talk about it later. I'm leaving now."

I turned and walked toward the other end of the corridor.

Silence followed for a few seconds.

Then Stella's voice came through, lowered.

"What's wrong with her? Does she also remember the past life?"

Ethan's tone was light, as if amused.

"It's nothing. She won't go far. She never goes far."

Three days after the film festival ended, I received an invitation from a French production company.

They'd seen my award-winning work and wanted to collaborate on a cross-border crime thriller.

This was the project I'd given up in my past life. I'd remembered the producer's name for a full fifty years.

In that life, it had won Stella an international critics' award, with Stella Summers listed in the screenwriter credits.

While I was reviewing the contract in my studio, my phone lit up.

Ethan Lucas.

"Are you free tonight? There's something I want to discuss with you in person."

"What is it?"

"You'll know when you get here."

I didn't go.

He called three more times.

The fourth call came from Stella's number.

"Evelyn, why aren't you answering Ethan's calls? He's so worried."

"I'm busy."

"Busy with what? Did you take that foreign project?"

Her tone was as light as if she were asking what I'd had for dinner.

"Evelyn, is that kind of small-team project really worth your time? Ethan has a major production, Director Marcus Kane's project of the year. Everyone's fighting for it."

"He said this script can only be written by you."

A pause.

"And if you go to France, who will help me with my lines? Remember that crying scene? I revised it eight times before getting it right. Only the version you revised could I actually perform."

In my past life, the year I was pregnant, she'd said the exact same thing.

"Evelyn, if you leave, no one can revise my scripts. If I don't perform well, he'll be disappointed."

That time, I'd turned down a major director's invitation.

"You can find other screenwriters. There are plenty of good ones."

The other end of the line went silent for a long time.

Stella's voice suddenly carried a note of grievance.

"Evelyn, you've changed. You weren't like this before."

"Before, I gave up too much for you two."

"Gave up? What do you mean? Aren't we good friends? Isn't it normal for friends to help each other?"

She genuinely thought it was justified.

I hung up.

At eleven that night, someone knocked on my studio door.

Ethan stood outside, his suit jacket draped over his forearm, looking like he'd just rushed over from some event.

"Since you won't answer your phone, I had to come in person."

"How did you know I was here?"

"I have my ways."

He leaned against the doorframe, his expression mild.

"I looked into the French project. The production team there isn't mature. It's too risky for you to go alone."

"That's not your concern."

"I'm not concerned--I just don't want you wasting your time."

He looked at me, his tone slowing.

"Stay domestic and work with me. If you write the script for Marcus Kane's film, winning an award is a sure thing."

"I don't need to win awards through you."

His expression cracked slightly, like he'd been stung, but he quickly recovered that composed smile.

"Still upset. That's okay. I'll wait for you to come around."

He pulled a business card from his pocket and placed it on the table.

It bore his management company's logo and a title I'd never seen before: Associate Producer.

He'd already positioned me as a piece on his chessboard. He just hadn't informed me yet.

"By the way, I already spoke to Marcus Kane, told him you'd write this script."

I looked up at him.

"You said what?"

"I secured you a credited screenwriter position. The terms are very good."

He said it casually, as if notifying me of something already decided.

I didn't ask if he'd consulted me.

In my past life, he never asked either.

When he needed me, he arranged everything. When he didn't, he wouldn't even make a phone call.

"You can decline it for me."

He paused as he pulled the door open to leave, then looked back at me.

"You won't actually leave this industry. You can't leave here, and you can't leave me."

The door closed.

The business card still sat on the table.

As I picked it up to throw in the trash, my phone vibrated.

A number I'd saved long ago but never dialed sent me a message.

"Evelyn, I'm in France and happen to know the producer you mentioned. If you need help, you can contact me. Vincent Gould."

Two weeks later, I attended an industry gala with the initial draft of the French project.

Everyone in the industry knew I'd won Best Screenwriter, and quite a few directors and producers came over to hand me their cards.

I was discussing a project with Director Marcus Kane when Ethan Lucas emerged from the crowd.

He held two glasses of champagne and naturally handed one to me.

"Director Kane, this is Evelyn Shaw. I mentioned her to you before."

Marcus Kane nodded.

"So you're this year's Best Screenwriter. I've been wanting to meet you."

Ethan jumped in quickly.

"She does write well, but she's quite emotional. For major projects, she needs someone to help her control the pacing."

Marcus Kane glanced at the distance between the two of us.

"Are you two together?"

"Not yet, but it's only a matter of time."

He answered the question for me, his tone as certain as if announcing a news item.

I put the champagne glass back in his hand.

"Director Kane, Ethan and I are just colleagues. His words don't represent me."

Ethan stood there holding two glasses of wine, his expression frozen for two seconds.

Marcus Kane laughed awkwardly.

Stella appeared at that moment.

She wore a red slit gown that drew every eye in the room. She walked over and naturally hooked her arm through Ethan's, giving Marcus Kane a sweet smile.

"Hello, Director Kane. Oh, Evelyn's here too."

Her gaze swept over the folder of my initial draft, and her eyes lit up.

"Evelyn, did you write something new? Can I take a look?"

I closed the folder.

"This is my own project."

Stella wasn't affected by my attitude. She turned to face Marcus Kane.

"Director Kane, did you know? A lot of the inspiration for Evelyn's award-winning work actually came from discussions between Ethan and me. The three of us have always been a team--she handles the writing, I handle the acting, and Ethan handles production supervision."

Ethan nodded beside her.

"That's right. We're a complete unit."

I stood there feeling like people were propping me up on both sides.

It was the same in my past life. When my scripts won awards, they said it was team collaboration. When my creativity was recognized, they said it was the result of collective discussion.

Until eventually everyone thought I was just a ghostwriting tool.

Marcus Kane looked hesitant.

"So is this award-winning work a collaboration or an independent creation?"

Stella's eyes curved in a smile.

"How should I put it? Every female lead in there has my shadow. You could say she wrote them based on me."

I spoke up.

"No. Those characters have nothing to do with you."

As my words fell, the conversations at several nearby tables quieted for half a beat.

Stella's smile froze on her face.

Ethan put down his wine glass and stepped toward me.

"Evelyn, there's no need to split hairs like this on an occasion like this."

"Facts are facts. Every single word of those scripts, from the first to the last, was written by me alone."

He clenched his fist then released it, saying in a volume only I could hear:

"Are you planning to offend everyone tonight?"

Stella's eyes had already reddened.

Her tears fell at just the right moment--not enough to ruin her makeup, but enough to make people nearby feel sorry for her.

"Evelyn, I'm not trying to steal your credit. I just thought since our relationship is so good, we didn't need to divide things so clearly."

Ethan reflexively handed her a tissue.

Everyone was watching the three of us, like watching a play.

I picked up my folder and turned to leave.

As I reached the door, my phone vibrated.

Vincent Gould 's assistant had sent a message: "Evelyn, the French production company has confirmed the funding plan. Also, Vincent would like to meet with you next week."

A hand reached from the side and darkened my phone screen.

It was Ethan.

His gaze swept over the last few words of that message, and his face darkened.

"Vincent Gould? What's your relationship with him?"

"A relationship that's none of your business."

He grabbed my wrist.

"Evelyn, stay away from people like that from now on. You're a screenwriter, not a businesswoman. Don't let capital lead you around by the nose."

I looked down at his fingers.

"Ethan, let go."

He slowly released his grip.

The veins on his knuckles were still jumping.

"I'm doing this for your own good."

I rubbed my wrist and walked toward the exit.

Stella's shrill voice chased after me from behind.

"Evelyn, don't blame Ethan. He's really just worried about you. We're all doing this for your own good--why can't you understand?"

She was crying beautifully. I didn't acknowledge her.

The next day, a video of Stella crying at the gala was posted online.

The title read: "Best Screenwriter Evelyn Shaw Publicly Humiliates Best Actress Stella Summers."

The comments flooded in like a tide.

"What kind of person makes someone as gentle as Stella cry?"

"Evelyn Shaw has such a terrible personality, no wonder no one in the industry works with her."

In the video, Stella's tears were beautiful, her grievance and innocence perfectly calibrated.

The shot of Ethan handing her a tissue was also clipped out, and the comments section had already started shipping them as a couple.

Meanwhile, my line "Those characters have nothing to do with you" was cut out separately and looped with background music.

No one clipped the context of Stella saying "she writes, I act."

No one clipped Ethan's original words: "We're a complete unit."

What took fifty years to see clearly in my past life took only two weeks in this one.

On the third day after the controversy erupted, the French production company called.

"Evelyn, someone sent us a formal letter claiming your award-winning work allegedly used Stella Summers's creative ideas and involves copyright disputes."

I gripped my phone tight.

"Who sent it?"

"It's signed by Ethan Lucas's studio."

I sat at my desk, my fingers ice-cold.

The French project was suspended.

When Ethan came to find me that afternoon, I was organizing contracts on my desk.

He pushed the door open, scanned the room, and saw documents scattered across the floor.

"Feeling better now?"

I ignored him.

"I suppressed a few trending topics about the gala incident for you, but you should at least apologize to Stella. She's petty--just sweet-talk her a bit and it'll blow over."

He leaned against the sofa armrest, his tone like he was arranging a household matter.

I looked up.

"The French production company received a complaint letter from your studio."

He didn't deny it.

"That project isn't right for you."

"So you made the decision for me."

"I'm helping you cut your losses. The production team there isn't reliable. The risk of you going alone is too high. I'm not comfortable with it."

When he said "not comfortable," it was with a tone of natural authority, as if he had the right to dictate my life.

He was the same in my past life.

"Someone in the family has to sacrifice, and you need rest more than I do."

Said with consideration and tenderness, executed without hesitation.

Then my pen became a spatula, and my name became an appendage to his.

"Ethan, listen carefully. We were never together, and we never will be. My scripts, my projects, my life--they have nothing to do with you."

He stood up and braced both hands on the desk edge, his gaze finally turning dark.

"Evelyn, calm down. You think you can write anything without me? I opened half the doors in this industry for you."

"No. You just stood inside the doors I pushed open and took credit."

His face instantly turned ugly.

The sound of hurried high heels came from the doorway, and Stella rushed in.

Her eyes were red-rimmed as she grabbed my hand.

"Evelyn, I'm sorry. I really didn't know the video would blow up like that. Are you angry at me? You can't leave. If you leave, what about my next project? The director said if it's not your script, he won't use me."

She spoke while crying.

"I really can't perform what other people write. Only the characters you create can I win awards with."

I looked at her tears, then at Ethan's dark expression.

Suddenly I felt like I couldn't breathe.

In my past life, it was in these tears and "it's all for your own good" that I gradually lost myself, step by step.

"Stella, you're a Best Actress. You can play any role. Ethan, you're a Best Actor. You don't need my scripts. The only person who needs to extract themselves from this relationship is me."

I picked up my bag and headed for the door.

Ethan blocked my path.

"You can't leave. You think there's anyone out there who understands you better than I do? That Vincent Gould you're looking for--do you think he's interested in your talent or your face?"

I looked up into his eyes.

"Guess who I'll choose."

He was pinned in place by that sentence.

I walked around him and pushed the door open.

When I reached the middle of the corridor, I heard a phone vibrate behind me.

Not mine.

From Ethan's pocket.

I didn't turn back, because I knew what that notification was.

Ten minutes ago, I'd personally pressed the share button on that message.

His voice chased after me from behind, carrying a final note of certainty.

"Just how far are you going to take this tantrum?"

I stopped at the end of the corridor, waving my phone.

"Ethan, please check the headlines. I already have a husband. Please stop pestering me from now on."