The ceremony stopped. Someone showed Ethan the video. Olivia’s face crumpled. She clutched Ethan’s jacket, screaming, “Don’t watch it! It’s not true! It wasn’t my fault! He fell! I didn’t push him!” “I didn’t know the roof was so icy! How could I know he was so clumsy, that he couldn’t even stand properly!” Ethan shoved her away.
Her diamond tiara fell to the floor, her hair
tumbling around her shoulders, her makeup smeared. Reporters swarmed, cameras flashing.
Her dream wedding had become a public
execution. The sight was both pathetic and
<
exhilarating. Olivia, I’d promised you suffering,
and you were getting it. The scandal exploded.
Stories of Olivia’s past bullying surfaced, some
true, some fabricated. The internet debated the
influence of social status, family background,
and upbringing on a child’s character. Some
argued that some children were simply born
bad. I wholeheartedly agreed. Olivia, now a
symbol of societal decay, was arrested.
Haggard and gaunt, she shielded her face from
the cameras. Hounded by flashing lights, she
broke down, sobbing, “Stop filming me! Stop
cyberbullying me! I know I was wrong! I’m sorry!
Please, just leave me alone!” She finally knew
fear. She was sentenced to years in prison. I
heard one of her former victims was now her
cellmate. I imagined she’d be well taken care
- of. Ethan, tainted by association, was
blacklisted, his career ruined, his family
disowning him. He’d made many enemies
during his reign in Hollywood, and they were
eager for revenge. Tax evasion charges drained
his fortune. Then came the harassment, the
<
eager for revenge. Tax evasion charges drained
his fortune. Then came the harassment, the
constant threats. A video surfaced of him being
mugged in a back alley, stabbed while fighting
back. His fate remained unknown. There was
one final, darkly amusing twist. Ethan’s parents, who had never acknowledged me, suddenly
appeared on television, lamenting Julian’s tragic
death, praising his filial piety, his good heart
despite his rebellious nature. Their tears
seemed genuine. Yet, they didn’t even know his
favorite flower. They’d placed chrysanthemums
on his grave. I’d made several trips to remove
them. Julian hated chrysanthemums. He’d
wrinkle his nose, complaining about their smell.
I cleaned his grave, sat beside him, letting the
sun warm my face. I wished I could talk to him.
What would I say? I thought for a moment. I’d
tell him about the love he never knew. My love
for him.
