Face-Slapping11 min read
I Sold Incense and Accidentally Broke a Star's Heart — Then I Broke Her Back
ButterPicks13 views
"I opened the box and froze."
I say that because I still remember the weight of the air in my little shop the day Everett Deng's package came. "Someone wrote 'For Cody' on the label," I told the empty room and laughed out loud.
"Who sent it?" Emiliana Barton asked when she stepped in with two steaming dumplings.
"It says Everett," I said, fingering the black ribbon. "Everett Deng."
Emiliana's eyes went huge. "The Everett Deng? The actor?"
"Yes." I set the box on the counter like it was fragile glass. "From my online friend."
She snorted. "Your 'online friend' again? Cody, you set your profile to 'NotMuchRice' and now famous men send you incense?"
I shrugged and opened the box. A then-innocent game started from there.
"I thought this was a joke," I told Walt Kaiser later when he called me from the city.
"Don't joke about incense," Walt said. "That stuff is expensive. Be careful, Cody. Celebrities sending gifts can mean more than gifts."
"I know," I said. "But he always writes nice things. He asks about my tea. He jokes about my terrible playlists."
"Just be careful," Walt warned. "Keep your head."
I kept it. I kept the incense and the small wooden bracelet Everett sent. I kept the chat threads. He called himself 8FoodGuy8. He teased me, "Do you like pu-erh?" He sent photos from farms. I sent him pictures of my shop and the slow steam of incense.
"Why did you make your profile male?" Emiliana asked one slow evening.
"I didn't," I said. "I changed the gender because the app was weird and I wanted to see what would happen. I wanted to be silly, free."
"It worked," she laughed. "You got a star."
"It didn't feel like a star at first." I rubbed my thumb over the bracelet he had with his package. "It felt like a friend."
We talked in the dark hours. "What do you do?" he asked.
"I sell incense and talk nonsense all day," I typed.
"I wish I could smell that right now," he replied.
"Come," I wrote, then choked on my own boldness. "When you can, come see the shop."
He came. Or he sent someone. No — the first time I saw him I was stacking boxes and felt a shadow in the doorway. He smiled and the room fell quieter.
"You're Cody?" he said.
"Yes," I said. "You are Everett."
"Nice to meet you in person," he said. "Your bracelet — did you make it?"
"My mother made it once as a joke," I said. "She thinks I'm going to be buried in incense, not married."
He laughed, a small, honest sound. "That makes two of us who are not married," Everett said.
From that hour, our messages filled my days. When I woke, there was a message. Before I slept, a voice note. He told me about script read-throughs. He told me small truths like he hated shrimp crackers and he loved a kind of music only I remembered from old shows.
"Tell me something true about you," I asked one night.
"I was hurt once," he replied. "I was stupid when I was young. It was France. It ended badly."
"Do you want to tell me?" I typed.
"Not now," he said. "But I like your pudding photo."
We both guarded our pasts. He guarded his like a bruise.
A month into our chat, the internet exploded. A video from a billowing rooftop and pictures from a hotel dated him with another actress, Julianne Le. The headline read, "Julianne Le and Pedro Armstrong: New Couple." The top comment under any clip of Everett’s name spun the same web: "Did Everett cheat?" Fans attacked. Reporters called.
I watched him shrink on my screen. "You look terrible," I told him over video.
"I don't want this," he said. "They took old footage and spun it. Julianne's name is in three of the stories."
"Who is Julianne?" I asked.
"An actress," he said. "She was in my life once, years ago. She... she left me when my money stopped. She moved to a better shore."
I flinched at the simplicity. The story that came out was rough, and old wounds reopened. His manager Walt tried to patch things. "It's noise," Walt told me by phone. "Ignore it and work."
"He seems small on camera," Walt said once. "He seems like a boy who got cut."
"He's not a boy," I corrected. "He's fierce when he needs to be, but soft when he trusts someone."
Trust was about to be tested.
I started to see patterns. Julianne's accounts posted staged photos. Pedro’s PR team celebrated. The news cycle lifted Julianne like a raft. I watched an old clip that seemed too clean. The same angle, the same light — it looked photoshopped. A comment on a thread said there were edits. Someone in the comment linked to a old backstage video from the studio where Julianne was seen instructing a photographer how to pose a scene. My hackles rose.
"Someone says Julianne hired a team to plant stories," Emiliana told me. "You should be careful, Cody."
"I know," I said. "But if what I think is true, Everett didn't lose one fight. He was set up."
"Prove it," Walt said.
So I hunted. I pulled every thread I could from available sources. I messaged a technician who had been on set months ago. He replied: "I have raw photos. She asked for 'enhanced intimacy' shots with a guy for attention. We never published those. She wanted to sell a scene."
My chest beat faster. "Send them," I wrote.
He sent one file. The raw file had Julianne standing next to a man who wasn't Everett. The published screenshots had Everett's face photoshopped onto the man. Side-by-side, the lie fell apart.
"That's pretty direct," Emiliana said when I sent it to her. "You can take that to... the press?"
"No," I said. "I don't want to start a war. I want truth."
"Then start a truth bomb," Emiliana winked, and for once I let myself plan.
We picked an event where the two would both be: a brand gala. Pedro Armstrong and Julianne were schedule guests. Everett was on the same bill as a presenter. The gala would be live-streamed.
"You're going to walk in with the files?" Emiliana asked.
"I'm going to walk in with the files and ask for a screen," I said.
Walt told me not to go. "Cody, that will blow up. You don't know what you're stepping into."
"I do know," I said. "This is wrong. If she planted him and he took the fall — it will kill him."
The night of the gala I wore my plain dress and carried a small tablet. I felt ridiculous and powerful at the same time. "Be calm," I told myself. "Be obvious."
When Julianne walked in with Pedro Armstrong, the room smartened. Cameras circled. Social media lit up with glittering comments.
"She's poised," one woman behind me whispered.
"Perfect," another replied. "Look at that dress."
I stepped forward as the program shifted. Everett was called to the stage. He walked with quiet that cracked my bones. We shared a look.
"You sure?" he mouthed.
"Yes," I mouthed back.
I asked the gala assistant, "Can I make an announcement on the big screen?"
They laughed. "Who are you?"
"I'm here for the truth," I said. The staff frowned but the producer was nervous and let me talk to the tech booth.
They put me on the lobby mic. "Ladies and gentlemen," I said, and my voice trembled. "Excuse me. I have something to show."
"You're interrupting the gala," someone hissed.
"Please," I said. "This is important."
They switched me to the big screen. For two thousand people and for the millions watching live, my face filled the room.
"Everett," I said to the cameras. "You know I told you the truth."
I tapped the tablet and a photo filled the screen. On the left, a raw backstage frame with a man whose face was neutral. On the right, the viral photos: same body, different face. The caption on the viral file read, "Everett Deng with Julianne, 2022." Under that, the raw file read, "Studio raw: set photos, no release."
A hush fell.
"Who sent this?" a TV reporter demanded.
"A tech from the studio," I said. "He sent me the raw files. Julianne staged photos and swapped faces. She and her team made fake images. I have messages where she orders 'make it look like him' and payment records."
Someone turned up the magnification. A series of images appeared: chat logs, invoices, bank transfers to a small PR firm tied to Julianne. I had spent three nights stitching them together. Each piece fell into place.
"Is this true?" Pedro Armstrong's PR man shouted.
Julianne rose from her seat. "This is false," she said. Her voice was smooth. "This is slander."
"Show me your original photos," I said. "Show the originals."
She hesitated. "You can't demand—"
"Every reporter has a phone," I said quietly. "Every camera is running. You either show proof now or people will see proof."
Phones lifted like a wave. The room filled with the low hum of recording.
"She hacked and staged evidence," Pedro said, but his voice shook.
"Stop," Julianne begged later. "This is my career."
"Then show the originals," I said. "Prove me wrong."
Her manager stood. "This is madness," he spat.
I tapped again. A video file rolled. It showed Julianne at a studio, talking to someone. She said plainly, "Make his face fit. We need him to be the scandal. Pay that guy. Use your tools."
The room went silent enough to hear people breathe.
Julianne's face went white. "No!" she cried. "Take this down!"
"Why did you do it?" a reporter asked.
"Because..." She groped for meaning but found only panic. "Because I needed attention." The small admission spilled out.
Phones began to click. "Take it down!" her PR shouted. A hundred hands pointed, asked, recorded.
"Is that you?" Everett stepped toward the stage. He held himself like a man who had been a ghost and was now real. "Did you direct this?"
She looked at him and then at the screen. Tears started. The first crack showed.
The crowd reacted like a tide. "Shame!" one woman cried. "How could you?" someone yelled. Cameras zoomed in. A dozen phones lit the room like stars.
"Stop it," Julianne said, backing away. "I didn't mean— I needed the work. I didn't mean to hurt him."
"You meant to break him," Everett said. He didn't shout. He said it so low I had to lean to hear. "You meant to break him and sell the pieces."
They circled her. Reporters advanced. She tried to reach for an explanation and found only small excuses. The studio tech who had sent me the raw files stood and told the mic the truth. "She paid us," he said. "She asked us to make it look real."
Julianne's face went from white to red. "No, no—" she staggered. "You are lying."
At that moment, phones exploded with live shares. On social media, the screen spread like spilled ink. The crowd in the hall grew louder. Someone shouted, "Get out!" Another said, "Apologize!"
She slumped to a chair and then to her knees. "Please," she sobbed. "Please, Everett, don't do this."
"Tell her to stand," Pedro cried. "Tell her to face us."
She looked up. Her mascara ran. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry. I wanted to be seen."
"Stand up," Everett said. He was still very quiet. "Stand and tell them why you used me."
She stood. "I was scared," she said. "I thought if I had more scandal I could get a job. I thought fame was the only way."
"Show the payments," a reporter demanded.
She tried to reach into her bag. Her hands shook. Her manager pushed him away. "This is harassment!" he barked.
"Where are your people now?" I asked the mic. "Where are the people who edited the photos?"
A dozen hands pointed to the man who had told me the truth. He repeated, "She paid us."
By then Julianne's calm was gone. She was defensive, then begging, then furious, then crumbling. "I will pay back," she said. "I'll fix it."
"Fix what?" Everett asked. "You can't fix the nights I woke and thought I had ruined my life. You can't fix that my mother saw me on all the feeds and thought I was a fool."
People around us murmured. "Her fans are leaving," someone said. "Look at the feed. They are deleting posts."
Julianne fell again, this time to her knees in front of the stage, the lights catching the tears on her face. She looked at Everett with a face split by regret. "Please," she said. "Please, forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive," Everett told her. "You hurt people for work."
She rose and went toward him. The cameras swarmed. "Please," she said again. "I will do anything. I will leave the industry. I will— I will beg."
"And what about the men you used?" a reporter asked. "Where do we find them?"
She started to cry in outright panic. "I will pay back. I will apologize to everyone. I will—"
Phones recorded. People in the lobby took video and uploaded. Fans outside sang a chorus of disgust and calls for accountability. The gala organizer had to call security. Someone in the crowd began to clap slowly. Then the applause spread — not for Julianne but for truth. It was cold, hard applause, the kind that says, "You can't buy integrity."
Julianne's manager finally took her arm and led her out. She stopped at the door and turned to the crowd. "I'm sorry," she said. "Forgive me, please."
"Shame," the crowd said again.
Outside, paparazzi fed the fire. Her posts fell under a rain of comments. The video of her instructing the photographer had already been stitched into news segments.
That night Julianne's apologies turned into a storm. She posted, then deleted, then posted again. She called her father, then hung up. The PR people called lawyers. The industry began to close doors.
I went home with my hands shaking. Messages flooded me from people I did not know. Everett texted: "You did the right thing." He called, and his voice was quiet. "I didn't want her destroyed," he said. "I wanted the truth."
"Do you feel better?" I asked.
"A little," he said. "But I also feel raw. The truth doesn't fix everything."
"Then let me do something small," I said. "Tell me what you want to eat."
We talked until the night ended. He told me stories from France. I told him about my stupid pudding recipe. He laughed — real laughter this time.
After the gala, the industry churned. Julianne's sponsors dropped her. Pedro Armstrong cut public ties. Pedro's PR sent a terse statement. The studio fired the small PR firm that had cooked the files. Julianne's email leaked. The press had a feeding frenzy. But the worst punishment was the public exposure: fans turned on her. People whispered as she passed.
"Why did you go so public?" Walt asked me on the phone.
"Because no one else would," I said.
Walt was silent for a long time. "Everett's mother will come for him," he said. "Be ready."
I thought of Everett's mother, the woman who had once tried to make him stay in the family business. "Let her come," I said.
She did come, like storm winds.
"Everett, you will ruin the family," she said when she arrived at the hospital the next day. She was lily-cold like a cut gem. "You will bring shame."
"Mother," Everett said. He was sitting up, pale from the stress. "This isn't about shame. This is about truth. She used people."
"Truth?" she scoffed. "You are a public brand. You cannot let a street seller make you look weak. You must mend things."
"Who do you think will stand with me?" Everett asked. "Who will tell the truth?"
She turned away, but she had seen the press. For the first time she did not order him to some plan; she had to count the loss.
"Your hands smell of incense," she said finally. "What woman is this?"
"She's Cody," he said. "She is my friend."
"Friend," she repeated, tasting the word. "And you will be careful."
"Yes," he said. "I will be careful. But I will not lie."
She left without another word. I knew then the war was only starting.
Weeks passed. Julianne faded under the weight of proof, and industry doors shut. Some people who had been cruel were called to answer. The media moved on in cycles, but the record remained.
Everett came to the shop one rainy afternoon. He stood in the doorway drenched, hair slick, and when he smiled, it was like a knife softened.
"You saved me a long time ago," he said.
"I did?" I asked.
"You did," he answered. "You believed when no one would. You sent me incense and jokes. You made me laugh like a person again."
"You're very dramatic," I told him.
"Maybe," he said. "But I need you to know something. I don't want performance. I want the small things. Will you let me bring you dinner next Friday?"
I put down a cup and looked at him. "You mean, you — a famous, scandal-scarred man — want to bring me dinner?"
"Yes," he said. "And if you refuse, I'll keep emailing you at three in the morning with bad anime recommendations."
I laughed. "That's cruel."
"Then say yes," he said.
"Yes," I said.
We ate standing by the counter. He tried my pudding and made an absurd face and then a serious one. "This is small and perfect," he said. "Keep doing small things with me."
"I will," I said. I reached out and touched the bracelet he had once given me, the wood still warm with use.
He took my hand. "Will you come to my next press thing?" he asked.
"Only if I can bring a box of incense," I said.
"Deal," he smiled.
In the weeks that followed, the industry drew lines. Julianne's fall was complete in the sense that her offers stopped and her PR was burned. She posted long apologies and disappeared for a while. People made lists of who did wrong. Some lost status and some kept it. But Everett stood with his truth.
One night, after the storm, he sat in the shop and watched me burn a stick of my favorite incense.
"It smells like safe places," he said.
"It smells like my life," I told him. "Simple, small, honest."
He leaned in and placed his forehead against my temple, a soft press. "Stay with me," he whispered.
I closed my eyes. "Stay with me," I answered.
The world kept spinning with gossip and headlines, but in that small shop between the steam and the wood, we made a new rule: no lies, no edits, no buying headlines. Just us, small and loud in a quiet way.
"Promise?" he asked.
"Promise," I said.
We lit another stick of incense and watched the smoke curl like a promise into the dim air.
The End
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