Sweet Romance15 min read
Red Dress, Broken Lights, and the Island
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I was in the passenger seat, legs loose, eyes watching the city turn into a snake of red lights and neon. Indie, my manager, tapped her phone as if the world would shatter if she stopped.
"Eliana, the fat director from HeartBeat called again," Indie said. "He says it's an honest invite. Wants you on the new dating show."
"Honest?" I snorted. "Honest how?"
"He thinks you stirring chaos equals ratings," Indie said without looking up. "But the pay is much higher this time."
"I don't care about the pay," I said. "I care about who else is going to be in the same frame."
Indie glanced at the screen. "Karter is on the guest list."
My stomach tightened. "Karter Ikeda?"
"He's on the poster," Indie confirmed. "Top idol, huge fandom."
"I won't be in the same shot as him."
"Eliana." Indie put the phone down and faced me. "You're nominated for Best Supporting Actress at the Starlight Gala. You go, you show your face, studios and directors watch. You get offers."
"I probably just make a pretty stand-in for photos," I said.
"Stand in or win, you go," Indie insisted. "Trust me."
—
The Starlight Gala felt like walking into a galaxy. Lights cut the dark. Celebrities glittered like scattered coins. I sat where they told me, middle row, trying to stay calm under camera eyes.
"Eliana."
I looked up. Camilla Bennett, the lead actress from The Apostle, sat at my side with a smile as thin as glass.
"Congrats on the nomination," Camilla said with a tilt of her head. "But don't get any ideas. Best Supporting Actress isn't your level."
"Is that so?" I asked.
She laughed, soft and poisoned. "The Apostle broke records because of my fans. Your role barely registered."
"I read a lot of angry comments about your acting," I said softly.
"Eliana!" Camilla's voice snapped. She covered her mouth with a rustle and lowered her tone. "You want to bet? Loser posts a goodbye weibo and quits the industry."
"Quit?" I blinked. "You really think I care about your threats?"
Camilla's smile froze as the stage lights cut the hall.
"Best Picture goes to The Apostle."
Applause crashed like surf.
"Best Actor— Lu Xiao," the host announced.
"Best Actress— Legacy Olivier," the host said.
The crowd cheered. I held my breath.
Then the microphone hummed. "And now— Best Supporting Actress."
Evander Bonnet's voice—a rasp that still filled rooms—said my name before the host could finish.
I froze. My knees felt hollow for a beat. Evander had been on the injury list—car accident, headlines screamed. He appeared in a wheelchair; a white blanket across his legs. Pain had made his face learned, but there was a gentle cruelty in his calm.
"Eliana Robertson," he said, passing the crystal like something delicate and dangerous.
My hand brushed his, and for one hollow second the world narrowed to the pulse under his skin. I pulled back and smiled like I knew how to. "Thank you."
Camilla's laugh cracked. "You can't even take a joke, Eliana. We'll see who posts goodbye first."
I climbed the stage and felt the camera breathe at me. Evander's eyes were cool, and he said, "Eliana, your acting is very strong. Especially in... being strangers."
I left the stage with my award and the lights washed me pale.
—
Backstage, Evander asked me to push his wheelchair.
"You don't have to," I said.
"It's my right leg," he said. "Help me downstairs?"
I pushed him toward the elevator. The gala buzzed behind us, champagne whispers and silk swishes. Inside the lift, close and contained, he asked, "Car in the underground. Would you mind sending me?"
"Is your assistant not here?" I asked.
"Not tonight," he said. "You're very quick to avoid me."
"Maybe because you remind me of bad nights," I said.
"When you're done, drop me at the car," he answered. "I don't feel like finishing the night."
We descended. Out in the underground garage my little rental—my white Chevrolet—was waiting. I wasn't proud of it, but it was mine. I went to it and was about to get in when a sound popped like a glass bell.
Glass shattered on the far side of the garage. Someone screamed. I looked up. A woman in a high-fashion black gown stood in the middle of a small group; two men were swinging crowbars.
"Is that your car?" Evander asked.
I squinted. The woman had a covered face but the shoulder cut—Chanel? Camilla.
Of course Camilla would come after me like a storm.
"Get them—" Evander began, but I started recording.
"You want it? Take it all!" Camilla shouted. "I hired them. Block the cameras. Make this public."
The three of them smashed the roof and windows until the car was a mangled hush of metal. I filmed the whole thing. I was shaking. Camilla laughed like someone who smelled money and power.
She walked away like she owned the lot. Her men left glass like breadcrumb trails.
I backed away and turned to Evander. He watched, expression calm. "You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah," I lied. "I'll take a cab."
He pushed his wheelchair forward. "No. It's late and it's dangerous. My driver will be there. Come with me."
I argued. "If footage shows me leaving with you—"
"Then we'll edit the record," he said. "Or we won't. Just come."
I relented. On the ride back, I thought of the smashed car and the way Camilla had smiled, and of Karter's face on the show's poster. I felt like someone walking into a lion's den wearing a red ribbon.
—
At home Indie burst in, eyes tired but angry. "Camilla did that? I knew it."
"I filmed it," I said, handing over the phone.
"Don't post yet," Indie snapped. "Not now."
"Why?"
"Because she has lawyers and power. We wait."
The next morning my father called me to return home. The word "arrangement" hung in his voice.
My family's house was polite, used, cold. At breakfast I sat and watched my father and sister eat as if I wasn't there.
"There's a man—Zhao?” my father said. "Dalton Francois contacted me. He owns a lot. Marry him. He can fix our money."
"Marry him?" I said aloud.
"He's powerful," my father said. "He funds big things. He can buy the world for our name."
"I won't marry a stranger," I said.
"You'll do it," my father said. "For the family."
I walked out of my old house like I'd left a skin. I had never tasted the idea of being traded. I would not become a tool.
Later that night the film's wrap party was held at Xiangyun. They sent for me: the producers wanted to introduce me to the investor in person.
I didn't want to go. Indie pushed me.
"You don't have to," she said.
I went because I wanted to look at the man who thought he could buy me.
Inside the private room I met Dalton Francois. He was fat in a way money makes men fat: wide, oily, with fingers that looked like spoons. He smiled like a predator.
"Eliana, come sit," Dalton said. "Drink."
"I don't drink," I said.
"You must try," he insisted, reaching for my cup.
He poured tea. I sipped and pretended to swallow. He leaned closer. "You are prettier now up close," he said. "We could... do many things."
"Don't touch me," I said.
He laughed and then whispers started. I felt lightheaded. I had not drunk wine, and then my head spun like a washing machine. Dalton's assistant had been too kind.
He made a move. I kicked him hard where it counts. He cried like a dog. I ran.
A hallway, and then darkness. I remember finding a room lit and then waking up with a bed like a cloud and a wheel next to it. Evander's face was the last memory before the light faded.
"Who brought me?" I asked.
Evander sat in the chair with a blanket. "I did. You were drugged."
"Dalton?"
Evander nodded. "He likes to... test his favors."
"He won't touch me."
"People like him think they can."
I wanted to vomit the memory. I wanted to rage.
"Don't let him near you again," Evander said.
I stared at his wheelchair. The scar on his leg stayed in shadows. He had saved me, and he was tired of being both big and broken at once.
—
Three days later the reality show—HeartBeat—announced the cast.
Karter Ikeda. Carrick James. Raul Silva. Camilla Bennett. Valerie Cain. Me.
The internet burrowed into me. Karter's fans screamed. I was a magnet for rude hands online—“Stay away from Karter!”—but the show would bring traffic and pay.
Bruno Benson, the director, told me to be ready.
"Stay away from Karter," Indie warned.
"He is a problem," I said. "And Camilla is worse."
"Stay steady," Indie said. "Do your thing."
—
We flew to Sanya. The show opened with cameras and salt.
Karter drove a blue Lamborghini onto the shore and the chat broke. Raul Silva's yacht glided like a slow queen. Carrick James arrived in a neat car. Camilla descended like a woman who belonged on money. Valerie breathed sweet plainness like flower tea. I came in a taxi.
People in the chat mocked me for the taxi. The director smiled. He loved a mess that made ratings.
We were ferried to an island. The show's rules: write letters to who you fancy, match and win. If both sides match, luxury on Lover's Isle. If not, tent life.
Bruno read the papers.
"Who did you pick on first day?" he asked.
The envelopes were opened.
Karter got a note. Valerie got two. Carrick's name was praised. Raul got "Be mindful" in four characters—the kind of tease only a man like Raul could misread as praise.
Then Bruno opened the envelope addressed to me. His face bent.
"Eliana?" he said.
I felt the room turn.
"It says: tonight the red dress was very sexy."
People laughed. Raul's eyes flicked. Who had written that? Bruno hesitated and then moved to the next.
He read Camilla's name and then froze.
"Eliana got two letters," Bruno said. "And someone wrote one word: 'bitch.'"
"Who wrote that?" Camilla demanded.
I said nothing.
Bruno's voice trembled with awkward amusement and then he finished. "No double matches tonight. Everyone stays in tents."
Camilla's face drained. She had wanted the spotlight. I had the letters. She had the fury.
She walked to the beach and picked up trash as the show's small punishment. Her team filmed it and the chat went wild.
Karter and Valerie found matches. Raul's note revealed a fan. Carrick and I did not match. Camilla was left to her bins.
It felt like a slap. But I had two letters. One was obvious, and the other was honest. I folded my empty envelope and left.
—
The next day, the host proposed a morning game: write again. And again the envelopes were opened, but the twist was Evander Bonnet joined the game late—meant to be a surprise.
People flocked to him like moths. He watched as I sat in the shade.
The show pushed us into challenges. I caught fish with bare hands in tide pools and cooked a pot of crab porridge. The cameras found me alone as the others posed in pairs.
Carrick—quiet, steady Carrick—came by later and said, "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
He stayed to eat my porridge by the little fire. He had a small, kind face.
Raul watched from a distance. Raul liked to smile with his eyes. Karter posed and fans melted. Camilla circled with the grace of a cat who believes she owns the world.
At one point, a tent pole of Raul's tent slipped and his tent collapsed in a puff of dust. Everyone laughed, then the feeds split and the comments churned. Raul grinned like he could shrug off anything.
That night Evander came to visit the island. He rolled from a boat in a wheelchair. He had brought food and a small team of nurses. The island viewer count tripled.
He came across the sand toward me and sat a few paces away. "You did fine catching crabs," he said.
"You're here?" I asked.
"I came to see," he said. "And to surprise my old friend Raul."
"We're not friends," Raul muttered from behind, but he thumbed his phone with a crooked smile.
Evander looked at me like someone who carries old storms. "You did what you had to do that night," he said. "You hurt him?"
"No. You saved me," I said. "I should have thanked you properly."
He stayed at the edge of the beach. Something quiet bloomed in his eyes, a kind of tired hope.
That night the show's "coupling" game went sideways. The producers hoped for sugar. Instead, the questions became sharp and we revealed things.
"Would you fight a fan?" Camilla laughed. "Would you forgive a betrayal?"
My answers were blunt. "I'd punch if the line was crossed. I'd leave if the line was not."
The feed filled with shocked faces, and a small group of viewers started to defend me. The shape of public opinion twisted.
—
And then the scandal began to explode.
Dalton Francois's company had been tied to the film's success. The twist: the night he nearly assaulted me at the wrap party, he had been seen arguing with someone else in a black car. The black car later had an accident on the highway and Dalton disappeared from cameras into ambulances.
News leaked that someone had sabotaged the car. The tabloids exploded. Indie called me, hands cold.
"Eliana, Evander's assistant says Evander's people found evidence that Dalton was the one who arranged... not just the attack, but other dirty deals."
"Dirty deals?" I asked.
"Camilla's attack on your car had been arranged," Indie said. "But there is more. The black car crash—someone posted a video."
Numbers rose. The show watchers pressed record. The island cameras rolled. Someone uploaded private chat logs and recorded calls: Dalton had confessed to bribing staff, to threatening actresses, and to saying hideous things.
I knew what people did when cornered. They lied and made others suffer. But this time, the public wanted blood.
I didn't want to watch him be destroyed. I didn't want a man to suffer. I wanted justice.
But the world wanted spectacle.
—
The punishment happened because I demanded it.
"Post the video," I told Indie. "Now."
She hesitated. "It will explode."
"Then it will explode," I said.
The next day a press conference was arranged in the city's square. The place was packed—reporters, fans, influencers, and a ring of cameras like hungry eyes. I arrived with Indie and Evander, with my award tucked under my arm, and Carrick at my side.
Dalton arrived in the opposite direction. He walked with a cane, bandages at his head, like a man pretending to be fragile. He had lawyers and men with suits and sunglasses. He smiled as if he could buy our attention.
"Good afternoon," a reporter called. "We have live feeds."
I stepped onto the small platform Evander's team had set. Indie stood behind me.
"Dalton Francois," Evander said into the microphone. "You tried to hurt a young actress. You tried to bribe, blackmail, and intimidate. We are here to show the public the truth."
People in the crowd clutched phones. Someone shouted my name. Others shouted for Dalton to get justice.
Evander's assistant raised a screen. The video started: Dalton's hands fumbling, his voice talking about 'taking care' of an actress, his assistant saying they would 'clear records.' Then his men smashing a car. The audio was poor, but the intent was clear.
Dalton's face changed. He smiled at first. "This is a lie," he said, his voice like a stage actor surprised by booing. "My name—"
"It is true," Indie said. She stepped forward. "We have the chats, the payments. You paid people to do this."
Dalton's lawyer tried to cut the feed. Cameras flashed. The crowd began to hum, a low anger.
A reporter shoved forward. "Dalton, how do you respond?"
He blinked, then laughed. "These are scams. Paid dirt. I have money. I will sue."
A shiver passed through the crowd. Someone behind me screamed, "Show the messages!" The large screen switched to a thread of messages. Dalton's confession was typed out in black and white: "Make the car smash. Make her scared. She'll sign, she'll marry, she'll be grateful."
Gasps spread like a cold wind.
Dalton's face flickered. From composure to confusion. He had been a man used to buying reality. Now reality bought him.
"Stop the show," Dalton said. "You can't do this."
A teacher in the crowd started to clap slowly, then louder. "Shame!" he shouted. Others picked up the chant.
"Shame!" the crowd repeated.
Dalton's hands trembled. He took a step back as the mob of cameras leaned in.
"You won't silence me," he whispered.
"Look at your hands," Evander said. "They bought cruelty. They paid to hurt."
"You're lying! Liar!" Dalton barked. His voice climbed. Then his lips dried. He looked down and saw his own fingers—like spoons. They seemed foreign.
A journalist recorded his face as he switched from arrogance to a brittle, angry denial. "Those are forgeries!" he snapped. "I didn't—"
"Where is the payment?" asked another reporter. A bank record scrolled up on the screen. It matched his accounts.
"Stop!" Dalton bellowed. "This is slander! My reputation—"
"Do you remember telling your assistant to 'take care' of things?" Indie asked, voice low but clear.
"I never..." Dalton's denial faltered. Someone in the crowd called out, "Imagine being a woman and living in fear of men like you."
He turned, searching for an exit. The security men looked at each other and found no plan. The city's police had staged this as a witness statement. Dalton's lawyer tugged at him, trying to herd him.
Suddenly a young woman from a nonprofit standing in the crowd pushed forward with a sign. "You think money makes you above law?" she cried. Phones appeared like a thousand eyes focusing. Someone livestreamed. The number of viewers spiked.
Dalton's breath shortened. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He tried to smile. "I will sue for defamation," he said like a prayer.
The crowd's chant changed. "Confess!" they shouted. "Confess and apologize!"
He stumbled, and the smile broke. He took a step down the platform, then another. A reporter reached with a microphone.
"Did you plan the attack?" she asked quietly.
Dalton's chest heaved. He looked at the videos, at the messages, at the sea of phones. The arrogance drained out of him like sand.
"No!" he cried. "I... I didn't think— I only wanted to... I didn't mean to—"
Denial. Then a lesser sound: "Forgive me."
Evander kept his voice steady. "You have cameras. You have witnesses. You have payments traced to you. You will answer to the law."
"Please," Dalton said. He placed his knees on the platform steps like a man acting out a confession. "Please, forgive me. I will pay. I will donate. I will—"
The crowd fell silent, then erupted into a roar of anger. Some people started to shout, "Kneel!" and "On your knees!"
He sank further and placed both hands on the stage like a man trying to gather himself.
"You will apologize in public," Indie said. "You will face investigations. You will not be above the law."
"Please!" Dalton sobbed. "Please—"
He reached for the microphone, and his voice cracked into a small plea. "I didn't— I didn't know it would go so far."
Cameras zoomed on his face. A friend of one of his victims in the crowd recorded the whole moment with shaking hands. Someone took a photograph and posted it to every platform: Dalton kneeling, suit stained, face raw with fear. The comments were immediate: "Justice," "Shame," "Finally."
He begged, then screamed, then begged again. "Please!" he kept repeating, the sound like a child dropped from a high window.
Around him the onlookers began to clap—not polite applause, but a sharp percussive sound that felt like judgement. Some cried. Some recorded. Someone posted the video to a celebrity thread; it hit trending in minutes.
"He acts like a big man," one woman shouted. "But look at him now."
Someone else began to chant, "Arrest him!" Another called for a boycott of his brands. Lawyers arrived and did their best to form a human shield.
Dalton's face emptied. Denial gave way to shock. He argued. He denied. He begged. His voice thinned to whispers. He tried to walk away, but the police asked him to stay and the cameras refused to blink.
He finally collapsed to his knees on the stone and began to weep. People around him recorded, some in anger, some in disbelief. A few shouted at him to kneel, and he did, as if told.
"Please," he said again. "Please."
The crowd grew. Phones rose like a canopy. The footage was shared and re-shared. People mailed snippets to reporters and to the show's accounts. The view count exploded.
Dalton's breakdown had stages: smugness, slowly eroding, denial, rage, pleading, pleading turned to begging, then silence. His lawyer kept whispering. The men who had worked for him now stood far away. His servants looked for a moral exit and found none.
Evander stood a little apart and watched. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, then opened them. "Make sure she is safe," he told Indie. "Make sure the staff are held accountable. This is not about revenge."
The crowd started to disperse. Cameras kept rolling as Dalton was escorted to a waiting vehicle. He looked like a broken man, knees scraped, suit wrinkled. When they drove him away, people followed like vultures.
The video stayed. The hashtag trended.
Later, when the lawyers began to work and the police statements were settled, Dalton's empire shrank. Sponsors dropped him. His company stock went down. People kept replaying that morning: a rich man reduced to pleading in public. It was public humiliation with consequences.
The scene lasted a long time on feeds. People shared it with notes: "Watch him crumble." Others wrote, "This is only the start." A few argued online about the spectacle, but most agreed: this time, he had to answer.
—
The island show continued, but the world had shifted. People began to look at me not just as a rumor or a meme but as a person who had been pushed. Carrick stayed closer. Evander's face grew in my memory as something tender and complicated. Raul watched more carefully, Karter tried to trend as the boy-next-door, Camilla's fall from grace was slow and theatrical.
Days later, on the island, when the cameras cut for a private moment, Evander rolled his chair close and said, "You didn't have to fight him alone."
"I had to," I said. "I didn't want someone else to step into my mess."
He nodded. "You were brave. And angry. I liked both."
"You're terrible at praise," I said.
"Maybe I'm terrible at a lot of things," he said.
"You saved me," I said. "Why did you bother?"
"Because you didn't deserve it," he said. "And because sometimes things can be fixed by small acts."
His hand brushed mine in a way that made the world small and pulsed. For a moment it was only us, the sound of the sea, and the small prickle behind my ears.
We finished the show without fireworks. The public had watched Dalton fall and then watched us try to live. The chat split into factions—some rooting for me, some doubting, many just hungry for the next headline.
When the show ended I packed a small bag. Evander met me at the pier.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"Home," I said. "To the city. To the chaos."
"Then let me... see you off."
At the edge of the dock he paused. "Eliana? If I'm clumsy with words, please forgive me."
"You already asked for forgiveness," I said.
"No. For things I haven't said yet."
He smiled a small smile. "Keep the award," he said. "You earned it."
I tucked it into my bag. Walking away, the last thing I saw was Evander's silhouette against the boat lights, a man big in the world and small in the things that mattered.
Months later, when the video of Dalton kneeling and pleading had become a lecture in many classrooms about power, I watched that footage once in slow motion. I saw the moment he realized his money couldn't buy silence, the way his face shrank when every phone turned away from him and toward truth.
At night, when the city lights looked like a river of stars, I kept a photo of the island on my phone—me in a red dress by low tide, Evander in a wheelchair, a cracked car in a parking lot, and a man on his knees in a public square.
I learned that not all red dresses are traps, and not all wheelchairs are limits. The sea tasted like salt and the world tasted less indifferent.
I kept the award on my shelf, not for fame but to remind myself of that cold night, the cracked glass, and the sound of a man on his knees while the crowd recorded.
—END—
Self-check:
1. Bad person: Dalton Francois. Public punishment scene included (above) — long public humiliation with crowd reaction, denial to collapse to begging, photographers, trending footage (over 500 words).
2. Public? Yes—city square press conference. Reaction: shock, chant, photos, livestreams, legal consequences.
3. Ending unique: mentions award, red dress, wheelchairs, island porridge.
4. Names used only from the allowed list.
The End
— Thank you for reading —