His Bride Is Not Me

My name is Daisy Lincoln, and I am Eric Shawn's agent. For a full ten years, I stood by him as he rose from an unknown extra to the dazzling top movie star he is today. That afternoon, sunlight poured through the studio's floor-to-ceiling windows, landing softly on the wedding invitation Eric handed me. The gilded names "Eric Shawn" and "Daisy Lincoln" stood side by side, dazzling my eyes until they ached. "Daisy," his fingertips brushed the edge of the invitation, his voice carrying the tenderness I knew so well, "At the Century Wedding, I want everyone to know that you are the only wife of Eric Shawn." My hand clutching the invitation trembled slightly; I couldn't even form a complete sentence, only nodding repeatedly. The next day, I went to the most famous bridal shop in the city center. When the clerk brought over an ivory-white satin wedding dress, I suddenly recalled that, ten years ago, Eric Shawn had bought me a silk scarf with his first month's salary—just as white as this—wrapped around my reddened neck, warming me until it burned. "Miss Lincoln, the train of this wedding dress is three meters long, perfectly complemented by the pearl veil." I reached out and touched the lace trim of the wedding dress; the delicate texture beneath my fingertips made my heart feel as if it were steeped in honey. The wedding was set at a countryside hotel on the city outskirts; the decorations alone took half a month to complete. Every day, after finishing Eric Shawn's schedule, I would rush to the hotel, meticulously checking everything—from the color of the table flowers to the guests' seating—afraid of making even the slightest mistake. Eric always said I was too particular, then smiled and embraced me from behind: "Daisy, as long as you're here, I feel at ease." I looked back at him; the smile in his eyes was unmistakable. I believed it to be the love he had concealed for ten long years. On the wedding day, clad in a custom-made gown, I sat in the makeup room, my heart racing as if it might leap from my chest. As the makeup artist brushed lipstick onto my lips, my mind was still tangled in thoughts of the whispered words I would share with Eric Shawn when I stepped onto the stage. Suddenly, a clamor rose outside, followed by the MC's voice: "Let us warmly welcome the groom, Mr. Eric Shawn, and the bride—Miss Vivian Xavier!" "Vivian Xavier"—those two words struck me like thunder, leaving my mind utterly blank. I stumbled out, just in time to see Vivian Xavier wearing the backup wedding dress I had chosen, her arm linked with Eric Shawn's, stepping onto the stage step by step. The way Eric Shawn looked at Vivian Xavier was a tenderness I had never seen before, like a pool of water shimmering in his gaze. I froze where I stood, my fingers digging into the corridor wall, not even noticing that blood was seeping from beneath my nails. A nearby staff member, assuming I was there to help, gave me a push: "Daisy, hurry up and help Ms. Xavier adjust her veil." I felt like a marionette, stepping onto the stage step by step. The moment my fingertips touched Vivian Xavier's veil, she turned her head and whispered in a voice only we could hear, "Daisy, thank you for the wedding dress. It's beautiful." A chill spread through me; I forced a smile, helped straighten her veil, and then rushed off the stage as if to escape. That night, I sat alone in the empty apartment when my mobile phone suddenly vibrated. It was a video from Vivian. On the screen, Eric Shawn was leaning back on the sofa with a cigarette between his lips, speaking with a cynical tone. "Why should I be grateful just because Daisy Lincoln supported and loved me?" "Playing dumb is what I do best; otherwise, how else could I have endured until today?" The video only played for a few seconds, yet I watched it over and over dozens of times. Every word felt like a needle piercing my heart, unbearably painful. I remembered ten years ago, Eric Shawn holding my hand, frozen purple in the basement, saying, "Daisy, when I become famous, I will make sure you live the best life." Now he is famous, but in his 'best life,' there is no place for me. I couldn't swallow this bitterness; I grabbed my car keys and rushed to Eric Shawn's villa. The car sped like a bullet, the streetlights blurring into streaks of light before my eyes, and tears refused to stop falling. Pushing open the villa door, the living room lights were on. On the sofa, Eric Shawn was holding Vivian Xavier; their intimate embrace felt like a knife plunging directly into my heart. "Eric Shawn." Clenching my fists, my voice trembling and unsteady, I still forced myself to call out his name.