My Actress Girlfriend - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Every industry has its dirty little secrets, and Hollywood runs on them. Behind the red carpets and flashing cameras, desperate actors will do just about anything—sell their bodies, trade favors—for a shot at the big time.
My girlfriend, Sophia Laurent, was one of those struggling actresses. Last night, she left our apartment dressed like she was headed to a high-end escort gig—and didn't come home until morning.
The next day, I caught a text on her phone: "You did great last night. The investor was very pleased."
Yeah. I knew exactly what that meant.
My name's Ethan Anderson. A broke screenwriter, grinding out cheap scripts to keep the lights on. No money, no connections—just a stunning girlfriend who was way out of my league.
Sophia had done a few indie web series, but fame never stuck. Then, last night, some guy called her. She slipped into a dress that left nothing to the imagination and vanished.
When she finally stumbled back in around noon, she was still in last night's outfit—but she smelled like hotel soap.
She didn't even blink when she saw me. Just sauntered over, pressing her body against mine, and purred, "My back's killing me. Rub it for me?"
I didn't move.
She sighed, rolling her eyes like I was being dramatic. "Just had a late meeting with a friend. Nothing crazy."
"Which friend?"
"You don't know them."
With that, she peeled off her dress, leaving only lace underneath, and flopped onto the couch. "Come on, Ethan. Hands."
I worked my fingers down her spine, trying to ignore the way her skin still carried the scent of someone else's shower gel. Then I saw it—a faint red mark, just above her hip.
She twisted around, smirking, her nails dragging down my chest. "Getting bold in the middle of the day?"
I couldn't even answer.
She stretched, slipped into sweats, and cooked an elaborate lunch—like she was making up for something.
Her phone sat on the counter. I grabbed it when she wasn't looking.
The last message was from Vincent Roscente.
You did great last night. The investors were very pleased.
Vincent—a big-name producer with a reputation for "discovering" actresses in his hotel room.
My stomach twisted.
Sophia had cheated.
And now she was buttering me up with food, like guilt was a seasoning.
I locked myself in my office, rewriting garbage scripts until my eyes burned. When I finally emerged, the apartment was dark—just a single plate on the table with a note.
Sweetheart, won't be home tonight. Eat well.
Vincent's text flashed in my mind. My appetite died.
Then my phone rang.
Vincent Roscente's name lit up the screen.