My Ex on Display

The pop superstar adjusted my earpiece, and then, on instinct, kissed my hair.

We both froze.

Because this was a reality show about divorce.

And we were from different couples.

After I divorced Liam Miller, everyone thought I would be the one clinging to him.

He had announced our marriage at the peak of his fame.

After successfully transitioning his career and finally winning awards, my name would always come up.

"How did she get so lucky?" they'd say.

"She doesn't deserve him."

I was the one who asked for the divorce.

But he had been waiting for it for a long time.

While he was on set with his co-star, an actress named Sophia Davis, wearing his clothes, using his phone case, playing the part of a "set couple"

I was still at home, flipping through a calendar, waiting for him to come back, only to have my calls rejected again and again with the excuse of being "busy."

Until one day, I ran into Sophia Davis in first class.

She greeted me with a warm, beaming smile.

"Did you know," she whispered in my ear, "I paid for this flight with his card."

She was doing it on purpose.

Trying to force me to divorce him.

I gave her what she wanted.

I went home and was packed and gone within half an hour.

I don't want things that other people have touched and soiled.

Thank God, we didn't have any children.

Liam Miller leaned against the doorframe, watching me.

His reaction was muted.

He only asked one thing: "What else do you want?"

"Your phone."

He was taken aback but handed it over without a fight.

In the years when he loved me most, when I was by his side as he climbed from obscurity to stardom, I had always been his one and only pinned contact.

Now, I had been replaced.

All that was left was "Do Not Disturb."

We signed the papers.

He gave me everything he had earned over the years, just begging me to let him go quickly.

He said he was truly in love with Sophia Davis.

After signing a non-disclosure agreement, I left, thinking I would never have contact with him again.

Until he called me, one month after the divorce.

"We need to meet."

"We can't let the fans find out you cheated.

The show still has to air."

I had arrived early.

In the break room, Liam Miller's manager was trying to persuade him.

"You're divorced, but you're still a top-tier actor.

And her?

She's just a nobody waiting to become a laughingstock."

"She's definitely not going to take this lying down."

"So, you just trick her.

Tell her you want to go on a divorce reality show with her."

"Let her think she still has a chance to win you back, make her grovel and please you."

"Then, in the final edit, we'll make her look annoying, and you'll get to keep your 'devoted lover' persona."

The manager nudged him.

"Are you even listening?"

Liam Miller had his legs propped up on a low table, lazily playing a game on his phone.

"Yeah," he grunted.

"I'm telling you, you snap your fingers, and she'll come crawling back like a grateful puppy."

In the meeting room.

Liam Miller toyed with his phone with one hand.

He said a few simple words.

And I agreed.

"I'll do the show."

He stared into my eyes, hesitating for a moment.

"Are you really that desperate for me?"

He was so confident, so easy to fool.

I lowered my lashes.

"Yes."

"Liam Miller," I whispered, "is there still a chance for us?"

His gaze was cold.

He turned his face away and said softly, "We'll see how you perform."

"But," he added, "the premise of this show isn't what you think."

This divorce reality show was set to air during the broadcast of his new drama with Sophia Davis.

It was all to hype up their on-screen couple pairing.

The show's theme was "Try a different lifestyle, see the problems in your marriage."

Sophia Davis would be in a room with him.

And I would be in a room with Sophia Davis's husband.

The man who, at nineteen, shot to fame with a single drama, won every major award, and then promptly retired to get married: Noah Wilson.

Liam Miller had basically picked up Noah Wilson's scraps.

He had risen to fame with a face that was seventy percent similar to Noah Wilson's.

The rumor was that Sophia Davis and Noah Wilson lived apart after their marriage.

That she loved him, but he didn't love her back.

A hot spring resort.

Two rooms, separated by a single wall.

A live broadcast.

There was an observation room for the cast and a live comment feed for the audience.

OMG, Liam Miller and Sophia Davis are on a divorce show, in the same room!

They're playing with fire!!!

They have insane chemistry.

They look so good together.

I've been saying for ages that Liam Miller and his wife had no feelings left.

Who wants someone who just drags them down?

I've been waiting for them to get divorced for so long!

He must have been blind he used to love her so much

The staff fitted Liam Miller and Sophia Davis with heart rate watches.

"Once your heart rate hits 70, you can leave the room."

That's gonna be instant, right?

But to everyone's surprise, both of their heart rates stalled at 68.

In private, he and Sophia Davis had done everything.

They were too familiar with each other, so they were afraid of slipping up on camera.

In front of the cameras, they put on an act.

Sophia Davis is so polite.

She doesn't even dare to get too close.

Liam Miller, don't hold back!

We support you!

Sophia Davis sat by the door.

Liam Miller stood on the balcony for some air, from where he could see a corner of my room.

Noah Wilson hadn't arrived yet.

I sat alone on the bed, wearing my own heart rate watch.

There was a knock on the door.

It was a tall, slender man.

A baseball cap shadowed half his face, and his bangs were damp with the mist from the hot springs.

A light rain was falling outside.

He smelled of the deep, misty night.

My first love is back!!!

What can I say, Liam Miller?

There's no harm without comparison.

No hate, please.

"You need to put this on," I said, handing the other heart rate watch to Noah Wilson.

Liam Miller hated it when people said he looked like Noah Wilson.

In the first year of our marriage, we were taking a late-night walk when I stopped, mesmerized by a giant luxury ad featuring Noah Wilson.

Liam Miller had pulled my hat down over my eyes and said sourly, "I knew you liked that type."

Now, in the other room, Liam Miller, on his balcony, watched clearly.

He watched Noah Wilson enter the room and close the door behind him.

He watched him put on the watch.

Liam Miller wasn't worried.

He had known since that night that Noah Wilson, the man he could never catch up to, the man he was sick with jealousy over, was in a contract marriage with Sophia Davis.

Noah Wilson didn't even like Sophia Davis.

So, of course, he wouldn't be interested in an ordinary, divorced woman like me, someone Liam Miller himself had cast aside.

Liam Miller scoffed, unconcerned.

But he watched my every reaction, missing nothing.

"Hello, Emma," I said, my heart rate steady at 50, extending my hand to Noah Wilson.

"I'm Emma Johnson."

"Noah Wilson," he said, taking my hand.

A few seconds later, the watch emitted a shrill, piercing beep.

Noah Wilson's heart rate had skyrocketed.

But he himself was calmer than anyone.

"The watch is broken," he said.

"Oh," I replied.

After changing the watch, it worked normally.

Liam Miller and Sophia Davis played a few "chemistry games," and their heart rates surpassed 70, allowing them to leave the room early.

As for me and Noah Wilson, his heart rate remained stubbornly at 25.

Pathetically low.

"If it never goes up," I asked a staff member, "do we have to spend the night in the room?"

Noah Wilson overheard.

He stood tall, shoulders broad in a thin black hoodie, his gaze distant and empty.

The staff member replied, "It counts as a failed mission.

You can come out in an hour."

Noah Wilson and I were the last to leave.

What a failure.

They have absolutely zero chemistry.

Get them out of here.

Can we please not look at her?

I just want to see Sophia Davis and Liam Miller.

The comments were brutal, right up until the live stream ended.

The post-interview rooms were crowded with cameras, lights, and people.

Liam Miller stood in a corner, watching Sophia Davis's interview, his gaze inadvertently sweeping over to me.

"Excited?" he asked out of the blue.

"Was there a moment when you thought Noah Wilson might actually be interested in you?"

I ignored him and tried to walk away, but he blocked my path.

"What am I going to do, Emma?" he said, hands in his pockets, tilting his head to look at me.

"I'm starting to think divorcing you was the best decision I ever made."

Someone passed by.

Liam Miller straightened up, instantly transforming back into that gentle, soulful, yet heartbroken man.

As if I were the one who had hurt him the most.

After her interview, Sophia Davis walked over to me, under the watchful eyes of everyone, and took my hand.

"Emma," she said, an old red string tied around her wrist.

"You should cherish Liam Miller.

He really loves you."

That red string.

I had seen it before.

Last year, on our wedding anniversary, Liam Miller had a minor car accident after being followed by obsessive fans.

He was fine.

I took him to a temple to pray for his safety.

I closed my eyes, my heart filled with prayers for him.

When I opened them, I saw him buying a red string.

I thought he was going to give it to me.

But he said he was getting it for himself, to put my mind at ease.

And now, it was on Sophia Davis's wrist.

"Stop being difficult," Sophia Davis continued, playing to the cameras.

"More than anyone, I want you two to be happy."

I didn't say a word.

Liam Miller didn't know.

Sophia Davis didn't know.

The truth was, I had agreed to do this show for another, more hidden reason.

That day, when I closed my eyes to pray, Liam Miller wasn't the one on my mind either.

The show filmed on weekends, following a "weekend couple" concept.

During the week, I went back to my old profession, trying to get my job back as a talent manager at my former entertainment group.

"Noah Wilson and Sophia Davis are divorced," my old boss told me.

"His ten-year contract with her father's company is finally up.

He's setting up his own studio, and I recommended you to him."

I went to the address he gave me and found Noah Wilson at a photo studio.

His profile was silhouetted against the light, his features sharp and untamed.

It was a face made for the screen.

He was even harder to approach than I had imagined.

I waited outside for a long time.

Finally, his assistant came out.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Johnson, we probably can't talk today."

On the way back, my car broke down.

Eleven o'clock at night, in the middle of nowhere, and it was raining.

I stood under my umbrella, waiting for a tow truck, watching the cars pass by like phantoms in the night.

None of them were for me.

Headlights flashed.

The window of a black minivan rolled down.

Noah Wilson's assistant said to me, "Ms. Johnson, get in."

Noah Wilson was in the back seat, a baseball cap pulled low, asleep.

His breathing was shallow, his long legs slightly bent.

The space was a bit cramped for him.

The van was filled with clutter, and two suit jackets hung by the window.

The crisp scent of pine.

The same scent from the day he had held my hand.

"Ms. Johnson, I'm going to grab a drink from the gas station up ahead.

Do you want anything?" the assistant asked quietly.

"Just call me Emma.

I'll go with you."

"No, no," he said, waving his hand as he got out.

"I'll go.

I'll be right back."

The door closed, leaving just me and Noah Wilson in the van.

No one else.

No cameras.

The headlights flickered, casting the interior in a dim glow.

Though we were separated by a row of seats, his breathing sounded as close as if it were right next to my ear.

I stared out the window at the blue glow of the convenience store not far away, where the assistant was lingering by a shelf.

I remembered once, at a supermarket, seeing an ad for Sophia Davis.

"She's so beautiful," I had said to Liam Miller at the time.

His reaction was flat.

"She's okay."

I didn't know that this "okay" would be the reason he stayed away from home, time and time again.

Later, I heard from others that Sophia Davis was his first love.

They had broken up when he was still struggling to make it big.

He couldn't forget her.

But at that moment, in the supermarket, he had just deftly changed the subject, asking me, "Sweetheart, you never dated anyone before me?"

"No," I had said.

At least, that's what I told everyone, including him.

In the van, someone was kicking my leg.

A long leg extending from the back seat.

Not accidentally.

But deliberately, mischievously, childishly, kicking me in a soft rhythm.

I moved my legs out of his reach.

I didn't say anything, didn't turn around.

I maintained my posture, as if nothing had happened.

"Emma Johnson," he said, his voice husky from sleep, laced with a reckless, youthful charm.

"Long time no see."

After all these years, why did he still like to say my name like that?

Just like in that small, humid, hot rental apartment

Drowning again and again

In his gentle yet unrestrained, invasive touch.