Lana's Point of View
I throw myself onto my bed, the mattress creaking under my weight as I press my face into the pillow and scream until my throat burns. When I finally come up for air, I punch the headboard, welcoming the sharp sting across my knuckles.
"Fucking Morgan Quinn!" I shout at my empty apartment. "I can't believe I trusted that two-faced bitch!"
The gun case sits on my nightstand, a dark reminder of how far I've fallen. Three days at the shooting range and I still feel like a fraud holding it, but the weight of it in my hand gives me a sense of control I desperately need right now.
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above me. All those times on set when Morgan would bring me coffee, compliment my performance, ask about Adam with what seemed like genuine interest... it was all just reconnaissance. She was studying me, learning my weaknesses, planning how to steal my life.
"She seemed so fucking sincere," I whisper, tears burning my eyes. "All those little pep talks before difficult scenes, all those times she defended me to directors who pushed too hard."
God, I was such an idiot. While I was pouring my heart out to her, she was plotting to take everything from me.
I throw my phone across the room, satisfaction flooding through me as it hits the wall with a satisfying crack. The screen shatters, spider-webbing across Adam's face in our last happy selfie together.
Appropriate.
My body feels heavy with exhaustion as I curl onto my side. Three days of waiting outside Morgan's mansion, watching, planning, hoping for any glimpse of Adam. Nothing. They've vanished completely.
Sarah won't return my calls either. I've left her dozens of messages, each more desperate than the last. I even went to her apartment yesterday, but she just peered through the peephole and told me to go home.
"She's turned everyone against me," I mutter, wiping angry tears from my cheeks.
I bolt upright, a realization hitting me like a slap to the face.
"Wait a minute," I whisper, my heartbeat quickening. "Adam's stuff..."
I scramble off the bed, nearly tripping over my own feet as I rush into the living room. There, on the side table, sits Adam's laptop, the one I bought him for Christmas last year.
My hands tremble as I grab the laptop and hurry back to bed. I curl my legs underneath me, balancing the computer on my thighs as I flip it open. The screen illuminates my face in the dimness of my bedroom, the login screen appearing without prompting for a password.
I sigh, shaking my head at Adam's naivety. He always trusted me too much, never even set up a password on his laptop. When I get him back, that's the first thing I'm fixing. No passwords means no security, and Adam needs all the protection he can get right now.
His desktop is exactly as I remember, cluttered with random files, that same Pokémon wallpaper he's had even on his old computers, and his browser still remembers all his logins. I click on the Discord icon, and it opens immediately. No password required there either.
The weird interface loads, showing Adam's conversations still active. He was always happily typing away on here, sometimes for hours, especially late at night when he thought I was asleep. I'd often catch glimpses of him smiling at his screen, fingers flying across the keyboard.
I scroll through his server list, looking for anything suspicious. Most are gaming groups or writing communities, somewhere called slemonade central, typical Adam stuff. But one conversation catches my eye, a direct message thread with someone called RedheadloverX. The username alone makes my stomach churn.
I click on it, and my blood runs cold. Hundreds of messages dating back months before our breakup. Daily conversations, sometimes multiple times a day.
I scroll through the messages, my heart sinking as I realize what I'm looking at. This RedheadloverX person isn't just some random Discord friend, they're Adam's confidant, his digital therapist. The person he's been pouring his heart out to for months.
"Holy shit," I whisper, my eyes widening as I scan through conversation after conversation.
Smolblunts: Sometimes I feel so guilty. I promised bae I wouldn't watch her scenes, but last night while she was at that industry party, I found her latest one with Derek. I couldn't stop myself.
RedheadloverX: Don't beat yourself up, man. It's natural to be curious about what your girlfriend does at work.
Smolblunts: But I promised her. And the worst part? I enjoyed it. Like, REALLY enjoyed it. Is that fucked up?
RedheadloverX: Not at all. Have you ever considered you might have a cuckold fetish?
My fingers freeze over the trackpad. A cuckold fetish? Adam? I keep reading, unable to tear my eyes away.
Smolblunts: I've been thinking about what you said about the cuck thing. I think you might be right. When I see Lana with other guys on camera, it does something to me. But how do I tell her that? She already feels insecure about her job.
RedheadloverX: Maybe she'd understand. Maybe not though.
Smolblunts: No way. She'd think I'm a freak.
The timestamps show these conversations happening late at night, often when I was at shoots or industry events. All those times I thought Adam was working on his stories, he was actually confessing his deepest secrets to this stranger.
Except... this isn't a stranger at all. I look closer at the profile picture, a generic anime redhead, and the writing style. The careful questions, the way this person draws Adam out, encourages him to explore his fantasies...
"Morgan," I breathe, the realization hitting me like a truck. "It's fucking Morgan."
I click through to the profile information. Member since three months ago. Started messaging Adam around the same time Morgan and I began talking about Adam so much. The pieces fall into place with sickening clarity.
But strangely, as I read through more of their exchanges, I don't feel the rage I expected. Adam wasn't cheating, he was seeking understanding, trying to process his complicated feelings about my career. He needed someone to talk to, and Morgan, that manipulative snake, positioned herself perfectly.
Smolblunts: Sometimes I worry I'm not enough for her. That she'll realize she could have anyone and leave me.
RedheadloverX: Trust me, you're more than enough. Any woman would be lucky to have someone as thoughtful as you.
I stare at the screen, my anger suddenly shifting into something else, a deep, gnawing sadness mixed with regret. All this time, Adam had these feelings he was afraid to share with me. He was jerking off to my scenes while feeling guilty about it, confessing his darkest desires to a stranger instead of me.
"Jesus, Adam," I whisper, tracing my finger over his words on the screen. "Why didn't you just tell me?"
If he'd only opened up about being turned on by watching me with other men, I would've been so supportive. We could have explored that together. I could have made it special for him, created a safe space where he felt validated instead of ashamed.
I remember all those nights after shoots when I'd come home to find him acting weird, distant. I thought he was disgusted by what I did. All along, he was aroused by it but too afraid to admit it.
"I would have made it beautiful for you," I say to his avatar picture. "We could have found ways to explore your fantasies that made you feel loved, not broken."
I could have arranged something private, controlled, where he could watch but still feel secure in our relationship. Maybe even included him sometimes, let him see how much I still wanted him even after being with someone else.
The thought sends an unexpected shiver through me. I've never considered myself into the whole hotwife thing, but making Adam's fantasies come true? Seeing the excitement in his eyes as I embraced this part of him? Making him want me even more. That would have been incredible.
Instead, he hid his feelings, and Morgan swooped in to "understand" him when I couldn't.
I scroll further, watching their relationship develop over months of late-night conversations. Morgan carefully manipulating him, building trust, positioning herself as the one person who truly "gets" him. Slowly undermining my job.
"That calculating bitch," I mutter, though my rage has cooled into something more determined. "She found your vulnerability and exploited it."
I slam the laptop shut with trembling hands, clutching it against my chest as I fall back onto the mattress. Hot tears streak down my temples and into my hair, but they're not just tears of sadness anymore, they're tears of clarity, of purpose.
"He's mine," I whisper, stroking the cool metal of the laptop like it's a precious artifact. "He's always been mine."
I roll onto my side, curling around the computer like it's Adam himself, the last tangible connection I have to him. My tears dampen the keyboard as I press my face against it, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne that still clings to the keys.
The gun case on my nightstand catches my eye, and something shifts inside me, a dark certainty taking root where confusion once lived. Morgan didn't just steal my boyfriend. She stole my chance to be everything Adam needed. She robbed us both of the beautiful future we could have had if he'd only trusted me with his desires.
"I would have given you everything," I murmur, my voice cracking. "I would have made all your fantasies come true."
I sit up abruptly, wiping tears from my face with the back of my hand. The laptop slides onto the mattress beside me as a plan begins to crystallize in my mind. I don't need to destroy Morgan. I need to rescue Adam from her manipulation.
He doesn't realize what she's done, how she's positioned herself as his savior, his confidante, his perfect match. She studied him for months through that Discord account, learning exactly what buttons to push, what insecurities to exploit.
I reach for my phone before remembering I've shattered it against the wall. "Fuck," I mutter, scrambling off the bed to retrieve the broken device. The screen is cracked beyond repair, but miraculously, it still turns on.
I stare at the cracked phone screen, a plan forming in my mind. Adam needs saving, not just from Morgan, but from his own inability to see her manipulation. I need evidence of what she's done, something concrete to show him how meticulously she orchestrated this whole situation.
"I can't do this alone," I mutter, scrolling through my contacts until I find the name I'm looking for: Vince Holloway.
We worked together on a set last year. He was security before leaving to start his own private investigation firm. He gave me his card after I mentioned some creepy fan who'd been sending disturbing messages.
"I really will kill you, Morgan, if I have to."