Our Substitute

Three days after finalizing the divorce with Holden, two videos exploded across all major platforms. One was from eight years ago, showing me, Scarlett, at twenty-four, bussing tables with Holden at a late-night diner. I was cradling a fifteen-dollar plate of fried rice, my eyes sparkling. “Future Scarlett, once Holden becomes a big-shot director, won’t it be awesome to be married to him? You better remember all the hardships we’re going through now; he’ll have to pay it all back, with interest!” The other clip was from yesterday’s film festival red carpet. The newly crowned Best Actress, Selena, walked past the autograph wall, her arm linked with Holden’s. The man smiled at the cameras. “Finally, I don’t have to see other people’s shadows through Scarlett anymore.” 1 The videos went viral just as I received my acceptance letter from the Vienna Conservatory of Music. Clicking the play button, my twenty-four-year-old self abruptly appeared. A girl with a ponytail, meticulously picking out every single shrimp from her fried rice and transferring them to the bowl across from her. I stared at the screen for a long time before finally digging this memory out from the depths of my mind. It was my second year in the big city after leaving home. I was down to my last two hundred dollars, squatting at a copy shop near the film academy, editing screenplays for people. After three days, only Holden stopped, a cigarette dangling from his lips, raising an eyebrow. “Want to work on a film crew with me?” I looked up, staring at his face, lost in a daze, my throat tightening. He clicked his tongue. “It’s a legitimate crew, daily pay.” From then on, the production’s logistics team gained two new members. I wrote storyboards; he lugged equipment. The set was bustling late at night, few people noticing us in the corner. Only one girl, wearing a baseball cap, occasionally stood behind the monitor, watching us work through the night, her eyes bloodshot. After that, she came every day, carrying a second-hand camera, filming us. Holden was twenty-five then, wild and sharp, with an innate storytelling quality for the camera. I thought she was moved by his persistence. Patting her shoulder, I proudly declared, “What you just filmed is future director Holden’s on-set diary. These shots might be worth a fortune someday.” But she shook her head, saying the protagonist she wanted to capture was never Holden. It was me. She said in twenty-four-year-old Scarlett, she saw herself in her past—reckless, passionate, giving her all. She called this project ‘Eight-Year Dream’. Eight years later, she intended to prove with this film that there are no fairy tales in real life. I laughed, thinking her naive. She stomped off in a huff, but the next day, she reappeared in the corner of the set. As long as she didn’t interfere with our work, we let her be. 2 The forums had already exploded. Someone dug up the comment Holden made backstage at the film festival to Selena. “Oh my god, wasn’t Scarlett rumored to have married Holden for his connections? Who started that lie!” “Scarlett loved Holden to death, okay? This is clearly Holden cheating.” “She worked three jobs to support both their dreams back then—that’s not love? She was super in love!” “Everyone says Selena looks like Scarlett. Is this a ‘substitute’ trope?” They were half right. In twenty-four-year-old Scarlett’s eyes and heart, it truly was all about Holden. But they were also wrong. Selena wasn’t a substitute. I was the shadow. The one in Holden’s heart had always been Selena. When he first took me in at his rented flat, he often stared at my profile, lost in thought. But from the fourth month on, he started truly seeing me. He’d cook late-night snacks when I pulled all-nighters writing scripts, and prepare ginger tea every rainy season. Every night after work, he’d tuck my frozen hands into his jacket pockets. Putting his arm around my shoulders, he’d whisper, “Scarlett, when I make my first movie, I’ll definitely have you as the screenwriter. Then, I’ll propose to you at the premiere.” I nodded hard, working even harder at my jobs. Waking up at five in the morning to edit scripts, then heading to a breakfast shop at seven to fry donuts. At noon, I’d hand out flyers in office buildings. Getting heatstroke in a suffocating mascot costume in summer was common; in the dead of winter, standing on street corners, my hands were covered in chilblains. I also had to constantly watch out for city officials; getting chased once meant half a day’s work wasted. In the evenings, Holden and I would go to film sets as temporary production assistants. He studied photography; I did odd jobs. If we finished early, we’d help bus tables at a late-night diner. Often, we’d be busy until after midnight, then catch the last subway home. The girl who filmed us lasted only a week before collapsing from exhaustion. Rubbing her shoulders, she looked at me with immense respect. “Are you made of steel? Don’t you ever get tired?” How could I not be tired? I was only human. But thinking of that promise made every bit of exhaustion worthwhile. I wanted Holden to succeed sooner so he could repay me a hundredfold, a thousandfold, for all these hardships. If he tried to renege, the video would be proof. In the footage, I was leaning against a wall, dozing off. Holden gently moved his shoulder closer, supporting my swaying body. He frowned, wiping the sweat from my forehead, and sighed. When I caught the faint scent of soap on him, I suddenly jolted awake, feeling recharged. I smiled, tugging at his sleeve, swaying him. That Scarlett never seemed to notice Holden’s occasional moments of distraction. 3 After filming us for a month and a half, the young woman said she was going back to school. Because of Holden and me, she believed in love again. The night before she left, we treated her to a barbecue at the diner. Holden played a tune on his guitar that I had just written. It made the young woman cry again. She asked what the song was called. I said, “Against the Current.” It was a song written for him, and for me. Also because of this song, a producer that night wanted to buy Holden’s short film script. The young woman poked me. “If he really becomes a big director, aren’t you afraid he’ll leave you?” I pulled Holden’s arm, lifted my face, my eyes crescent moons. “Future big director, someone’s questioning your sincerity. Quickly, make a statement.” In front of everyone in the entire night market, Holden leaned down and kissed me, his eyes as gentle as if steeped in honey. “Holden will always love Scarlett! Just like it says in this script, my love for you isn’t enough even if we filmed until wrap.” I rubbed my eyes, turning off the video. My chest ached with a dull pain. Because on TV, Selena’s acceptance speech was playing. The background music was the same “Against the Current” that Holden had been reluctant to sell years ago. Now renamed “Moonlight Elegy.” The composer and screenwriter credits, once my name, were now Selena’s. He once said that if he became a director, I would be his exclusive screenwriter. We would win the Golden Palm together. Before the award submission deadline, he said he would submit my name. But that day, Selena threw a tantrum because I hadn’t brought her coffee. Holden pulled me aside, telling me to apologize. I laughed out loud on the spot. “Holden, am I her assistant?” He, however, said, “Scarlett, be sensible, don’t make things difficult for me.” I stiffened my neck and ordered takeout for Selena. That was my last shred of adult dignity. But at the awards ceremony, I sat in the audience, wearing a rented gown, full of anticipation. I waited and waited. Finally, I watched helplessly as my own work was credited to someone else. “Scarlett, you know Selena has a bad temper, just humor her. To make it up to you, I bought you that limited edition bag.” “It’s perfect; you can focus on the family from now on. Consider this a learning experience.” His words were like a bucket of ice water, chilling me to the bone. That night, I lost my first credit. After that, every time I upset Selena, I paid a price. For example, a script I had just finished writing would suddenly become her idea. My collection of old movie DVDs, cherished for years, was thrown away by her. The writing nook in the study was converted into her dressing room. Each time this happened, Holden would give me a gift. Later, he simply gave me his card and told me to spend freely. I cried, I protested, but in the end, he always grew impatient. “Scarlett, aren’t these enough to repay the hardships you went through with me back then?” “She’s your sister, can’t you just let her have her way? How much longer are you going to keep this up?” I stood frozen, swallowing all my grievances. “Holden, what you owe me, you can never repay.” “If you want me to stop, give me another five hundred thousand.” Fifty thousand, plus the money from selling off the gifts, would be enough for me to independently produce a short film. He looked at me with incomprehension, with disappointment, but no guilt. “Scarlett, you’ve changed.” That day, he threw the check on the coffee table and stormed out. After that, rumors of me ‘extorting’ Holden spread like wildfire. And he watched, coldly. Reopening the forum, I found netizens in an uproar. “Is Selena shameless? Stealing Scarlett’s scripts and meddling in her marriage, I’m boycotting her for life!” “Don’t forget Scarlett got expensive gifts every time she caused a scene! If she really had talent, why would she keep leeching off Holden? She’s just a housewife now, I bet she’s orchestrating all this!” “Victim-blaming? Many of Selena’s films are similar in style to Scarlett’s early scripts, could they all be stolen?” “Holden is Scarlett’s husband. If there were really problems, would he protect Selena so much? Isn’t it obvious who he loves?” As the topic’s popularity soared, my name, Holden’s, and Selena’s were trending in the top three. Selena’s fans flooded my social media with insults. My supporters started trending topics about her plagiarism and being a home-wrecker. Seeing both sides about to spiral out of control, Holden updated his status. Two images. One, a divorce agreement. The other, a copyright transfer contract, with Selena as the beneficiary. At the same time, Selena’s private account was exposed. The content crashed the servers. 4 Selena’s private account interactions with Holden began nine years ago. The first interactive post was full of a teenager’s resentment. Nineteen-year-old Selena wrote: “Suddenly there’s an older sister, but she’s my dad’s ex-wife’s daughter. I hate her.” Holden asked: “What’s your sister’s name?” Scarlett. After that, their conversations always revolved around me. Like what I liked, what I disliked, what my ideal type was. Selena complained about how her bad sister took everything from her. Because of the bad sister, she was forced to go abroad to study acting. Twenty-four-year-old Holden comforted her: “Bad sisters get their comeuppance. Focus on your career abroad.” That year, when he was twenty-four, he finally met twenty-three-year-old Scarlett. A girl who looked seventy percent like Selena. At twenty-five, he got his first commercial advertisement. He became somewhat known, and his work was on subway billboards. That same year, for my sake, he turned down an opportunity in New Orleans. He knew I didn’t want to leave Sterling City. Soon, the buzz faded. He picked up his camera again, returning to the streets to shoot short films. I tried to speak several times, but he just ruffled my hair. “Your big brother is amazing, he’ll bounce back eventually. But my Scarlett shouldn’t settle.” Looking at his face, my eyes welled up, and guilt washed over me. After two more years of filming, when he was twenty-seven, Selena returned. As a rising actress, she invited Holden to collaborate on a public service short film. Holden became famous again, and through Selena’s introduction, he signed with a film company in New Orleans. The night he signed, he held me without saying a word. I guessed he was struggling. In the second year in New Orleans, screenshots of me maxing out his credit cards went viral. His fans labeled me a gold digger, and the entire internet urged him to break up with me. He offered verbal comfort but let me be subjected to cyberbullying. Netizens crowned Selena the “new girlfriend.” Holden remained silent. He came home less and less, but collaborated with Selena more and more. They were hailed as the golden couple of the film industry, with only me as an obstacle. When rumors first started, he would hold me and explain. “Scarlett, it’s all company hype. Selena and I have nothing going on, don’t be angry.” I touched his face and kissed his eyes. “Okay.” Later, he would just smoke on the balcony and tell me to go to sleep first. Now, Selena’s private account once again ignited a wave of hatred against me. My estranged father also published a “heartbroken” long post. He claimed that despite my alleged misdeeds, he still begged netizens to leave me alone. He would make me apologize and stay away from Holden and Selena. Keyboard warriors instantly cheered: “See! Scarlett’s mom was a home-wrecker, Scarlett is a home-wrecker too. Our Selena is the most innocent!” “Why are Scarlett’s supporters quiet now? Her dad confirmed it, she’s a bad seed!” “Holden has spoken out, they’re divorced. Scarlett stole Selena’s place for years, it’s time to pay up! Support Holden and Selena, Scarlett get lost!” Holden and Selena’s fans flooded my social media, their insults even worse than before. I scoffed, turning off my phone. My fingertip traced the photograph of a man who looked exactly like Holden. I kept my promise to you. … The hashtag #HoldenDivorcesGoldDiggerTrueLoveWins remained number one on trending topics for a whole day. Netizens pieced together the scandalous marriage of the top director. Many wondered when Holden would marry Selena. Would their wedding be even more extravagant than his previous lavish one? Others listed my alleged crimes, fantasizing about my tragic downfall. Unexpectedly, a single piece of news reversed the tide.

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