Behind the Curtain of Desire

Chapter 1

“About the marriage license, do you want to reconsider?”
In mid-October, autumn was in full swing. The sky was a layered canvas of deep blues, like paint splattered in a chaotic yet mesmerizing display, pulling one deeper into its hues.
Outside the studio, a tumultuous scene had just unfolded, the air thick with rumors and whispers, primarily gossiping about the latest scandal involving “the other woman.”
"Despicable! Disgraceful!"
Sharp curses pierced the air as a middle-aged woman was ushered out by the crew, left behind in her wake were shards of glass and traces of artificial blood.
Inside the makeup room, Eleanor Fairchild sat, wiping the fake blood from her nurse's uniform collar with a disposable wipe. The vivid red stains resembled a torn spider’s web, grotesquely vivid against the soft pink fabric.
Amidst the chaos, Eleanor stood out even more. Her porcelain skin was flawless, and her delicate features drew everyone's attention. Long lashes framed her enchanting eyes, casting shadows that enhanced their depth. Her lips, bare of lipstick, were naturally tinted a soft pink, and she captured everyone's gaze effortlessly.
“How are you holding up, sis?” her assistant, Thomas Smith, asked anxiously, rushing to help her cleanse the blood from her costume. “Ms. Chenworth is something else. She just charged in here without understanding the situation at all. Let me speak to the director; we should probably take a thirty-minute break to regroup.”
“Not necessary.” Eleanor glanced at herself in the mirror, confirming that the artificial blood had been wiped clean. “Change my costume, and let’s keep shooting.”
“But…”
“Listen, there’s a problem.”
“I’m just worried about you, sis. After all that happened...”
The crew and onlookers were eager to witness the fallout, their eyes glued to the spectacle of Ms. Chenworth's outburst and how Eleanor would respond under the scrutiny of her peers.
Seeing Thomas hesitating, Eleanor turned slightly, her striking eyes narrowing ever so slightly, not in anger, but with a hint of disdain. “You know, a smart woman understands the root of the problem lies with men. Only the foolish direct their ire at other women. The more beautiful a woman is, the more sinful she appears to others. I've already embraced my villainous persona. The highlight of her life is merely splashing artificial blood on Eleanor Fairchild.”
With that, she slipped into another nurse costume, her curves making the outfit sultry while maintaining its innocence. Even with the endless beauties strutting through the entertainment industry, Eleanor Fairchild was a top-tier talent.
“The only downside to this? The damage to my image. ‘Fashion Icon Eleanor Fairchild’ wore a stained dress! When I step out next, I need to dazzle even more. Go and tell the director I want to resume shooting and find a stylist to spruce up my makeup.”
Thomas nodded eagerly, enthusiasm shining through. “You got it! I’ll take care of it! That’s my girl!”
The makeup room quieted once more. After changing, Eleanor awaited the stylist. Feeling restless, she picked up her phone and scanned the trending topics online. The chaotic incident had already gone viral.
The comments flooded in, a furious medley of mockery, insults, and hollow condolences.
“Eleanor Fairchild, when will you learn to take a break? This is the second time this month…”
One comment caught her eye: this was indeed the second time she had been labeled as “the other woman” in such a short period.
It baffled her how this nasty label had come to be associated with her. She had kept her distance from men, yet there were whispers suggesting her alluring figure spoke otherwise, leading them to assume her private life lacked morality.
With a deep breath, she powered off her screen and gathered herself, standing up to venture out of the makeup room in search of the stylist. As she turned the corner into the corridor, the commotion resumed.
At the entrance of the director’s office, Thomas was pleading with George Hart, the director.

Chapter 2

“George, you can't just say that! We've been working on this project for a month, and now you want to replace someone?”
George and the Assistant Director held their ground firmly.
“As long as Eleanor Fairchild is here, the drama will never end. How can we keep filming with all this chaos?"
“This is the second time this month—last time was a misunderstanding, but we can't keep cutting her slack. Are you sure you can manage your actress’s behavior?”
Thomas Smith, fresh out of college and still unsure how to handle unexpected challenges, could only plead in desperation. Tears welled up in her eyes as she spoke.
“We promise to take action, George. Eleanor truly loves this role! Just give us another chance. I swear it won’t happen again.”
Seeing her distress, Lady Chenworth stirred the pot further. Her husband, Henry Chen, the show's male lead, voiced his support for replacing Eleanor without hesitation.
Just then, a tall, graceful figure strode into the fray, pulling Thomas back from her pleas with a composed demeanor.
“Action needs to be taken.”
Eleanor Fairchild interrupted the condescending remarks aimed at Thomas, her 5'8" frame commanding attention as she addressed them.
“But the one who should be restrained isn’t me; it’s Mr. Chen.”
Henry’s face tightened. “Eleanor, what do you mean by that? Let me be clear, I have no relationship with you beyond being co-workers. The decision to replace you originates from the directing team.”
Lady Chenworth, eager to jump in, added, “Regardless of relationships, you need to leave this production. According to George, you’ve attracted more than one man’s interest. I advise you to conduct yourself better before you find yourself in trouble.”
Eleanor simply smiled, a sharp edge in her expression. She pulled out her phone and presented a photo to everyone. “Lady Chenworth, your suspicions about your husband's loyalty stem solely from this image.”
In the photo, Henry appeared to be embracing a woman in a Bohemian floral dress as they entered a hotel. Although only her back was visible, Henry's profile confirmed his identity.
Lady Chenworth did not deny it. “Of course, and what if there is an issue?”
After confirming the implication, Eleanor continued, “That dress is from three years ago. I only wear the latest designs. Even last year’s collections are off-limits for me.”
Lady Chenworth snorted. “Who’s to say you didn’t dress up to entice my husband? You’re exactly the type to pull a stunt like that in this crew.”
“Most likely doesn’t guarantee a fact.”
Eleanor chose not to linger in the verbal spar. As she had asserted, the root of the problem lay with the man, not the woman. Turning to Henry, she asked, “Mr. Chen, did you buy a Chanel necklace last week? Was it for Lady Chenworth?”
Henry's eyebrows rose, and he stammered, “Eleanor, what are you talking about? A Chanel? I know nothing of it.”
Eleanor was not about to let it go. Thomas was right; she deeply cherished this role and could not accept being replaced for such petty reasons.
With the gloves off, there was no need for niceties anymore.
“That necklace just launched this month; I saw it. The pendant is a heart-shaped charm, designed to symbolize ‘secret admiration.’ Why, after so many years of marriage, would you need a necklace representing secret admiration?”
Lady Chenworth quickly stole a glance at the crowd of onlookers. Sure enough, one of the other actors was wearing a necklace just like the one Eleanor described.
Eleanor added, “On the first day of shooting, you asked me about buying something.”
“That makes things even stranger. You love Chanel, which means there are plenty of bags available. Did your tastes suddenly shift, or are you and that woman two different people?”
Suddenly, the atmosphere grew tense; sharp edginess lingered in the air, as if a knife had cleaved through the group, leaving open wounds, the chaos pulling at souls as if it meant to tear them apart.
Half an hour later, at the Inn, Thomas Smith was effusive, showering Eleanor with praise.
“You were amazing! Like a real-life version of my inner voice. That Lady Chenworth is still stirring the pot, and that lousy Henry has really messed things up this time. It’s just... it’s such a letdown to finally land this role and then be tossed aside like that."
Eleanor sat on the sofa, engrossed in a game, her striking features reflecting no signs of regret, remaining composed and indifferent as before.
“Their loss is my gain. No one else can embody this beautiful and innocent character the way I can. Once the show airs, the audience will tear into them with their critiques, and they’ll understand turning me away today was a monumental blunder. Please reach out to the agency and have them send over more scripts.”
Thus, Thomas eagerly dialed the agent, only to find—
“Eleanor still has a month left on her contract; assess the situation carefully. It’s time to scout for your next chance.”
Just last month, she had clinched a high six-figure endorsement deal, and now they were informing her they would not be renewing her contract. The endless “third-party rumors” left the agency with little choice but to take action.
Despite not interfering in anyone's relationships, what if?
Jealousy is the most corrosive emotion. The blame wasn’t hers, yet the scandal clung to her like a shadow. If an actress is linked to “the other woman,” their brand can take a severe hit.
Of course, who would gamble on being associated with a celebrity mired in scandal daily?
The room dimmed suddenly, and the figure on the couch appeared fragile, as if years of strain had taken their toll—once a pristine canvas now marred with imperfections.
Thomas held her phone, unsure what to say. She glanced at another assistant who also lowered her head, both at a loss for words to comfort Eleanor.
Eleanor was lost in thought, her slender fingers tapping rhythmically against her phone case.

Chapter 3

Three seconds later, Clara picked up her phone and dialed a number. This was the first call of the day, and despite her confident demeanor, her words contained a hint of vulnerability.
"About the marriage license application. Have you thought about it some more?"
A gentle voice came from the other end of the line, "What's going on?"
Clara could tell that Eleanor was still in the dark about the unfolding situation, so she explained, "It's a long story. You might want to check out the trending topics on social media; it will give you a clearer picture."
The flood of accusations poured in, and Clara felt a wave of urgency to distance herself from Lady Chenworth, her manager, and the company.
Feeling confused, Eleanor agreed, "Okay," and opened her trending news feed. The headline "Eleanor Fairchild Allegedly Tampering with Marriage" was all over the place. She scanned it for three seconds and closed it, not bothering to read any further.
Buzz.
A text message chimed in a moment later from Eleanor:
"You still have three hours. It's not too late to change your mind."
Clara stared at the words for a long moment, imagining Eleanor’s facade of nonchalance hiding an eagerness for her response. A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she replied:
"I'll come pick you up."
---
"There's a bit of blood on your ear."
A sleek silver Mercedes glinted in the sunlight as Eleanor exited the hotel, her eyes immediately landing on Clara leaning casually against the car.
Clara stood tall and slender, officially listed at 5'8". Her long black hair cascaded down to her waist, smooth but with a natural wave.
Her stone-blue satin coat billowed open, revealing a buttoned white shirt paired with a light sea-green silk scarf tied delicately at her neck.
Just standing there, she looked like a perfectly framed scene from a high-budget film, contrasting against the quiet asphalt road.
What did she resemble?
Eleanor paused to think, and the image that came to mind was a night-blooming flower illuminated by the soft glow of the moonlight—delicate, yet strikingly beautiful, each petal unfurling with elegance, the stem slender and gracefully enchanting.
"Thanks for waiting," Eleanor called out as she jogged toward her.
This was only their second meeting, and it evoked the same feeling as the first: she was beautiful from afar, elegant yet commanding a sense of awe.
The first time was just a week ago at a charity gala. After years away from the limelight, Clara had found her in the crowd and asked if she was willing to marry her.
The lights of the gala flickered distractingly, and Clara's diamond earrings sparkled brilliantly, blinding Eleanor momentarily. She had said yes without thinking.
And now here they were, with Clara arriving to escort her to the civic office to apply for the marriage license.
"Why'd you come so early?" Eleanor paused before Clara, her freshly washed hair carrying the sweet scent of conditioner, mingling with the air.
Clara smiled lightly, not as if she found anything funny, but rather as a reflection of her poise; her soft expression resembled a tranquil lake nestled in a dense forest.
"Just wanted to avoid traffic, so I left a bit earlier."
Her gaze wandered over Eleanor's strappy dress, and she added, "Why aren't you wearing a white shirt?"
Eleanor looked a bit perplexed, "What?"
Clara explained, "For the wedding photos, you should be in a white shirt."
"Oh," Eleanor replied, as if Clara’s gentle suggestion had nudged her back into familiar territory—the world of fashion—and confidence bloomed again within her.
"After all, I’m Eleanor Fairchild. I can’t just look like everyone else."
Typically, saying something like that would offend the other party, but Clara, the three-time winning Golden Award actress, was exactly the 'plain' person that Eleanor had just described.
Eleanor sometimes lacked emotional awareness; her direct, self-centered nature meant her words could unwittingly offend many.
Yet Clara wasn’t offended; perhaps it was because she was a decade older, having learned not to take things too seriously.
Instead, Clara found a measure of tolerance for her prospective fiancée. The comment about ‘ordinary people’ intrigued her further, prompting her to ask, “Sounds like you’re well-prepared.”
Eleanor's little vanity perked up at the compliment; her lips curled into a smile, eyebrows dancing. “I’ve ordered two traditional qipaos.”
The qipao was a classic style—high-collared with short sleeves and elegant side slits. The pristine white fabric wrapped around her curves, while layered petals adorned the dress, enhancing its contours. The edges of the petals hinted at red, with a soft crimson filling that gave a tasteful pop of color without veering into gaudiness.
But it was more than just elegance.
Clara, having changed first, was now sitting with her assistants.
“The droplet neckline?” she asked.
Not a trivial droplet either; it was broad enough to showcase a hint of her bust, a statement piece for sure.
Similarly high-collared, with a modest cut and the same height of slits, the only difference lay in the neckline design.
Eleanor rubbed her nose, reluctantly admitting, “I’ve put on five pounds recently.”

Chapter 4

Eleanor Fairchild had a unique figure; she would gain weight in her chest first, while her face was the first to slim down. So, the custom-tailored qipao she wore strained around her 36s.
Clara Greenleaf watched her, catching a momentary flicker of self-consciousness in Eleanor's eyes. With a gentle smile, she said, “You look stunning in that style.”
Whether as a soon-to-be wed partner or just an old friend on their second meeting, Clara’s demeanor was always so comforting.
That compliment reignited the queen’s confidence. With her chin held high and beautiful eyes sparkling, Eleanor replied, “Of course! With a figure like mine, a plain white shirt would be a waste. I need something that shows off my curves. Even for a wedding photo, I want it to be unique.”
The two women wore nearly identical qipaos with only the neckline differing slightly, yet they conveyed entirely different vibes.
Clara appeared poised, gentle, and elegant, while Eleanor exuded allure, charm, and a certain flair. It was a striking contrast, creating a spark in an otherwise ordinary world.
“Wow,” muttered a young staff member, wide-eyed. “We’ve seen plenty of celebrities at our studio, but these two are something else…”
Beauty assistant nudged her, signaling her to keep it down. “That’s the top tier of the entertainment industry for you. They each have a distinct style that stands out on its own.”
“Clara has that top-tier bone structure, and Eleanor... well, she’s got that captivating beauty,” the assistant mused, impressed.
“Pictures from the web don’t do them justice. I used to think Eleanor was just okay. My bad,” exclaimed a stylist, newfound respect glinting in her eye.
“Are they really wearing the same dress?” another staffer chimed in, skeptical.
A colleague shook their head in disbelief. “Their personal styles are miles apart! It’s like comparing ice and fire.”
Assistant Ivy chimed in: “More like white magnolia and red roses.”
Assistant Thomas smirked, “Snow gobbler and spicy snack.”
Everyone else in the car exchanged glances.
As the car pulled away from the studio, Thomas was behind the wheel, with Ivy riding shotgun, while Clara and Eleanor settled into the back seat.
Eleanor leaned back against the leather seat, her gaze drifting out the window, mindlessly tracking the evenly spaced plane trees outside.
Though her face looked outward, her heart raced at quite an alarming pace. Just moments ago, when she had stepped out of the dressing room, compliments had poured in from all directions, and she had relished the praise. Yet, at that first glance at Clara, something inside her was knocked off balance.
How could someone look so breathtaking in a qipao?
Clara's innate grace and gentle presence subtly revealed the understated elegance of Eastern tradition. It was a modesty that wasn't simply shy or coy—it exuded a refined sophistication that seemed to emanate from a deep love for tradition, like an enchanting book that whispered of knowledge.
Clara must have read a lot of books.
In Eleanor’s mind, the conclusion was settled, even if she never confirmed it with Clara. She just believed it deeply.
“Eleanor…”
A soft call came from the side, jolting Eleanor out of her thoughts. She turned to Clara, “Did you call me?”
Clara still wore that serene smile, like ripples gently spreading across a lake.
“Yeah,” Clara said. “We’re about to get the marriage license, so I feel I should address you this way.”
“Oh, right.” Eleanor met her gaze, her own eyes flickering. “You can call me whatever you like. Were you busy just now?”
Clara acknowledged her with a gentle “uh-huh” and pulled out a wet wipe from her handbag, tearing the serrated seal with her slender fingers. She reached out to Eleanor, softly dabbing at her earlobe.
“I just noticed a bit of blood on your ear.”
Eleanor froze, almost statue-like. Clara maintained a respectful distance of about ten inches, yet Eleanor felt as though Clara's hands were not merely cleaning her ear but were gripping her heart, igniting every nerve, firing up her blush.
Her grip on the car door tightened, fingers losing color as warmth spread through her ear, quickly radiating throughout the left side of her body, numbing her senses as if she'd been marinating in liquor for days.
“Th-thank you.”
Once Clara had cleaned the blood, she folded the used wipe back into the packaging and thoughtfully tossed it into the small garbage bin near the driver's seat. Seeing Eleanor get lost in thought, Clara smiled gently, mimicking Eleanor's earlier tone, “You're most welcome. After all, you’re Eleanor Fairchild; how could a beauty like you have any flaws?”
If the words had come from Eleanor's own mouth, they would have sounded a little too full of herself. Yet when Clara said them, they felt playful, as if she were teasing a cat with a feather.
At the licensing office, Thomas parked the car neatly. It was a typical weekday afternoon, and given that it was not Valentine’s Day, there weren’t many people milling about.
Through the tinted car windows, the filtered view presented a moody ambiance not visible to the naked eye.
Eleanor looked up at the imposing Civic Office building. The marble structure cast deep shadows on the ground, silently conveying its seriousness.
People walked by chatting, each clutching their phones.
“Way too risky,” Eleanor said, concern creeping into her voice as she spotted the pedestrians.
“With this many people, if just one of them recognizes me, it’ll be chaos inside that building.”
Clara remained calm. “This is a government office; it should be alright.”
Eleanor turned back, cautiously revealing to Clara her unease about the current entertainment landscape.

Chapter 5

Eleanor Fairchild spoke with an air of concern, “This… doesn’t seem good…”
“Sorry to bring this up, Miss Clara Greenleaf, but you’ve been out of the spotlight for five years now. Over that time, the fan base has gotten unruly. If you're recognized in a closed space like this, you might not even make it out the door.”
Eleanor wasn’t just speaking hypotheticals; she had lived through being cornered at a studio. It hadn’t been due to an overnight rise to fame but because of a rumor suggesting she was involved in an affair.
Fans had gathered outside, pelting her escort car with eggs. When the truth emerged that she wasn’t the person they thought she was, they scattered away like birds as if nothing had ever happened.
“No way.” After pondering, Eleanor decided to call for help. “We need a bodyguard. I’ll have a wall of muscle around me, and let’s see who dares to stop me.”
Just as she was about to dial her agent, Thomas Smith, the driver, looked uncomfortable as he interjected, “Sis, all the company’s bodyguards are with the big sis at the moment.”
To make matters worse, Lord Jonathan Mercier had called earlier, reminding her that her contract was about to expire. In fact, she would get her escort car repossessed by the end of the month.
Eleanor froze for a moment, her bright eyes half-lowering, revealing a fleeting moment of vulnerability. But it was just that—brief. In the next heartbeat, she was back to her resolute self.
She gazed at the security hut, its sunlit glass reflecting bright glare, and inhaled deeply. “No worries. I have a plan.”
With that, she donned a mask and sunglasses, bursting out of the door with purpose.
Clara followed her out, questioning, “What plan?”
“Simple,” Eleanor lifted her chin and adjusted her sunglasses slightly, masking her emotions with an air of mystery. “In this world, speed conquers all.”
With those words, she took Clara’s hand and raced toward the entrance, a playful jog punctuating her speech. “If we make it quick enough, no one will notice us as we get the marriage certificate!”
The sound of her stiletto heels echoed against the Civic Office’s long staircase, each step measured and determined.
However, just as they reached the top and were about to enter through the glass doors, a strong voice called out from behind them.
“Hey, you two lovely ladies!”
It was the security guard, his commanding voice easily carrying over the distance.
“Oh no…” Eleanor exhaled sharply, her tensed body sagging in defeat. Frustrated, she murmured, “This really is a disaster.”
She turned to Clara. “Ready?”
“Ready for what?” Clara shot back.
“Time for an autograph and a selfie; that guy probably recognizes me from my drama series. Even with this disguise, he could spot me. A fan like that wouldn’t let me leave without a picture.”
Clara chuckled lightly. “Sure, a picture sounds good, but with the way it's going, it might not just be a picture.”
Eleanor pouted at Clara's nonchalant response, feeling a hint of envy. Clara had once been a triple-award-winning actress, her celebrity status far beyond Eleanor’s current fame. She likely had grown accustomed to being recognized wherever she went.
“Guess we’d better go with it.”
Eleanor pulled down her mask and pushed her sunglasses up to her head, revealing her flawless makeup. With perfect posture and a slight chin tuck, she descended the steps, channeling her glamour like she was on a red carpet. She fixed her gaze ahead, a cocktail of casual indifference, laziness, and an air of superiority. “Yes, I’m Eleanor Fairchild. You’ve got good eyes, sir.”
But the security guard barely acknowledged her, waving towards the QR code on the booth, impatience etched on his face. “Doesn’t matter who you are, just scan the venue code. Anyone who's visited high-risk areas isn't allowed in.”
Tap.
Eleanor’s elegant stride faltered; her stiletto wobbled, threatening to send her tumbling down the stairs.
The crisp white fabric of her dress flipped, swirling gently with the wind, revealing her long legs—straight but suddenly unsure.
Before her stood the stern security guard, while behind her, Clara, who had weathered storms, was likely stifling laughter at Eleanor’s unexpected situation.
It was perhaps the most embarrassing moment of Eleanor's twenty-four years; she felt like she could sink into the floor, wishing it would swallow her whole.
In the standoff, Clara made the first move.
Descending the steps, Clara turned to the guard, apologetic. “Sorry about that, we forgot. We’ll scan it right now.”
Then taking Eleanor’s hand gently, she guided her forward, whispering, “I forgot to remind you, huh? Next time, just be ready.”
In those simple words, Clara offered Eleanor the perfect escape, easing the tension from her stiff body. Eleanor finally managed to scan the code without losing her composure as a fashion icon.
“Oh well, he didn’t even laugh. Guess I misjudged him,” she replied, a subtle relief washing over her.
After scanning, she added with a hint of defiance, “My fans are mostly young. That guy clearly doesn’t follow entertainment news—guess it’s normal not to know me.”
Clara nodded seriously. “Definitely. I’ve been gone from the spotlight for a while, so now I can stroll around alone. It’s pretty enjoyable without the crowd.”
“Really?” Eleanor couldn't fathom it. Even a triple-award-winning star faced anonymity at times?
“Of course," Clara smiled warmly. “See, he didn’t even call out my name.”
“Haha, you’re right there.”
Moments ago, Eleanor had been brooding about her fading fame; now, she felt lighter, chastising herself for being so self-important.
Once inside the Civic Office lobby, they joined the line for the marriage registration booth. With four couples in front of them, they took a seat on a bench while Eleanor removed her sunglasses and mask to check her appearance with her phone.
Sitting elegantly, her dress accentuating her curves, she gazed lazily at the artwork hanging on the wall, embodying the grace of an exquisite flower.
“1, 2, 3…” She counted silently in her head, and as she reached eighteen, a young woman stepped into her personal space—
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