Hunter acted fast. He showed up at our house that very night. Rose had applied a “sickly but beautiful” makeup look to greet her male lead, but cosmetics couldn’t hide her profound weakness and exhaustion.
She thought Hunter had come to apologize and whisk her back to the Hamptons. I sat back with a bowl of popcorn, waiting for the real explosion.
“Hunter! How did you find my address?” Rose asked coyly as she opened the door, meeting Hunter’s ice-cold stare.
He didn’t even step inside. He had one demand: “Get an abortion.”
Rose’s tears came on cue, a waterfall of despair. She imagined herself as a beautiful tragedy, but she looked more like a vengeful ghost—her bloodless, slightly bluish face, hollow cheeks and eyes, with thick foundation streaked by two clear tear tracks.
Hunter recoiled several steps. “You said if I came here personally, you’d never bother me again! Get rid of it yourself. Don’t make me do it for you.”
Neighbors gathered in the hallway, some criticizing Hunter for being irresponsible, an old woman even boldly declaring that Rose should be married since she was pregnant.
Hunter, fuming, yelled at Rose, “So this is why you dragged me here? To force my hand? Who the hell do you think you are? You actually think you can marry me?”
Rose cried harder, her tear-streaked makeup becoming a horrifying mask. “No, Hunter! I just… I just wanted to see you!”
“Now you’ve seen me,” Hunter said impatiently. “Don’t ever show your face again. You’re bad luck.” As Hunter turned to leave, Rose begged him to stay, muttering, “I’m dying… Why can’t you see who you truly love? Do you have to lose me forever to understand? Do you want to live a life of regret?”
“Psycho b*tch!” Hunter cursed, shaking off Rose’s grip on his arm. He stomped down the stairs in his leather shoes, cursing loudly all the way.
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