The World's Perfect Actress Had One Dirty Secret

France’s Point of View “Michael and Saczchi broke up.” The words should have made me sad. because the long time powerhouse couple broken up.Instead, I smiled. I hated myself for it. But I couldn't stop. Finally. After months of watching Michael waste himself on her, it was finally over. Maybe this time I could have Micheal. I loved him since we had our first BL drama. I couldn't have chance because he is known as the boyfriend of the best actress of all time, Saczchi Leigh Funtabuena. I looked up from my phone. “Are you serious?” Bea nodded. “Apparently. They ended things last night.” She uttered while looking to her phone probably a unreliable dispatch or a leaked source. I leaned back in the chair. A slow smile spread across my face. “Good.” Bea stared at me with an awful glance. “That sounded really sincere.” She said in her sarcastic voice. and I rolled my eyes. “It was.” I sternly said as I looked at the picture frame of me and Micheal way back when we hooted our BL Drama. “France.” “What?” I answered and Bea looked at me like I was a ten year old throwing a tantrums at her. “You really hate her that much?” She asked. I looked at myself in the mirror. My smile disappeared. “Hate isn't even the right word.” Bea sighed. “You don't even know her.” Bea uttered again. “I don't need to.” My voice came out colder than I intended. I know it was the harsh out of me being this mad about Saczchi. I loved Micheal, It has way too obvious even a lot of paparazzi pointed out in the way I talk about him and how I am when I am with him. “I know what she did to Michael.” My fists crumpled. As a replay in my head played of what he could have done to Micheal. “No, you know what you think she did.” Bea said once again. I turned toward her. “What's the difference?” Bea put a small smile. “The difference is that you weren't in their relationship.” I laughed. A sharp, humorless sound. “Neither were you.” I said with much pressure and finality. “No. But at least I'm not pretending I know everything.” Bea's word hit me but I didn't concede. I looked away. No. She didn't understand. None of them did. They hadn't watched Michael slowly become someone else. They hadn't seen how tired he looked.They hadn't watched him lose pieces of himself while Saczchi stood beside him. But I had. And every time I saw her smile beside him, something inside me burned. She didn't deserve him. She never did. My phone buzzed. Michael. My heart immediately betrayed me. Michael: Are you awake? I stared at the message. Despite everything, seeing his name still made my chest feel lighter. Me: Yeah. What's wrong? His reply came a minute later. Michael: Can we talk? I sat up. Me: Of course. I waited. Michael: I don't know what to do. My fingers tightened around the phone. I already knew what I wanted to say. Choose me. But I couldn't. Not yet. Me: You'll figure it out. Then came the message that shattered whatever hope I had. Michael: I still love Saczchi. My jaw clenched. I stared at the words until they blurred. I felt heat rise into my face. My fingers trembled. After everything? After all the things she had supposedly done? He still loved her? I typed. Deleted. Typed again. Me: Then why did you leave her? His answer came. Michael: Because sometimes loving someone isn't enough. I threw my phone onto the table. “Damn it!” Bea jumped. “What happened?” She worriedly asks and she take a peak into my phone “Nothing.” I stood up so quickly that the chair scraped against the floor. “She still has him.” Bea frowned. “Who?” She asked I pull out my hair to frustration. “Who do you think?” She sighed. “France, this isn't healthy.” I laughed. “Healthy?” I turned toward her. “She gets to break his heart, walk away, and he still loves her. And I'm supposed to sit here and pretend that's okay?” I raise my voice to announce my frustration. “You don't know why they broke up.” Bea pitched. “I know enough!” My voice echoed through the room. Everyone outside suddenly went quiet. I didn't care. I was angry. Furious. Not just at Saczchi. At Michael. At myself. At the entire situation. Mostly at the fact that after everything I had done to be there for him, his heart still belonged to her. I picked up my phone. Opened f*******:. And typed. Some people destroy others and still have the nerve to play innocent. My thumb hovered over Post. I knew what would happen. I knew people would assume. I knew Saczchi would probably see it. I knew I was being cruel. I posted it anyway. Within minutes, the comments exploded. Who are you talking about? France, spill! Is this about Michael? It's obviously Saczchi. I watched the comments pile up. Something dark inside me felt satisfied. Then someone commented: Maybe Saczchi isn't the problem. My blood boiled. I typed. You don't know her like I do. I paused. The irony almost made me laugh. I didn't know her. Not really. But I had already decided I hated her. Another comment appeared. Then what did she do? I typed again. Ask Michael. Post. I put the phone down. I had no idea that one sentence would follow me for months. That afternoon, I saw Saczchi. She was standing alone near the elevator. The moment I saw her, my anger returned. It was instant. Automatic. I hated how easily she could ruin my mood just by existing. She looked different. Tired. Her eyes were slightly swollen. Good. At least she wasn't smiling. She saw me.Her shoulders stiffened. I walked toward her. She looked at the elevator. Then at me. “France.” I stopped in front of her. “Don't.” She frowned. “Don't what?” She asks“Pretend we're friends.”. “I wasn't.” “Good.” The elevator still hadn't arrived. The silence between us felt suffocating. Then she spoke. “Did you post that?” I smiled coldly. “What?” “You know what I'm talking about.” I stepped closer. “Does it bother you?” Her eyes hardened. “You knew people would think it was about me.” She said. “It was.” She looked genuinely surprised. “You don't even know what happened.” “I know enough.” She became stiff. “No, France. You don't.” My anger flared. “Don't tell me what I know.” I spatted. “You weren't there.” “I was there when Michael stopped being himself!” She went silent. I continued. “I was there when he stopped talking to everyone. I was there when he started canceling plans. I was there when he looked like he hadn't slept for days.” Her face fell. “And somehow,” I said, “you were always the reason.” She swallowed. “You really believe that?” “Yes.” There was no hesitation. None. She looked down. “Okay.” I laughed bitterly. “That's all you have to say?” “What do you want me to say?” “Admit it.” “Admit what?” “That you hurt him.” Her eyes met mine. For the first time, there was anger in them. “I loved him.” “So?” “So I would never intentionally hurt him.” I scoffed. “People say that right before they destroy someone.” Her face tightened. “You don't know me.” “And I don't want to.” That hurt her. I saw it. For half a second, I almost regretted it. Then I remembered Michael. And the regret disappeared. The elevator doors opened. She stepped inside. Before they closed, she looked at me. “I hope one day you realize you were wrong about me.” The doors shut. I stared at my reflection in the metal. “Never.” I whispered it like a promise. “I'll never be wrong about you.” The next morning, the rumors had become uncontrollable. Someone had posted screenshots of my f*******: comments. Someone else had added their own accusations. Then the headlines started. SACZCHI CHEATED? WHO REALLY ENDED THE RELATIONSHIP? FRANCE DELA VEGA HINTS AT SHOCKING BREAKUP DETAILS I stared at the screen. My stomach twisted. I hadn't said she cheated. I hadn't said she betrayed him. But I had created the space for people to believe it. And now thousands of people were filling in the blanks. My phone rang. Michael. I answered. “What?” “Delete it.” His voice was cold. I frowned. “Delete what?” “You know exactly what.” “No.” “France.” “Why are you defending her?” “Because you're hurting someone who doesn't deserve this.” “She hurt you!” “You don't know that!” His voice cracked through the phone. I froze. Michael was angry. Really angry. “You weren't there,” he said. “You don't know what happened between us.” “I know you cried because of her.” “And you think that gives you the right to destroy her?” I said nothing. “You're angry because I don't love you.” The words hit me like a slap. My breathing stopped. Michael continued quietly. “You hate her because she had something you wanted.” I couldn't speak. “France…” My eyes burned. “Shut up.” “I'm sorry.” “Shut up.” I ended the call. My hands were shaking. I stared at my phone. Then at the f*******: post. For the first time, I didn't feel victorious. I felt exposed. Because maybe Michael was right. Maybe my hatred had never really been about Saczchi. Maybe I hated her because she was loved by the person I wanted. And that was a truth I wasn't ready to face. That night, I saw Saczchi again. She was sitting alone outside the studio. No phone. No friends. No cameras. Just silence. I wanted to walk away. Instead, I stopped. She looked up. Our eyes met. Neither of us spoke. Then she said quietly, “You really hate me.” I stared at her. “Yes.” Her lips trembled into a sad smile. “At least you're honest.” I expected her to fight. She didn't. She looked exhausted. “I don't understand you,” I said. “You don't have to.” “Why didn't you defend yourself?” She looked at me. “Would you believe me?” I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. She nodded.“Exactly.” She stood. Then walked past me. I turned. “Where are you going?” She stopped. “Home.” “That's it?” She looked over her shoulder. “What else do you want?” I didn't know. That was the problem. I wanted her to scream. I wanted her to fight. I wanted her to prove that I was right. But she wouldn't. She simply walked away. And for the first time, my hatred felt less powerful. Not because I forgave her. I didn't. Not because I understood her. I didn't. But because, for the first time, I realized something terrifying. I had spent so much time hating Saczchi... without ever asking myself why. And someday, I would regret that. I just didn't know it yet.