Dumped in a Sandstorm for His Muse

I picked up my broken camera lens and hard drive from the wreckage.

After a moment, I stuffed them into my backpack and started walking out.

Archie stood when he saw me and gripped my arm.

Pain shot through me, and I pulled away.

"Chloe Jepson, can't you see how busy everyone is? Why are you throwing a tantrum now?" asked Archie in a stern voice.

Then he noticed that my arm was red and swollen. A look of concern crossed his face.

"What happened to your arm? Alright. Stop being mad. I shouldn't have left you there by yourself. But this competition is very important. Sharon is very talented, and her parents have high hopes for her. We couldn't let anything happen to her work."

His words stung. I turned away, unable to face him.

Archie and I were both orphans. We grew up together in the countryside and fought our way into Kenford Film Academy together.

After graduation, he became a screenwriter, and I became a director.

The first film we made together, "The Grassland Dream", won countless newcomer awards and made us the hottest rising talents in the industry.

From then on, Archie was always out giving interviews, speaking at panels, and putting his artistic vision out on social media.

Before long, he became a well-known screenwriter, while I remained an unknown director standing in his shadow.

His fans would even mock me from time to time, saying I was just riding his coattails and was lucky because of his s.

I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and let out a bitter laugh.

"So you're saying that it was fine to leave me behind in the hard-hit area, and it didn't matter if my equipment was destroyed?"

Just then, Sharon Thatcher, the assistant director, walked over and said apologetically, "Sorry, Chloe. I borrowed your equipment from Archie.

"The sandstorm came upon us too fast. He said none of that old stuff really mattered, so we focused on saving what was most important. I already told my dad. He'll buy you new ones from abroad for you."

Sharon was exactly as Archie had described—someone who carried the effortless confidence of someone born into privilege, with every single word carefully chosen and perfectly polished.

I glanced down at the floor.

The "important equipment" they had managed to save included light reflectors, headsets, and a prop whip that couldn't have cost more than a few bucks.

So, in Archie's eyes, the broken lens and hard drive in my bag didn't matter.

A wave of hurt washed over me, and I couldn't hold it back. "I'm the main director of this film. My equipment and my files are important, too."

Archie laughed when he heard that.

"Chloe, this competition is a whole different ballgame from those amateur shoots you usually do. Sharon comes from a family of artists. She grew up with resources and exposure you never had. That's why she can truly understand my writing and bring our vision to life."

After that, the two of them started talking about the biggest awards in the industry, classic movies, and the art of visual storytelling.

I had no patience left for their highbrow art discussion.

I looked Archie straight in the eye and asked him slowly and clearly, "What if the hard drive you gave me is destroyed? What if our ten years of memories are all gone?"

The night we were both accepted into Kenford Film Academy, he confessed his feelings to me at a diner on the outskirts of the city. He had even scraped together enough money to buy me a hard drive.

We dreamed of becoming a legendary filmmaking duo and vowed to make a name for ourselves in the industry.

For ten years, that hard drive held our most precious memories from our lives, our studies, and our work together.

Without a second thought, he waved it off. He said, "Alright, alright. My bad. I'll buy you a new one tomorrow. Chloe, you're clinging to this worthless old stuff and picking a fight with me over them. Don't you think you're being unreasonable?

"If you can't control your emotions, then maybe you shouldn't be part of this project. Come back when you realize you were wrong."

I stood there, stunned, for a few seconds before something inside me finally gave way.

The films, our memories, even who was right or wrong—it all seemed meaningless.

The film competition posters lay scattered across the studio floor, the bold deadline on them showing there were only ten days left.

I picked up my backpack, walked out of the studio, and said, "Fine. Let's break up. I'll make my own film."