No Longer His Ghostwriter

For ten years, I was Adrian's ghostwriter, crafting his path to literary stardom.

When our daughter needed fifty thousand dollars for emergency heart surgery, he'd just won a million-dollar prizebut wouldn't spare a dime.

He snapped at me over the phone: Rachel's son has a cold and I can't leave! All you ever do is ask for money!

I hung up, sold our house, and got my daughter the surgery.

Three months later, Adrian threw a celebration party at a hotel.

Glass in hand, basking in glory, he spotted me in the crowd.

I wore a server's uniform, carrying a tray, bowing with a smile.

My daughter, cradled in my arms, lifted her pale little face and asked politely, "Sir, could I have some orange juice?"

Hearing our daughter call him "sir" instead of "daddy," his smile froze instantly.

"Fiona, what the hell are you doing here?" He lowered his voice, each word forced through gritted teeth, humiliated at being confronted publicly.

I ignored him, adjusted my server badge marked "07," then knelt down to look tenderly at my daughter.

"Lily, would you like some orange juice? Mommy will get you some."

"Okay." Lily nodded obediently, her small hand clutching my sleeve.

She'd just recovered from heart surgery. Her body was still weak, her little face so pale it was almost translucentheartbreaking to see.

I stood up with her in my arms, ready to leave.

Adrian grabbed my wrist, his grip nearly crushing my bones.

"Stop! I'm talking to you!"

The woman beside himrenowned editor Rachelimmediately stepped forward, elegantly tugging his sleeve.

"Adrian, calm down." Her voice was soft and soothing. Then she turned to me, her eyes displaying perfectly calibrated pity. "Fiona, I know you might be going through difficulties, but do you understand what occasion this is? Making a scene like this helps no one."

With one sentence, she painted me as a hysterical woman desperate for money.

The guests around usliterary elites and media reportersturned their gazes toward us like spectators at a show.

Adrian's face darkened like a thundercloud.

He felt I'd humiliated him beyond measure.

I looked at him and suddenly smiled.

"Mr. Walker, do we even know each other?"

He froze.

I pulled my aching wrist from his grip and pointed to Lily in my arms, my voice not loud but carrying clearly to every corner.

"My daughter wanted some orange juice, but she doesn't know you, so she called you 'sir.' What, Mr. Walker doesn't understand basic courtesy and has to yell at a child?"

Lily seemed frightened by the tense atmosphere. She shrank into my arms and whispered, "Mommy, I don't want it anymore. Let's go home."

My heart clenched painfully.

I kissed her forehead. "Don't be afraid, Lily. Mommy's here."

Adrian's gaze finally fell on Lily.

He looked at her pale little face, at the faint outline of surgical scars visible beneath her clothing, and his body visibly stiffened.

"Her... her condition..."

"The surgery was successful." I smiled, but my words cut like knives. "After all, I sold our only house and finally scraped together the fifty thousand for the surgery."

"You sold the house?!" Adrian's voice shot up, his eyes full of disbelief.

That house had been bought outright by my parents as our wedding home.

Rachel's expression changed. She quickly grabbed Adrian's arm, her voice carrying a hint of warning. "Adrian, calm down! Don't forget what today is!"

Adrian seemed to wake from a dream. He looked around and realized everyone was watching him with probing eyes.

He took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing his emotions, and pulled out his wallet. He extracted a card and held it out to me.

"There's a hundred thousand in here. Password's your birthday. Take it and stop making a scene, okay?"

His tone was like he was dismissing a beggar.

I laughed.

Laughed until tears nearly came.

I didn't take the card. Instead, my gaze dropped to Rachel's wrist.

There, a gleaming Patek Philippe ladies' watch sparkled.

"Miss Carter, that's a beautiful watch," I said softly.

Rachel instinctively pulled back her hand, then displayed it openly with a smile. "Fiona has good taste. Adrian gave it to me as a gift."

"A gift?" I nodded, my smile deepening. "The Golden Pen Literary Award prize was one million dollars. After taxes, exactly eight hundred thousand. Miss Carter's watch, if I'm not mistaken, is a limited edition that retails for exactly eight hundred thousand. Mr. Walker is so generoususing his daughter's life-saving money to buy his mistress a watch."

Boom.

The entire ballroom felt like a bomb had been dropped.

Dead silence.

You could hear a pin drop.

Every eye shifted from me to that eight-hundred-thousand-dollar watch on Rachel's wrist.

Rachel's face drained of all color instantly.

"You... you're lying! I bought this watch myself!" she shrieked, her voice distorted by guilt.

Adrian was completely dumbfounded. He stared at Rachel's wrist, then at me, his eyes filled with confusion and shock.

"Rachel, what the hell is going on?"

"Adrian, don't listen to her nonsense! She's just jealous and trying to sabotage us!" Rachel was so agitated that tears streamed down her face. She grabbed his arm, shaking desperately. "That prize moneyI... I was saving it for you! I didn't touch it!"

"Is that so?" I laughed coldly, picking up a glass of red wine from a server's tray and walking toward her.

"Miss Carter, why so agitated? If you really bought it yourself, you shouldn't mind me helping you verify its authenticity, right?"

Without waiting for her response, I raised my hand and poured the entire glass of red wine over that eight-hundred-thousand-dollar watch.

"Ahh!"

Rachel let out a piercing scream.

The surrounding guests gasped in shock.

"Fiona, you're insane!" Adrian roared, rushing forward and shoving me aside.

I lost my balance. Holding Lily, I staggered backward several steps and slammed into the table behind me, sharp pain shooting through my lower back.

Lily burst into tears, terrified.

I ignored my own pain, holding my daughter tight and soothing her gently.

Meanwhile, Rachel was nearly hysterical with distress. She grabbed napkins, frantically wiping the watch, shouting incoherently, "My watch! My watch! This cost eight hundred thousand!"

Only after she'd said it did she realize her words. She clapped her hand over her mouth, staring at Adrian in horror.

Too late.

Everyone had heard.

Adrian's face went from iron-gray to deathly pale to ashen.

He stood frozen like a weathered statue, looking at Rachel, then at me.

That look in his eyesas if he were staring at his mortal enemy.

I held Lily, who'd stopped crying but was still sobbing quietly, and walked past him without a second glance.

At the door, I removed the server's uniform and handed it to the manager who'd rushed over.

"Sorry, I quit. Also, please tell Mr. Walker something for me."

I paused, turned back, meeting those bloodshot eyes of his, and said clearly, word by word:

"Adrian, let's get divorced."

I didn't give him time to react. Holding Lily, I disappeared from the hotel entrance.

Back at the cramped, run-down apartment we were renting, I discovered a large bruise on my lower back from the collision.

After bathing Lily and getting her to sleep, I sat at the creaking old desk and opened my laptop.

I logged into a pen name account I'd abandoned ten years ago"Lynn".

On the screen appeared a Reddit post from ten years ago:

[Hello everyone, I'm Lynn. Starting today, I'm going to write a very, very long story.]

Back then, I was spirited and ambitious, believing the future held infinite possibilities.

Then I met Adrian.

I fell in love with him, abandoned my pen name, and became the invisible shadow behind his spotlight.

Now, it was time for "Lynn" to see daylight again.

I spent the entire night organizing everything: all the manuscripts I'd ghostwritten for Adrian over the past decade, creative outlines, email correspondence, even recordings of our plot discussionsall sorted, categorized, encrypted, and packaged.

These would be my sharpest weapons to bring him down.

At dawn, my phone started vibrating frantically.

Adrian.

I didn't answer.

He persisted relentlesslycalls, texts, SnapChat voice messages, a bombardment of communication.

Annoyed, I blocked him completely.

Before long, knocking sounded at the door.

I opened it to find Adrian's haggard face.

Dark circles hung heavy under his eyes, stubble covered his jaw, his designer suit was wrinklednot a trace remained of the literary giant's elegance.

"Fiona." His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper. "Let's talk."

"There's nothing to talk about." I blocked the doorway, staring at him coldly.

"Where's Lily? How is she?" He tried desperately to see inside.

"She's sleeping. Keep your voice down."

"Fiona, I know I was wrong. I really know I was wrong." He suddenly grabbed my hand, his eyes frighteningly red. "What happened last night was my fault. I shouldn't have refused you money. I shouldn't have let Rachel"

"So what?" I interrupted. "Are you here to apologize or to beg me not to divorce you?"

He froze, seemingly unprepared for my directness.

"I... I never wanted a divorce." He lowered his head, defeat in his voice. "Fiona, after all these years together..."

"Together?" I laughed as if I'd heard the world's funniest joke. "Adrian, you want to talk to me about our relationship? Last year on Lily's birthday, she had a 104-degree fever, crying for daddy. I called you over a dozen timesyou turned off your phone. Later I found out you were in Switzerland skiing with Rachel and her son. This year when Lily was diagnosed with heart disease and the doctor said she needed immediate surgery, I begged you on my knees to give me the prize money to save her life. What did you say?"

I mimicked his cold tone from that phone call:

"'Fiona, can you stop being so selfish? Mason has a cold and needs care! Lily's surgery can waitit's not like she'll die immediately!'"

Each word was like a rusty blade, twisting repeatedly in my heart.

Adrian's face turned white as paper.

He opened his mouth but couldn't utter a single word.

"Adrian, in your heart, my daughter's life is worth less than your mistress's son's cold. Do you really think this marriage has any reason to continue?"

I watched his devastated expression. My heart felt no satisfactiononly barren emptiness.

"So save your speech. I don't have time for this today." I tried to pull my hand away and close the door.

But he suddenly blocked it with his body and pulled out a crumpled paper from his pocket.

A divorce agreement.

"Fiona, look at this." He unfolded it and held it before me. "I'll sign it. I agree to divorce. The house, the car, all the assets under my nameI'll give them all to you and Lily. I have only one condition."

He raised his head, looking at me with almost pleading eyes.

"Don't tell anyone about the ghostwriting. Please. I'm begging you."

I looked at him, at this agreement he'd drafted overnight, and suddenly felt utterly ironic.

He still didn't understand.

He thought I was doing all this for money.

"Adrian." I took the agreement and, before his eyes, tore it to shreds, inch by inch.

In his shocked gaze, I told him clearly:

"Too late. I'll get the money back, every cent. But not this way."

"What... what do you mean?" An ominous premonition rose in him.

I smiled slightly and turned my phone screen toward him.

On it was a Reddit post I'd just published under the "Lynn" account.

[@Everyone, I'm the real author of "Return on a Snowy Night," "River at Sunset," and other booksLynn. Tomorrow at 10 AM, I'm holding a press conference to present all evidence of ghostwriting.@Adrian Walker @Golden Pen Literary Award @Dolphin Publishing]

The moment Adrian saw that post, his face lost all color completely.

"You're insane! Fiona, you've lost your mind!"

Adrian lunged like a cornered beast, roaring as he tried to grab my phone.

I'd anticipated this. I stepped back and slammed the door shut with a bang, locking him outside.

"Fiona! Open the door! Delete that post! Do you hear me!"

He pounded frantically on the door, shouting, drawing neighbors who poked their heads out curiously.

I ignored him, quickly grabbed the suitcase I'd already packed, woke Lily, and slipped out through the fire escape.

I'd known he'd come, so I'd booked a hotel in advance.

After settling Lily, I contacted Julian Smith, the country's top rights protection attorney, and several media outlets known for in-depth investigative reporting.

Julian's team was extremely efficient. We met that afternoon.

After carefully verifying all the evidence I'd provided, Julian pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses and gave me a definitive answer.

"Ms. Monroe, rest assured. This case is a guaranteed win. Not only can we recover all the royalties and compensation you're owed, but we'll make Adrian and the publishing house pay a devastating price."

Looking at this calm, professional, powerful man before me, my anxious heart finally settled.

That evening, the internet exploded.

"Adrian Walker Ghostwriting Scandal" surged to the top of trending topics with unstoppable force, followed by a deep red "EXPLOSIVE" tag.

Countless readers, fans, and onlookers flooded my Reddit. The comment section was absolute chaos.

Some accused me of chasing clout, desperate for fame.

[This is ridiculous. Adrian needs a ghostwriter? His talent is universally recognized!]

[Another D-list nobody trying to climb up by stepping on a celebrity. Case closed.]

[Screenshot saved. Waiting for Adrian's legal team to destroy her.]

But some rational longtime readers detected something in my writing style.

[Wait... this "Lynn" person's writing style seems so similar to Adrian's early work. I remember Adrian became famous with "Return on a Snowy Night," but his later books always felt like something was missing.]

[I thought so too! Especially his recent book "A Dream of Life"it felt so hollow, completely lacking his earlier brilliance.]

[The more I think about it, the scarier it gets... If the ghostwriting is real, what have we been fans of all these years?]

Public opinion split into two camps, arguing explosively.

Adrian and the publishing house responded quickly.

They jointly issued a strongly-worded statement, calling this baseless slander and defamation against me personally, and stating they would reserve the right to pursue legal action.

Rachel was the first to share the statement, adding: [Truth will prevail. I believe in Adrian's character and talent. Don't let yourselves be deceived by people with ulterior motives.]

Her "righteous stand" won her considerable praise and successfully redirected attacks toward me.

[Rachel's right! We believe in Adrian!]

[This Fiona person is Adrian's ex-wife, right? Getting revenge after divorce by throwing mudhow vicious!]

[Probably didn't get money in the divorce settlement, so now she's bitter and wants to destroy Adrian.]

Reading these comments, I just smiled.

Let them have their last night of denial.

After tomorrow, they'd know what it meant to fall from the clouds into hell.

The press conference was scheduled at a five-star hotel ballroom.

When I arrived, the venue was packed with media from everywhere. Cameras and flashing lights created a blinding sea of illumination.

Adrian, Rachel, and the publishing house president, Derek Ford, sat prominently in the front row.

They'd clearly come prepared, cold smirks on their faces as if attending my public trial.

Adrian had even brought his "hardcore fans"dozens of people holding banners reading "Support Adrian, Resist Slander," protesting outside the venue.

I wore a crisp white suit, professionally made up, and walked calmly to the podium accompanied by attorney Julian.

Camera flashes intensified instantly. Reporters swarmed like sharks smelling blood, thrusting microphones desperately toward me.

"Ms. Monroe, you claim to be Adrian's ghostwriter. What evidence do you have?"

"Is this action revenge because of unequal divorce settlement distribution?"

"Is there really conflict between you and Ms. Carter?"

I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I signaled for quiet.

Once the venue settled somewhat, I picked up the microphone and spoke slowly, looking directly at Adrian in the audience.

"Media friends, hello. I know you're all full of questions today. So we won't waste wordslet's go straight to the evidence."

The large screen behind me lit up.

The first piece of evidence was the handwritten manuscript of "Return on a Snowy Night."

That familiar handwriting, yellowed paper, densely marked revisionsAdrian's expression changed instantly.

"These... these are just discarded drafts! They don't prove anything!" Derek Ford shouted with forced composure, his obese body trembling with tension.

"Is that so?" I smiled slightly and pressed the remote.

A video began playing on the screen.

It showed Adrian and me from five years ago.

We were in the study, heatedly discussing the ending of "River at Sunset."

"No! The protagonist must die! Only tragedy can elevate this story!" Video-me was emotionally intense.

"But Fiona, readers want a happy ending. Written this way, the book won't sell." Video-Adrian frowned deeply.

"I don't care! This is my work. I must preserve its integrity!"

...

This video clearly recorded our creative disputes and clearly proved I was the one with final decision-making authority.

Adrian's face had lost all color.

Rachel beside him also widened her eyes, as if seeing me for the first time.

"This... this is fabricated! It's fake!" Rachel shrieked.

"Fake?" My attorney Julian stood up, his voice steady and powerful. "Ms. Carter, we've had this video authenticated by the country's most authoritative forensic institution. We can guarantee its authenticity. If you continue publicly defaming my client, we have the right to sue you for libel."

Julian's response left Rachel speechless. She could only glare at me hatefully.

I ignored her and presented the third piece of evidence.

All email correspondence between Adrian and me over the past decade.

Every book outline, every chapter manuscriptI'd sent them all to him via email.

The emails also contained his various "guidance" on my drafts.

For example: "Fiona, this plot drags too much. Can you make it more exciting?"

"This female supporting character's personality is unlikable. Readers won't like her. Change it."

"The ending must be happy. Otherwise fans will riot."

These emails thoroughly exposed his complete literary ignorance combined with his love of giving orders.

The venue erupted.

Camera flashes targeted ashen-faced Adrian relentlessly.

"Mr. Walker, what's your explanation?"

"Did you really have your ex-wife ghostwrite for you for ten years?"

"Has your public persona completely collapsed?"

Reporters surrounded Adrian. He was cornered, unable to speak a single word.

Derek Ford, seeing things going badly, tried to pull Adrian away, but reporters blocked them completely.

And I released the final, most devastating strike.

An audio recording.

Adrian's voice, slightly drunk and boastful.

"What bullshit talent? I can't write a single word. But my wife loves me. I tell her how to write, and she has to write it. Readers actually think I'm some literary giantit's hilarious. They're just a bunch of idiots I've been playing all along."

This recording was from years ago, when he'd gotten drunk and bragged to his buddies. I'd captured it accidentally.

At the time, I'd thought it was just drunken rambling. I never imagined it would be useful today.

When the recording finished, the entire venue fell silent.

Even the fans protesting outside went quiet.

Everyone looked at Adrian like they were looking at garbage.

Adrian completely broke down.

He collapsed in his chair, pale as death, muttering repeatedly, "It's over... all over..."

Just then, an unexpected person stood up.

An experienced senior editor from the publishing house, Mr. Lee.

He walked tremblingly to the podium, picked up another microphone, his voice filled with grief and anger.

"I... I can testify. Everything Fiona said is true. All these years, the manuscripts Adrian submitted were full of typos and illogical. Our editorial department worked overnight to fix them. We all knew the real author was Fiona, but Derek Ford suppressed us for money, wouldn't let us speak... I... I'm sorry to Fiona, and even more sorry to all readers everywhere!"

After speaking, he bowed deeply to all the cameras.

This bow became the final straw that broke the camel's back.

Derek Ford's eyes rolled back and he fainted.

Rachel screamed and tried to run but was surrounded by angry reporters and readers.

And Adrian, under endless camera flashes and interrogation, was completely nailed to the pillar of shame like a stray dog.