The Ghostwriter's SEC Ultimatum

I tapped the trash icon on my iPad.

"Permanently delete 'Forbes_Cover_Draft_11'?" the screen prompted.

"Goodbye," I whispered, hitting confirm.

The file vanished into the digital void. I locked the screen, watching my reflection fade into the black glass. Behind my reflection sat the half-empty cardboard box on my mahogany desk.

On the wall, the television played the Tech Innovators Gala. The volume was low, but the microphone picked up every word.

"People ask me where the vision for Zenith Tech comes from," Theo said.

He stood at the podium, looking sharp in his tailored tuxedo, bathed in the glow of camera flashes. The gala was the most exclusive tech event of the year. I was supposed to be there. I had bought a dress. I had written his acceptance speech.

Beside him stood Adrienne, radiant in a sapphire gown. Theo reached out, wrapping his hand around hers. He pulled her closer to his side.

"The truth is," Theo continued, his smile bright and practiced, "my muse is right here."

I grabbed the heavy tape dispenser and ripped off a jagged strip.

My muse.

Eight years ago, there was no gala. There was a damp basement apartment in San Jose. I sat on a stolen milk crate, typing until my wrists ached, drafting the twenty-page founding manifesto that secured our first round of seed funding. Theo had paced the concrete floor, terrified we would fail. I had been the one to tell him to breathe. I had been the one to promise him it would work.

Now, he had a muse.

I looked down at the printed email sitting beside my keyboard.

Effective immediately, Bianca Reyes will transition to a remote advisory role. No team. No direct reports.

"Bianca?"

I looked up. Mark, a junior analyst from the third floor, stood frozen in the doorway. He was barely a year out of college, all nervous energy and ill-fitting suits. He clutched a stack of manila folders against his chest like a shield, his knuckles pale against the cardstock.

He glanced over his shoulder, down the hall, then back at me. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"Sorry," he stammered. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I just—" He hesitated, lowering his voice as if the words themselves were dangerous. "Is it true? The email?"

I set down the tape dispenser. On the television behind me, Theo was still talking, still basking in the applause, still calling another woman his muse.

I looked at this terrified kid who had drawn the short straw of being the one sent to confirm the rumor, and I gave him the only answer I had left.

"Come in, Mark," I said. "Close the door."