The Stolen Bestseller Exposing My Fake Husband

I crushed the champagne flute in my hand as the ballroom erupted in applause.

My husband, Julian, stood at the podium clutching the National Literary Award.

"I couldn't have written these seven novels without my muse," he declared, his voice echoing through the speakers.

He didn't look at me, his wife of five years sitting in the darkest corner of the room.

Instead, he reached out and pulled his assistant, Skye, onto the stage.

She kissed him. The cameras flashed.

They thought I was just the silent, useless wife who lived off his millions.

They didn't know I wrote every single word of those seven books.

I wiped the blood from my palm, stood up, and left the ballroom.

Let's see how the great Julian writes his next masterpiece when his ghostwriter decides to strike.

***

"I didn't get to this stage alone," Julian's voice echoed through the ballroom speakers, booming over the clinking silverware.

"He really is a genius," Chloe whispered, leaning across the white tablecloth. "Seven bestsellers in five years. Do you ever feel intimidated, Elena?"

"Intimidated?" I asked, keeping my eyes fixed on the massive projection screen.

"Living with a giant," Marcus chimed in from my left. "A literary mastermind. It must be exhausting to share a roof with someone whose brain operates on that level."

"I manage," I replied.

Julian stood at the podium. He gripped the Author of the Year trophy. The golden statue caught the spotlight, gleaming against his tailored tuxedo.

"Five years ago, I had nothing," Julian told the crowd. "Just a dream and a manuscript."

I stared at his perfectly styled hair. Five years ago, I stood at a pawnshop counter. The broker slid five thousand dollars across the glass. I left my grandmother's sapphire ring behind so Julian could pay a vanity press to print his first book.

"But a writer is nothing without his muse," Julian said.

Chloe nudged my elbow. "Get ready to stand up, honey. He's talking about you."

"The person who stayed up with me until four in the morning," Julian continued. "Who edited every flaw. Who lit up my soul."

I shifted in my seat. My fingers tightened around the stem of my champagne glass.

"My assistant, Skye."

The ballroom erupted in applause.

Chloe's smile vanished. She stared at me.

Marcus choked on his scotch, coughing into his napkin.

"Did he just say his assistant?" Chloe asked.

"I heard him," I said.

"Skye, get up here!" Julian shouted into the microphone.

A woman in a tight red dress hurried up the stage steps. Skye. She practically leaped into Julian's arms. He didn't just hug her. He grabbed her waist, tilted her chin, and pressed his mouth hard against hers.

Camera flashes fired in rapid succession.

"Well," Marcus muttered, setting his glass down. "That is certainly a choice."

"Are you seeing this?" Chloe asked, her voice shrill.

"I see it," I said.

My grip on the champagne glass tightened. The crystal dug into my palm. I squeezed.

Snap.

The glass broke. A sharp edge sliced deep into my skin. Champagne splashed over my knuckles. Dark red blood welled up, dripping onto the pristine white tablecloth.

"Oh my god, you're bleeding!" Chloe shrieked, jumping back.

"Keep your voice down," I told her. I grabbed a cloth napkin and wrapped it around my hand.

"You need a medic," Marcus said, half-rising from his chair.

"I need a new drink," I replied. I pressed the fabric against the wound. It stung, but the physical pain felt dull compared to the hollow ringing in my ears. Seven books. Seven intricate worlds I built from scratch while Julian played video games in the next room.

A waiter rushed over, carrying a silver tray. "Ma'am, let me get someone."

"Just clear the broken glass," I instructed. "I'm fine."

David, Julian's literary agent, hurried over to our table. He pulled up an empty chair and sat down heavily.

"Elena," David hissed, leaning in close. "Listen to me."

"Did you know he was going to do that?" I asked.

"He went off script. Just... keep a low profile tonight, okay? Don't make a scene."

"A scene?" I repeated. "He just shoved his tongue down his assistant's throat on a jumbotron."

"It's optics. She's young, she trends online. The publisher thinks it sells books."

"Optics."

"Just smile if the cameras pan over here," David ordered. "Don't ruin his night. He earned this."

"Did he?" I asked, my voice dropping.

"Don't start with your delusions, Elena. You proofread for him. You fixed a few typos. That doesn't make you the author."

I turned my head. I looked David dead in the eye. "Typos."

"You're his wife. Act like a supportive one." David glanced at my wrapped hand. The white napkin was already blooming crimson. "Go to the restroom. Clean that up. Stay out of sight until the press leaves."

"He can't even spell the protagonist's name without autocorrect," I fired back.

"Keep your voice down," David warned, scanning the nearby tables. "You agreed to be his sounding board. You signed an NDA."

"I signed a contract," I corrected him.

"A piece of paper that says you helped him outline. Don't blow this out of proportion, Elena. You have a beautiful house. A comfortable life. Why destroy that over ego?"

"Ego?" I asked. "He's kissing his assistant in front of a thousand people."

"It's a publicity stunt. It means nothing."

"Then why are you sweating, David?"

He wiped his forehead. "Because you're unpredictable. Just sit here and clap."

David stood up and hurried back toward the VIP section.

I didn't cry. The tears wouldn't come. I just felt cold.

I reached for my black leather clutch with my good hand. I unzipped the top. My fingers brushed against a thick, folded stack of parchment. The original ghostwriting contract. The document Julian signed five years ago, legally binding us. It stated clearly that I was the sole creator of the series, operating under his name for a flat percentage. It was my insurance policy. My trump card.

"Julian is a visionary," Skye's voice echoed through the speakers. She stood at the podium now, clutching Julian's arm. "When we are alone in the studio, the words just pour out of him. I just try to keep up."

"She types fast," Julian joked, winking at the audience.

Laughter rippled through the room.

"We work so closely," Julian added, leaning into the microphone. "Sometimes I don't know where my mind ends and hers begins."

"I'm going to be sick," Chloe muttered, turning away from the stage.

I zipped my clutch shut. The heavy parchment rested safely inside.

Julian tapped the microphone twice. The feedback whined, silencing the murmuring crowd.

"I have one more announcement tonight," Julian declared.

The ballroom grew completely quiet.

"My next masterpiece," Julian shouted, throwing his free hand into the air. "The final, epic conclusion to the series you all love... will hit shelves next month!"

The crowd roared. People stood up, clapping wildly.

I stared at the stage, my bloody hand resting in my lap, and laughed out loud.