The newspaper trembled in my hands, my words—my secret soul—displayed for the world under Scarlett's name. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The lighthouse passage was from my most personal manuscript, words I'd written during the darkest nights when Michael was working late. Words I'd never shown him.
How did she get them?
I grabbed my notepad—the small Moleskine I kept in my pocket for when I needed to communicate. My pen scratched frantically across the paper:
*How does Scarlett have my manuscript? Did you give it to her?*
I placed it on Michael's desk as he sipped his morning coffee, scrolling through emails on his phone. He glanced at the note, his expression barely changing. Then he set down his cup, smoothed his tie—the nervous habit I'd come to recognize when he felt challenged—and looked up at me with that practiced therapeutic calm.
"Lily," he said, his voice low and reasonable, "Scarlett mentioned you'd been helping her organize some thoughts for her memoir. I assumed you were aware."
I wasn't. I hadn't. My hand shook as I scribbled again:
*Those are MY words. From MY novel. As L.M. Chen.*
His eyes narrowed slightly, the only indication that I'd surprised him. "I see," he said after a moment. "Well, there seems to be a misunderstanding. We'll sort it out." He checked his watch. "But not now. The press conference for Scarlett's memoir launch is at eleven. I need you there."
I shook my head violently, clutching my necklace.
"Lily." His voice hardened, just slightly. "This is important for Scarlett's recovery. For both our public images. Trust my judgment on this."
Trust. The word felt like acid on my skin.
"Wear the navy dress," he added, already turning back to his phone. "The one that doesn't draw attention."
* * *
The hotel ballroom buzzed with reporters and cameras. I stood at the back, invisible in navy, while Scarlett commanded the small stage in blinding white—purity, rebirth, innocence. The irony made me sick.
"This memoir," she said, her voice catching with perfect emotion, "is my journey from darkness into light."
She opened a leather-bound book—my words in her hands—and began to read.
"'The lighthouse by the sea flashes every ten seconds. I count each flash, marking the rhythm of my heartbeat as I learn to trust again. One... two... three...'" Her voice caressed each syllable like a lover.
My eyes burned with tears. Those words were born from my pain, my solitude. The lighthouse had been my grandmother's favorite place, where she'd take me on rare good days during my childhood. Now Scarlett wore my memories like stolen jewelry.
Michael stood beside her, nodding approvingly, his hand at her waist. The same supportive gesture he'd used with me at my first book signing as L.M. Chen—before we were married, when I was just his patient with a secret talent.
A reporter raised his hand. "Is this your first attempt at writing, Ms. Rose?"
Scarlett's smile flickered. Her eyes found me in the back of the room. "Actually," she said, extending her hand toward me, "I should acknowledge my assistant."
My blood froze as heads turned.
"Lily," she called, her voice honey-sweet. "Come up here, darling."
Michael's eyes locked with mine—a command, not a request. My legs moved without my permission, carrying me through the crowd to the stage. Scarlett's arm snaked around my shoulders, her nails digging slightly into my skin.
"L.M. Chen was my ghostwriter," she announced to the room. "Lily has been instrumental in helping me find my voice."
The room erupted in applause. I stood frozen, my identity erased with a single sentence. No one questioned it. No one saw me trembling. No one knew that L.M. Chen was dying right there on stage, murdered with a smile.
* * *
I returned home in a daze, my feet carrying me to my office—my sanctuary. The door was ajar, voices spilling out. I stopped, my hand on the doorknob.
"This is perfect for the Instagram story," a woman's voice said. "These handwritten notes are so authentic."
I pushed the door open. A stylish young woman sat at my desk, my laptop open before her. Scattered across the surface were pages of my draft—my current novel, my private thoughts. She looked up, startled.
"Oh! You must be the assistant. Scarlett said you wouldn't mind if I borrowed your space for the social media livestream. These notes are gold—so raw and emotional."
Behind her, my screen showed a draft of Scarlett's social media post: "A peek inside my creative process..."
I couldn't even scream as she held up a page of my soul to the camera, smiling.
