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 prize—but 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.