Chapter 2

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 discussions—all 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 relentlessly—calls, 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 wrinkled—not 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 times—you 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 wait—it'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 satisfaction—only 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 name—I'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 books—Lynn. 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.