The wine glass shattered against the hardwood floor, red liquid spreading like blood between us. "You want to do *what*?" Derek's laugh was sharp enough to cut. "Publish under your own name?" I stood in our kitchen—the one overlooking the rocky Maine coastline, the one featured in *Architectural Digest* as "where literary magic happens"—and felt something inside me finally snap. "I've been writing your books for eight years," I said quietly. "I think I've earned the right to have my own name on just one." Derek Hartwell, three-time National Book Award winner, beloved by critics and readers alike, looked at me like I'd suggested burning down the local library. His salt-and-pepper hair caught the late afternoon light, making him look distinguished. Trustworthy. The man America invited into their book clubs and morning shows. "Maya." He said my name like a parent addressing a stupid child. "You don't understand how this industry works. You're a good ghost-writer—I'll give you that. But without my vision, my voice, my *name*? You're nothing. You have no talent without me." The words landed like physical blows. Eight years. Eight bestselling novels. Countless sleepless nights while he took interviews and posed for photographs. I'd watched him accept awards for words I'd bled onto the page, watched him charm audiences with insights into characters I'd created, watched him build an empire on my invisible labor. "I see," I whispered. "Good." He smiled, already pulling out his phone. "Now, how's the new manuscript coming? Simon & Schuster is breathing down my neck. They want the first draft by next month." I looked at him—really looked at him—and saw a stranger. Had I ever actually known this man? Or had I been too busy making him a god to notice he was just a mediocre writer with good connections and better marketing? "It's almost done," I lied. "Just need to polish the final chapters." "Excellent." He kissed my forehead absently, already scrolling through his emails. "I'm meeting Bradley for drinks. Don't wait up." Bradley Hutchins, his editor. They'd probably discuss the book deal over thirty-dollar cocktails, maybe hit their favorite cigar bar after. The literary boys' club in full effect. The door closed behind him. I stood alone in our perfect kitchen, surrounded by the trappings of his success. Our success. Except nobody knew about the "our" part. I walked to his office—the sacred space where "Derek Hartwell crafted his masterpieces." The room was mostly for show. He'd sit in here for photos, looking thoughtful beside stacks of books and his vintage typewriter. But the real work happened in the small room upstairs, where I spent twelve-hour days bringing his half-formed ideas to life. His laptop sat on the mahogany desk, password-protected but predictable. I'd set up all his devices. I knew every password, every backup location, every cloud account. The new manuscript was there, three hundred pages of my best work yet. A literary thriller about a woman who discovers her perfect life is built on lies. The irony wasn't lost on me. My finger hovered over the trackpad. *You have no talent without me.* I thought about the contracts I'd signed, the NDAs that protected his reputation. I thought about the joint bank account he controlled, the house in his name, the car registered to him. I thought about how carefully he'd made sure I had nothing of my own. Nothing except the words in my head. And the ability to make them disappear. I selected the manuscript file. Then the backup. Then every draft, every note, every scrap of research. My hand didn't shake as I pressed delete.