Chapter 1

I’d been a ghostwriter for five years.

Five scripts, and I’d taken my struggling actor boyfriend and turned him into a newly crowned Best Actor.

Yet, at the awards ceremony, he declared his heartfelt devotion to his innocent junior mentee, whom he’d funded: “Thank you, my inspiration, my muse.”

Daisy’s eyes glistened, tears threatening to spill. “Lucas, you shine so brightly. I only dared to hide in the shadows, quietly writing every word for you. I never thought…”

The entire internet hailed them as a match made in heaven, while I, the real author, became his "burnt-out writer with no spark."

My agent, Brenda Jenkins, advised me: “Just bear with it. He promised to use your script for his next project.”

I smiled. That night, I registered an account and posted on Ins.

“Hello everyone, I’m Willow Hayes, the screenwriter for ‘Long Night.’”

On the live broadcast of the awards ceremony, Lucas Thorne stood under the spotlight, handsome in his custom-tailored suit, his face displaying a perfectly measured excitement.

He clutched the Best Actor trophy, a symbol of the highest honor.

I sat in my dimly lit living room, the computer screen before me still showing the document of his acceptance speech.

I had written it. Every word carefully chosen, every pause meticulously designed.

For the script of his career-defining masterpiece, ‘Long Night,’ I’d pulled seven all-nighters. When I finally turned it in, my heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise, my breath catching in my throat.

The doctor said I had severe myocardial damage, and if I continued like this, I could suffer sudden cardiac arrest at any moment.

I hid the diagnostic report. In return, I got his ultimate glory tonight.

“...Thank you to the committee, thank you to my team,” his voice came through the speakers, “But today, the person I want to thank most is someone special.”

My heart skipped a beat. I instinctively straightened my back.

On the sofa was the throw pillow he’d personally signed for me: ‘To my dearest Shadow.’

For five years, I’d stayed hidden behind the scenes, writing five scripts for him, elevating him from a nobody actor, step by step, to where he is today.

We’d made a pact: once he won Best Actor, we’d go public. He’d take my hand in front of the world and tell everyone that I, Willow Hayes, was the architect of his success.

On the live broadcast, his gaze, full of deep affection, swept across the audience.

“She is my entire creative world. She is my muse. Without her, Lucas Thorne wouldn’t be standing here today.”

My breath caught. These weren’t the lines we’d agreed on.

The camera followed his gaze, finally settling on an inconspicuous corner of the audience.

A girl in a white dress stood up, long hair flowing over her shoulders, her face innocent and sweet. It was Daisy Miller, his junior mentee from film school whom he often spoke about funding.

Flashbulbs instantly focused on her. Her eyes were red, tears threatening to spill.

Lucas extended his hand to her, his voice tender: “Daisy, come up. This honor is yours too, my dearest Shadow.”

Gathering her skirt, Daisy stepped onto the stage that should have been mine.

She took the microphone Lucas offered her, her voice thick with tears, her eyes glistening. “Lucas, you shine so brightly. I… I only dared to hide in the shadows, quietly writing every thought that crossed my mind for you. I never thought…”

Her words were broken and halting, yet they were enough for everyone to imagine a grand romantic drama of a talented artist and his grateful muse, a perfect romantic narrative for the year.

So, every word I’d tirelessly written became her quiet, unrecognized contributions, for which she never dared ask for credit.

Every plot I’d meticulously crafted through sleepless nights became her and Lucas’s profound soul connection.

I, Willow Hayes, on Lucas Thorne’s night of triumph, was completely erased from existence.

I became a mere backdrop, not even worthy of a name, in his love story.

Instantly, the entire internet exploded.

#LucasDaisyPerfectMatch

#BestActor'sGratitude

#DaisyTheMuse

My phone vibrated wildly. It was my agent, Brenda Jenkins, calling.

I numbly picked up, her cold voice coming through the receiver: “Willow, you saw the live broadcast, right? For the sake of the bigger picture, don’t say a word right now.”

“For the sake of the bigger picture?” My voice was dry. “Brenda, that script was mine!”

“We know,” Brenda’s tone was laced with impatience, “But Daisy’s ‘innocent genius’ persona is far more beneficial to Lucas than your image as a ghostwriter holed up indoors. Willow, you need to know your place. To put it bluntly, your spark has long since faded. It’s your good fortune that Lucas even uses you.”

My good fortune…

So, my five years of exhausting contributions were, in his and his team’s eyes, just a tool that could be replaced at any moment.

My fingers, gripping the phone, turned white from the pressure, my knuckles cracking faintly. Brenda seemed to sense my silence, then threw out the final bait: “Just stay quiet, don’t make trouble. Lucas promised. He’ll use your script for his next major project. This is an A-list production, don’t be ungrateful.”

With that, she hung up.

The living room fell into a deathly silence.

I looked at the mountain of script drafts, professional books, and the screenwriting awards on the wall—awards that were mine, yet Lucas had never once mentioned publicly.

My heart suddenly stopped hurting.

When pain reaches its peak, it turns into numbness.

I slowly stood up and walked to the computer.

I opened the web browser, and using my ID, I registered an Ins account under my real name.

In my bio, I typed out a few lines.

“Hello everyone, I’m Willow Hayes, the screenwriter for ‘Long Night.’”