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.’”
My Ins post caused a brief ripple in the early morning internet, but it was quickly drowned out by a torrent of mockery and abuse. “Who is this crazy woman? Desperate for fame?” “LOL, the biggest attention-seeking stunt of the year! Did she get jealous seeing our Best Actor win?” “Ex-girlfriend? Or a rejected stalker fan? Such a low-class move.” “Sweetie, if you’re trying to trend, please show some proof. Who believes you with just your word?” Lucas’s fans were terrifyingly aggressive. They quickly found my account, and the comment section and DMs were flooded with vile insults. I didn’t respond, just watched it all unfold calmly. Late that night, Daisy went live. She wore no makeup, just a simple white T-shirt, in a humble dorm room background. In the camera, her eyes were swollen and red, her face pale—a sight that would stir pity in anyone. “I don’t know why things turned out this way…” Her voice choked, and she bowed deeply to the camera. “I’m so sorry for taking up everyone’s time and attention. I actually… I’ve always admired Ms. Hayes. I’ve seen her early works; she’s incredibly talented.” She praised me first, then skillfully shifted her narrative, tears flowing perfectly. “But inspiration, it’s something you truly can’t control… When Lucas and I talked about scripts, so many ideas just naturally flowed out. We felt like we’d found kindred spirits. I truly didn’t mean for any of this to happen… If my existence has hurt Ms. Hayes, I sincerely apologize.” Her speech was perfectly crafted, portraying her as an innocent, kind soul who adored her senior, a fragile, innocent flower swept away by her talent and love. At the same time, she subtly implied that my well of inspiration had run dry, that I only wrote soulless commercial tropes, and that she was the true creative spirit, sharing a soul connection with Lucas. Just then, Lucas’s call came in. “Willow, stop making a scene, it’s embarrassing.” His voice held a hoarseness from a hangover and obvious impatience. “I’ll have the finance department transfer the screenwriting fee for ‘Long Night’ tomorrow, double the amount. Delete your Ins post, behave yourself, and you’ll get your money for the next project.” He didn’t even bother to question or explain, just used money to command my silence. “What if I don’t?” I asked softly. His cold chuckle came from the other end of the line: “Willow, don’t test my limits. You can’t fight me, and you can’t fight the company. Don’t tear away your last shred of dignity.” With that, he hung up. I gripped the cold phone and laughed. Right, how could I fight him? He was the newly crowned Best Actor, adored by millions, backed by capital and a powerful PR team. And I, I was just a “ghostwriter,” stripped of my value, ready to be discarded at any moment. The next day, I returned to the apartment Lucas and I had shared for five years—which also served as my studio—to pack my things. As I carried a box full of manuscripts to the door, I bumped straight into Daisy. “Willow, thank you for taking care of Lucas these past five years. Now, he’s in my hands.” She smiled, her gaze falling on the box in my arms. “Speaking of which, I should thank you. A writer with no spark, who only knows how to bury herself in work like you, is really only good for ghostwriting, laying the groundwork for Lucas and my love story.” My heart felt a prick, but my face remained expressionless. My silence seemed to provoke her. She picked up a steaming cup of coffee from a nearby table, and pretending to “accidentally” let her hand slip, she splashed the entire cup of scalding liquid all over the box of precious manuscripts in my arms! They were the first drafts of ‘Long Night,’ my life’s work for five years, covered in dense revision notes. “Oh! I’m so sorry, Willow, my hand slipped!” she shrieked dramatically. I could no longer maintain my calm. I abruptly grabbed her wrist: “Daisy!” That was the reaction she wanted. The moment I grabbed her, she let out a piercing scream, violently slammed herself against the wall behind her, then slid to the floor. “Ah—! Willow, please don’t hit me! I know you hate me, but you can’t hit people!” She clutched her arm, sobbing hysterically. The apartment door opened just then. Lucas rushed back, looking disheveled and worn. His gaze immediately landed on Daisy crying on the floor, and me, looking furious, gripping her wrist. Without a moment’s hesitation or a single question, he lunged forward, not even glancing at me, and violently shoved me away! Caught off guard, I stumbled back several steps, hitting the cold wall. The box in my arms fell, and the coffee-soaked manuscripts scattered across the floor. Lucas carefully pulled Daisy into his arms, soothing her gently: “Daisy, don’t be scared, I’m here.” Then, he turned, his eyes full of disgust and disappointment as he looked at me. “Willow, I truly misjudged you. I never thought you’d be so vicious and wicked, not just talentless!” Every word he spoke was like a knife, precisely piercing my already battered heart. “A newcomer, and you stoop to such tactics to suppress her? Are you really so resentful of others’ success?” I looked at him, then at Daisy, who was subtly smirking with victory in his arms, feeling only absurdity and ridicule. I opened my mouth, but found I couldn’t say anything. Explain? In this scene, any explanation would only sound more feeble and unconvincing. Seeing my silence, the disgust in Lucas’s eyes deepened. He pulled out his phone, dialed Brenda Jenkins, and put her on speaker. “Brenda, inform the legal department. Terminate Willow’s contract immediately. My team can’t afford to keep such a malicious and idiotic woman.” His voice was as cold as ice. “I never want to see her again. Willow, you’re fired!”
The next day, a termination letter from the company’s legal department arrived at my temporary residence with lightning speed. The termination reason cited ‘leaking company commercial secrets and causing severe negative impact to the artist’s reputation.’ They demanded I return all project fees from the past year and pay a staggering eight-figure breach of contract penalty. Meanwhile, the studio registered under my name, which the company had funded, was forcibly reclaimed. This wasn’t just termination; it was total annihilation. They wanted me to leave with absolutely nothing, burdening me with lifelong debt I might never repay. Before I could recover from the shock of the termination letter, my phone dinged with a SnapChat message. It was from Lucas’s number. I opened it. The photo showed Daisy curled up lazily in his arms like a cat, the background our bedroom, the one we’d shared for five years. Lucas had an arm wrapped around her, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. The scene was intimate, and blindingly painful. A line of text accompanied the photo: “Thank you for clearing your spot, Willow.” My stomach churned, and I felt sick to my core, almost gagging. Immediately after, there was a commotion outside the door. I pulled back a corner of the curtain and saw movers throwing my belongings out of the apartment, piece by piece. The sofa I’d personally chosen, the throw pillow I’d used during sleepless writing nights, even the cushion he’d once signed for me, “To my dearest Shadow Screenwriter,” were all roughly tossed onto the ground, covered in dust. Lucas didn’t even give me time to pack my own things. I drew the curtains, shutting out everything outside. Over the next few days, I experienced what it meant to be kicked while I was down. Lucas’s studio pulled every string they had, putting out word to all production companies and streaming platforms that anyone who dared to work with Willow Hayes would be going against the newly crowned Best Actor, Lucas Thorne. Dozens of resumes I sent out vanished into a black hole, no replies. Producers who used to greet me with smiles and called me ‘friend’ now ignored my calls and SnapChat messages. The blacklist came swiftly and absolutely. Even more terrifying was the online bullying. Daisy’s fans somehow dug up my address. My mailbox was stuffed with razor blades and hateful letters. Every time I opened the door, it required immense courage. I unplugged the internet, turned off my phone, and completely cut myself off from the outside world. I didn’t cry, nor did I wallow in self-pity. I just sat on the floor, amidst the scattered mess, and began calmly and methodically sorting through my ‘legacy’ of the past five years. I carefully wiped clean and smoothed out the coffee-stained manuscripts, page by page. Though the writing was blurred, they were the most original evidence of my creative process. I dug out all my old computers and hard drives. From the very first day I started working with Lucas, I had a habit of recording all important discussions. All script drafts, outlines, revised versions—every single iteration—I saved as digital files with precise timestamps. This was an instinct as a screenwriter, to protect my creative labor. In the past, I thought it was just a backup, just in case. I never imagined that one day, they would become my weapons of counterattack. As I organized an encrypted folder, my hand paused. It was a folder created two years ago, named ‘Daylight.’ I clicked it open. Inside were the complete world-building, detailed character bios, episode outlines for the first three arcs, and… complete scripts for the first three episodes of ‘Daylight.’ My heart began to pound violently. Something suddenly occurred to me. Before starting ‘Long Night,’ Lucas’s team had already urged me to begin conceptualizing the next A-list project, which was ‘Daylight.’ To protect this work, into which I had poured immense ambition, I had registered the complete script outline and core concepts of ‘Daylight’ under my personal name, before handing it over to the company. And in the contract I’d originally signed with the company, the clause regarding ‘Daylight’ was only a vague “adaptation authorization,” and did not involve the transfer of underlying copyright! They thought that by kicking me out, this project would naturally become theirs. They thought that by pushing ‘Daisy Miller’ as their new muse, they could legitimately steal my hard work. They were wrong. My hand, clutching the mouse, trembled slightly with excitement. This was the ultimate checkmate. Just then, my computer, now reconnected to the internet, popped up with a news notification. The headline read: **[Newly Crowned Best Actor Lucas Thorne Teams Up With Genius Screenwriter Daisy Miller, A-List Blockbuster ‘Daylight’ Project Launch Conference to Be Held in One Week!]** The news was accompanied by a close-up photo of Lucas and Daisy, both smiling brightly, looking confident and in high spirits. I stared at the blinding headline, at that photo of them in their moment of triumph, and I laughed. I laughed until tears streamed down my face.
One week later, at the ‘Daylight’ project launch conference. The biggest streaming platforms in the country live-streamed the event, and online viewership had already surpassed ten million. I sat in a dressing room backstage, watching the spectacle unfold on the monitor screen. On screen, Lucas Thorne stood confidently at the center of the stage, basking in everyone’s attention. Beside him, Daisy, in a pure white fairy-tale dress, her makeup exquisite, leaned shyly against him, already the industry’s rising star, the ‘Most Talented New Screenwriter of the Year.’ “…The story of ‘Daylight’ was born from countless late-night conversations between Daisy and me,” Lucas said, clutching the microphone, looking at Daisy with deep affection. “She’s like a fairy born for drama, her mind full of wild, unbridled imagination. She’s the one who gave ‘Daylight’ its true soul.” Applause thundered through the hall. “And here, I also want to announce some good news.” He paused, then knelt on one knee, pulling a velvet box from his pocket and opening it. Inside was an enormous diamond ring, sparkling blindingly under the lights. It was the design I’d once seen in a magazine and pointed out to him. I’d said, when we get married, let’s get this one. He’d said yes. “Daisy Miller, marry me. Let’s create our film and television empire together.” “Yes!” Daisy cried with joy, extending her hand to him. Flashbulbs popped wildly, capturing this “fairy-tale romance.” The entire hall erupted. The live chat was flooded with ‘locked it down’ and ‘happily ever after.’ The host stepped forward at the opportune moment, his voice playfully teasing: “It seems today we’re not only witnessing the birth of an epic project but also the beginning of a beautiful union! But Lucas, I heard ‘Daylight’ previously involved another screenwriter?” This was clearly a pre-planned segment, designed to completely nail me to the pillar of shame. Lucas stood up, a perfectly placed look of regret on his face. “Yes. But unfortunately,” he sighed, “when inspiration runs dry, some people resort to tired clichés and shortcuts. And even worse, when they see more talented newcomers emerge, they become jealous, they try to suppress them, and they resort to unsavory tactics…” He didn’t mention my name, but everyone knew who he was talking about. These words irrevocably sealed my fate. I, Willow Hayes, became the industry’s negative example—jealous of talent, suppressing newcomers, and utterly devoid of inspiration. The investor representatives walked onto the stage, beaming, ready for the signing ceremony. Now. I took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the dressing room. The click of my heels on the polished marble floor was sharp and resolute. As the heavy doors of the venue swung open, all eyes turned to me.
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