The Stolen Bestseller Exposing My Fake Husband

"They laughed at me!"

Three weeks after the award ceremony, Julian's voice echoed through the foyer, followed by the heavy slam of the oak front door.

I stood at the top of the staircase, my hand resting on the handle of my packed suitcase.

"The entire editorial team," Julian spat, pacing the marble floor below. "David sat there while the senior editor called the new outline a derivative, incoherent mess. They threatened to pull the two-million-dollar advance."

"That sounds like a difficult meeting," I said, descending the steps slowly.

"Difficult? It was a massacre!" He grabbed a blue porcelain vase from the console table and hurled it.

The antique shattered against the wall. Sharp ceramic shards skittered across the polished floor, stopping inches from my shoes.

I didn't flinch. I just looked at the mess, a small smile creeping onto my face.

"You think this is funny?" Julian yelled, pointing a trembling finger at me. "The timeline makes no sense. The magic system contradicts book three. And they flagged the villain for copyright infringement!"

"Did they?" I asked, stepping carefully over a jagged piece of porcelain.

"You did this on purpose," he snarled, stepping into my path. "You were jealous of Skye. You threw a tantrum and wrote garbage."

"I wrote exactly what you asked for," I replied, keeping my tone perfectly level. "Fifty pages of plot. Gritty. A new love triangle."

"It was a trap!" Julian shouted, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, ruining the gelled look. "You set me up to look like a fool in front of the board."

"You walked into that boardroom and presented work you didn't even read," I stated. "You handed them a folder without checking a single page. That is your fault, Julian."

"I am the visionary!" he barked, his face turning a dangerous shade of red. "I don't have time to proofread your drafts. That is your job. You are my assistant."

"I am your ghostwriter," I corrected him. "And my shift is over."

"Fix it," he demanded, ignoring my words. "Sit at that desk and write a new draft by tomorrow morning. Call David. Tell him you made a mistake with the files."

"No."

Julian blinked. The rage in his eyes faltered for a fraction of a second, replaced by pure confusion. "What did you just say?"

"I said no, Julian. I am done writing for you."

"You can't be done," he scoffed, crossing his arms. "We have a contract."

"Our contract requires me to assist with outlines," I said. "I assisted. If the publisher rejected it, that is a failure of your brand, not my typing skills."

"Don't play games with me, Elena. You know exactly what you did."

"I know that Skye is pregnant," I said.

The color drained from Julian's face. His arms dropped to his sides. "What?"

"I saw her in the guest bathroom the night of the award ceremony. Two pink lines." I tightened my grip on the suitcase handle. "Did you really think you could keep that a secret while parading her around as your muse?"

Julian stammered, taking a step back. "That... that doesn't mean anything. It was one mistake. It has nothing to do with the books."

"It has everything to do with my exit strategy," I replied.

"Elena, wait, let me explain—"

"There is nothing to explain." I pushed past him, the wheels of my luggage clicking over the hardwood.

"Where do you think you're going?" he shouted, his panic quickly morphing back into anger. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin.

I looked down at his hand, then up at his face. "Let go of me."

"You have no money," he sneered, tightening his grip. "No career. You are nothing without my name. You walk out that door, and you will be begging to come back by Friday."

I yanked my arm free with a sharp twist. "We will see about that."

I walked out the front door, leaving it wide open. The crisp afternoon air hit my face, clearing the suffocating smell of his cologne from my lungs.

A matte-black Lincoln sedan idled at the curb. The rear passenger door swung open as I approached.

I slid into the leather seat. The driver quickly loaded my luggage into the trunk and shut the lid.

"Right on time," Victor said from the opposite side of the cabin.

He wore a sharp gray suit, his posture relaxed. A silver pen tapped rhythmically against a leather folder resting on his lap. As the Executive Editor at Roc Publishing, Victor rarely left his corner office. His presence here was a statement.

"Did you doubt me?" I asked, buckling my seatbelt.

"Never." Victor smiled, flipping the folder open. He pulled out a thick stack of crisp, white paper. "Roc Publishing is thrilled to have you on board, Elena. The editorial board read your original sample. The real one."

He handed the document across the console.

I stared at the top page. The bold black letters spelled out my actual name. Elena Croft.

"My name," I read aloud, tracing the ink with my index finger.

"Your actual name," Victor confirmed. "No more hiding behind a ghostwriting NDA. A five-book deal, full creative control, and a marketing budget that will bury Julian's next release."

"He is going to sue," I pointed out, flipping to the second page.

"Let him try," Victor chuckled. "Our legal team reviewed the contract you signed with him. It only covers the series you wrote under his brand. Your new fantasy universe is entirely yours. We locked down the trademark yesterday."

"He will claim I stole his ideas."

"He just submitted a plagiarized, rejected outline to his own publisher," Victor noted. "His credibility is currently resting at the bottom of a trash can. By the time we announce your debut, he will be fighting breach of contract lawsuits from his own team."

"I want the first book out by Christmas," I told him, handing the contract back.

Victor raised an eyebrow. "That is an aggressive timeline. Julian's publisher slated his eighth book for a December release."

"Exactly," I said. "I want my book on the shelf right next to his empty slot."

Victor laughed, a deep, booming sound that filled the car. "I like how you operate, Elena. Consider it done."

"Elena!"

Julian's voice pierced through the glass.

I looked out the tinted window. Julian sprinted down the driveway, his dress shirt untucked, his face twisted in a desperate snarl. He waved his arms, shouting something I couldn't hear.

"Drive," Victor instructed the chauffeur.

The Lincoln pulled away from the curb, its engine humming smoothly.

I watched Julian shrink in the rearview mirror. He stopped in the middle of the street, chest heaving, his fists clenched at his sides.

Then, he looked down at his feet.

A folded piece of paper lay on the asphalt. It must have slipped from the unzipped side pocket of my suitcase when the driver loaded it into the trunk.

Julian bent down and picked it up.

Even from a distance, I recognized the bold blue Roc Publishing watermark stamped across the center of the page.