Chapter 2

Cheers broke out in the crowd.

My stomach churned with cold revulsion.

She was right. But the place she took was stolen directly from my hands.

Adrian stepped down from the stage and leaned over to adjust my shawl. The gesture looked intimate, but his voice was dead low.

“This was the publisher’s call. Sloane already has an established reader base. She can sell the book. You’re good at writing, so just move on to the next one.”

“So you gave my book to her?”

“Don't make it sound so ugly,” he frowned, as if I were embarrassing him. “If this book sells well, we both benefit in the end. What you need to do right now is look at the bigger picture.”

I almost laughed out loud.

For seven years, I handed him my manuscripts to read, gave him control of our accounts, and trusted him with the most vulnerable parts of our marriage.

In the end, he used the word “we” to erase me from my own life.

Evelyn walked over. She hugged Sloane first, then placed her hand on Adrian’s arm, as if admiring a masterpiece finally completed.

“The media is waiting for Sloane’s photos.” She glanced at me. “Naomi, go wait in the lounge for a bit. We’ll take it from here—just family.”

Family.

She said it so naturally, as if I hadn't lived in that household for fourteen years.

Sloane approached me, still holding the book, a camera-ready smile plastered on her face.

“I know this is hard for you to swallow right now. But you should be glad Adrian is at least willing to let you leave with some dignity.”

She held the book out to me—a gesture that was equal parts charity and provocation.

I didn't take it.

So she placed it back on my lap, turned around, and walked toward the press area.

As the flashbulbs went off, Adrian stepped up beside her, his hand resting naturally on her waist. Evelyn stood on the other side.

The three of them stood around my book, smiling.

In that moment, I finally saw the truth: they weren't worried I would fight back at all.

They had already assigned me my role: a quiet wife, an uncredited author, a woman who had better stay silent forever.

I looked down and flipped open the book.

On the dedication page, a single line was printed:

To my mother. Thank you for teaching me that a woman should never surrender her voice to anyone.

Those were my words.

Yet beneath the dedication, the author name read—

Sloane Mercer.

Adrian’s assistant hurried over and handed me a sealed envelope.

“Mrs. Blake, Mr. Blake asked me to give this to you. He said once you read it, you’ll know what to do next.”

I tore open the envelope.

Inside was a ghostwriting agreement.

Party A: Sloane Mercer.

Party B: Me.

And on the final page of the contract, stamped in bold ink, was my electronic signature.