Chapter 1

After five years of marriage, I ghostwrote twelve bestselling novels for my husband and built his success with my own hands.

At the launch party for his new book, he walked in with a rising celebrity on his arm and announced he'd found a new "muse."

When a reporter asked about my contribution, he smiled and cut them off. "Her? Without me, she's nothing."

I just smiled back, calm as ever.

Because from the very first book, he was never really my husband —

He was an investment. One I'd spent five years carefully building up.

And tonight, at the peak of his arrogance,

his biggest rival would buy him out — contract and all — at the price I'd already set.

The lights at the book launch were blazing, and they made Rowan Sterling look handsome and successful.

Elara Vance stood beside him — a hot celebrity in an expensive gown, her arm looped through his.

They were the stars of the night.

I sat in the most invisible corner of the audience, holding a guest pass between my fingers.

Rowan's assistant had shoved it into my hand just to check a box.

"Evelyn, tonight is really important for Rowan. Just watch from down here — don't come up on stage. We can't have you saying the wrong thing."

Her words were still ringing in my ears.

Up on stage, the host introduced Rowan's thirteenth book with barely contained excitement.

"Rowan, congratulations on your upcoming release, Light in the Dust! Critics are already calling it the pinnacle of your career. Can you walk us through the creative journey behind this one?"

Rowan picked up the mic and glanced at Elara.

"This book wouldn't exist without my muse — Elara Vance."

Every camera in the room swung toward her.

She smiled for the lenses with the ease of someone who'd already won.

"Every single day with Elara fills me with the drive to create. She's like a beam of light cutting through the darkness inside me — a darkness I thought had run dry."

Applause and camera clicks filled the room.

My heart was completely still. Like standing water that hadn't moved in years.

Light in the Dust — I came up with that title after three consecutive all-nighters in the attic, staring out the window at the faint glow of early morning.

Rowan had been in another city at the time, attending some business event with Elara.

He told me it was all for our future together.

A reporter stood up.

"Rowan, we all know you're married. How has your wife supported your career? Was she involved in this new book at all?"

It was a pointed question.

Every eye in the room landed on Rowan.

I watched his brow twitch — just barely, just for a second.

Then it smoothed out, and he flashed that perfect smile.

"My wife has always been my quiet support system at home. She takes care of everything so I never have to worry."

He paused, and his tone went flat.

"As for the writing itself — that's a specialized craft. It takes talent and inspiration. It's not something you can compare to keeping house."

Five years of my life. Twelve books. Tens of millions of words. And he'd just filed it all under housework.

Elara stepped in right on cue, her voice honeyed and smooth.

"Rowan is such a dedicated writer. He locks himself in his study for hours — sometimes a whole day at a time. The best thing the people around him can do is stay out of his way and let him work."

She'd placed herself firmly in the category of the people around him.

The reporter wasn't done.

"So, Rowan — does that mean your wife had nothing to do with the massive success of your previous twelve books either?"

A flicker of irritation crossed Rowan's face.

He raised the mic, and his voice cooled.

"My wife has given a lot to this family, and I've always been grateful for that. But the writing is mine. My work. My talent."

He said it without a moment's hesitation.

As if all those sleepless nights meant nothing. As if the pages covered in my handwriting had never existed.

The young reporter sitting next to me — clearly new to the job — leaned over and whispered to her colleague.

"Who even is his wife? I've never seen her before."

"Probably just a housewife," the other one murmured back. "He keeps her so hidden — she must not be much to look at."

I looked down at my hands. At the knuckles that had bent slightly out of shape from years of holding a pen.

Then another reporter stood up.

"Evelyn — are you here tonight? As Rowan's wife, do you plan to keep supporting his career? And what do you think about him finding a new muse?"

Heads began turning all across the room, searching for me.

Rowan's gaze cut through the crowd like a blade, landing on me with a clear warning.

He jumped in before I could say a word, his voice loud and carrying the easy condescension of someone doing a favor.

"Of course she supports me. “

”She’d be nothing without me."