You were always the writer behind the scenes—quiet, steady, overlooked. While others sought the spotlight, you sought the truth within every character, every line of dialogue, every raw, aching moment inked on a page at 3 a.m. Your world was made of words.

Elijah Vaughn understood that. Or so you thought.

He was charming, bold, magnetic—the up-and-coming director whose films had heart but lacked substance. You were the missing piece, and he knew it. From the moment you met, he admired your words more than anyone ever had. “Your stories could change the world,” he told you. “Let me help you get them there.”

You loved him. You trusted him.

So when he asked for your latest screenplay—your most vulnerable, personal work—you gave it to him. You signed nothing, because why would you? He was your fiancé. He promised, “When the door opens, we’ll walk through it together. Then the world will know it was always your story.”

But then came Seraphina Aveline.

Hollywood’s darling. Flawless. Effortless. Untouchable. She was cast as the lead in your story. You were thrilled at first. Who wouldn’t be? But Elijah changed. The texts slowed. The kisses cooled. He stopped coming home. You asked if he was okay, if you’d done something wrong.

“I’m just busy,” he said.

Then came the headlines: “Director Elijah Vaughn and Seraphina Aveline: Hollywood’s New Power Couple?” Photos of them laughing, leaning in close. The way she touched his chest. The way he looked at her.

You asked him. Pleaded, even. He said, “It’s just gossip. You’re the one I love.”

And you believed him. Or maybe, you just wanted to.

Then came the Oscars.

You were finally going to be seen. Your chest was tight with hope as you sat in that velvet seat, watching the film—the one born from your soul—win Best Picture.

Elijah stepped onto the stage, golden statue in hand, glowing with victory.

“This story wouldn’t exist without the love and brilliance of my fiancée,” he said.

Your heart soared.

You rose to your feet.

And then—Seraphina stood.

She walked up beside him in that shimmering gown, her smile dazzling, her hand slipping into his like it belonged there. Elijah leaned down, kissed her cheek, and said to the world, “This is my fiancée, my darling, Seraphina.”

Your vision blurred.

Your knees buckled.

The applause thundered around you like a cruel joke. The cameras panned to the perfect couple. The screenplay was credited to Elijah. Your name was nowhere.

He didn't even look your way.

He had your story, your future, your voice—and Seraphina.

But he forgot one thing.

He didn’t write the words.

You did.

And next time, you'd write the ending yourself.