The Star I Wrote Chapter 2

My tweet was a single stone dropped into the raging ocean of the internet. It made a tiny ripple, then was immediately swallowed by a tidal wave of mockery and vitriol.

“Who is this psycho? Desperate for her 15 minutes of fame.”

“LMAO, this is the most pathetic attempt to ride someone’s coattails I’ve ever seen. Jealous much?”

“Jilted ex-girlfriend? Or just a stalker? This is a new low.”

“Honey, if you’re gonna make a claim like that, you need receipts. Nobody believes a random tweet.”

Ryan’s fanbase was a terrifyingly efficient army. They descended on my account, flooding my mentions and DMs with a torrent of filth.

I didn’t respond. I just watched it all unfold, a silent observer to my own crucifixion.

Late that night, Maya went live on Instagram.

No makeup, wearing a plain white t-shirt, she broadcasted from a spartan-looking dorm room. Her eyes were puffy and red, her face pale. She was the very picture of persecuted innocence.

“I don’t know how all of this happened…” Her voice broke as she bowed deeply to the camera. “I’m so sorry for taking up everyone’s time. I… I’ve always admired Thea. I’ve read her early work. She’s incredibly talented.”

She praised me first, a masterful move. Then, the pivot. A single, perfect tear slid down her cheek.

“But… inspiration… you can’t control it. When Ryan and I would talk about the story, ideas would just… they would just pour out. It was like we were two halves of the same soul. I honestly didn’t mean for any of this to happen… If my existence has hurt Thea in any way, I am so, so sorry.”

It was flawless. She was the innocent, the humble admirer of my past work, a helpless victim of her own overwhelming talent and a once-in-a-generation connection. In the same breath, she subtly painted me as a has-been, a technician who could only write formulaic, soulless commercial scripts while she was the true artist, the one who communed with Ryan’s soul.

Just then, my phone rang. It was Ryan.

“Thea, stop it. You’re embarrassing yourself.” His voice was laced with a hangover and undisguised annoyance. “I’ll have accounting wire you the final payment for Echoes tomorrow. Double. Just delete the tweet, keep your mouth shut, and you’ll get paid for the next one.”

He didn’t even bother to ask, to argue, to explain. He just used money as a muzzle.

“And if I don’t?” I asked softly.

A cold, humorless laugh came from his end. “Thea, don’t push me. You can’t win against me, and you can’t win against the studio. Don’t burn the last bridge you have.”

He hung up.

I held the cold phone in my hand and smiled.

He was right. How could I possibly win?

He was the beloved new star, backed by a mountain of money and a ruthless PR machine.

And I was just a ghostwriter, a lemon squeezed dry, ready to be discarded.

The next day, I went back to the apartment Ryan and I had shared for five years—the place that had also been my studio—to pack my things.

I had just wrestled a heavy box of manuscripts to the door when I ran straight into Maya.

“Thea. Thanks for taking care of Ryan all these years. I’ll take it from here.” She smiled, her eyes dropping to the box in my arms. “And I should thank you for this, too. A writer like you, with no real spark, just a lot of discipline… you were born to be a ghostwriter. The perfect person to do the grunt work for our love story.”

A needle of pain pierced my heart, but my face remained a mask of calm.

My silence seemed to infuriate her.

She picked up a mug of steaming coffee from a nearby table. With a theatrical little gasp of “oops,” she let her hand slip, sending the entire scalding contents splashing across the box in my arms.

It was the original draft of Echoes in the Dark. Five years of my life, covered in my own frantic, hand-written notes.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry, Thea! I’m so clumsy!” she cried out, her voice dripping with fake alarm.

I lost my composure. I lunged forward and grabbed her wrist. “Maya!”

This was exactly what she wanted.

The instant my fingers closed around her arm, she let out a blood-curdling scream, threw herself backward against the wall, and slid dramatically to the floor.

“Ahh! Thea, don’t hit me! I know you hate me, but you can’t assault me!” she shrieked, clutching her arm and sobbing hysterically.

The apartment door swung open at that exact moment.

Ryan, looking like he’d rushed back from a photoshoot, saw the scene: Maya, crumpled and weeping on the floor, and me, standing over her, my hand on her wrist, my face a mask of fury.

He didn’t ask a single question. He didn’t even look at me. He bolted forward and shoved me, hard.

Caught off balance, I stumbled back, my head hitting the cold wall. The box fell from my arms, scattering the coffee-soaked pages across the floor.

Ryan knelt, gathering Maya into his arms, murmuring soft comforts. “It’s okay, Maya, I’m here. You’re safe.”

Then, he turned to me, his eyes filled with a disgust so profound it stole my breath.

“Thea, I was so wrong about you. I knew you’d lost your talent, but I didn’t know you were this venomous.”

Every word was a perfectly aimed dagger, twisting into a heart that was already in shreds.

“She’s a kid, just starting out. And you pull this kind of shit on her? Can’t you stand to see anyone else succeed?”

I stared at him, at the triumphant smirk peeking through Maya’s crocodile tears, and the sheer absurdity of it all washed over me.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. What was the point? In this tableau, any explanation would sound like a lie.

Seeing my silence, the disgust in Ryan’s eyes hardened into something colder. He pulled out his phone, dialed Diane, and put it on speaker.

“Diane, call legal. Terminate Thea’s contract. Effective immediately. My team has no room for a vindictive, washed-up hack.”

His voice was glacial.

“I never want to see her again. Thea, you’re fired.”