Chapter 1

I'm the lead writer for a hit series.

At the table read for my own script, I sat in the far corner.

The nameplate in front of me simply read "Production Assistant."

Nobody introduced me, and nobody asked for my opinion.

The lead actress, Jocelyn Reed, changed one single line―from "I don't love you" to "I don't love you anymore."

For that one extra word, she was given a screenwriter credit.

If they want to play this way, they shouldn't blame me for being heartless.

1.

The day Jocelyn joined the production, I was tucked away in the shadows.

The table read was in a conference room on the third floor of a luxury hotel.

A dozen people sat around the long mahogany table―directors, producers, cinematographers, and the cast.

I was at the very edge.

The nameplate in front of me had two words: Production Assistant.

Not Screenwriter. Not Creative Lead. Just a PA.

I turned the nameplate around so the words faced the wall.

I wasn't a PA; I was the one who built this entire world.

I spent eight months agonizing over this script, from the first draft to the sixth.

The male lead had a three-page monologue in the third act that I rewrote seventeen times.

The final version was born at three in the morning after a night fueled by cold coffee and spite.

I stood on set all day, and no one even offered me a chair.

Jocelyn sat in the power seat, flipping through the pages.

"This writing is incredible," she remarked.

Silence followed her comment.

"I'd love to meet the writer," she added with a fake, perfect smile.

The assistant director glanced at me for a split second but stayed silent.

I didn't say a word either.

I looked at the call sheet―the writing credits listed two names: Seth Sterling and Jocelyn Reed.

My name was gone.

This wasn't the first time it happened.

In our five years of marriage, Seth went from an indie filmmaker to a big-shot director.

Every single project we did together listed him as the sole writer.

When the media asked about the scripts, he'd say, "It was a collaboration between me and my team."

My team.

Me, sitting alone in a cramped apartment staring at a screen for eighteen hours, was his "team."

The meeting ended, and I packed my things to leave.

Seth caught up to me in the hallway, calling my name.

"Nora," he said.

I stopped but didn't turn around.

"The credits… the distributors insisted on it. It's just a title for her," he explained.

"She's the lead actress. She doesn't need to be a writer too."

He paused. "She wanted to be part of the creative process, so I―"

"Did you even ask me?" I interrupted.

He fell silent.

I turned to look into his eyes.

"No," he finally said. "I just assumed you wouldn't mind."

The elevator arrived. I stepped in and hit the button.

He stood in the hallway, his face slowly disappearing as the doors slid shut.