Chapter 3

3.

Jocelyn wanted more scenes.

On the third day of filming, she demanded a massive overhaul of the emotional climax.

She claimed the female lead's reason for the breakup wasn't relatable enough.

"We need a trauma arc," she suggested. "Maybe she was abandoned by her father, so she fears intimacy."

The assistant director nodded like a loyal dog. "That's a great hook."

I stood by the monitor, saying nothing.

I had already written that exact arc.

In the first draft―the one they threw away―the lead had a four-thousand-word backstory explaining her motives.

Seth had cut it, saying, "It's too long. The audience is too stupid for this."

But now that Jocelyn said it, it was "deep."

The producers slid an adaptation agreement across the table for me to sign.

I put my pen down.

"I already wrote this framework. It was in the first draft you guys rejected."

The room went cold.

Jocelyn let out a soft, mocking laugh. "Nora, honey, I never saw your first draft."

"I've been an actress for a long time. I know how characters work. This was my idea."

"Then you write it," I said.

"What?"

"You're the writer now. Write the scene. Let me see what you've got."

Her smile faltered.

"I'm not a technical writer. How am I supposed to do that?"

"Then why are you trying to change my script?"

The tension in the room shifted.

Seth finally spoke up.

"Nora."

It was a warning. Just my name, laced with a threat.

I looked at Jocelyn.

"I'm not signing. If you want changes, do the work yourself."

The meeting crashed and burned.

As I was packing my bag, I heard Jocelyn whisper in the hallway.

"She's just a ghostwriter. Who does she think she is?"

I paused for a heartbeat.

Then I kept walking.

As the elevator descended, I watched the numbers drop. Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen.

I had just been lectured by an actress who couldn't even memorize her lines.

And my husband sat there and didn't defend me once.

I closed my eyes.

The doors opened on the ground floor to a cleaning lady pushing a cart.

I stepped aside to let her out first.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome," I replied.

I walked four miles back to our house that night.

I passed broken streetlights and late-night diners, feeling like a ghost in my own life.

I felt like I was scavenging through the trash of my marriage.

I wondered when exactly I became just "a girl who writes."