Chapter 5

"What's done is done. I suggest you drop it. I'll give you three million dollars as compensation. And one more thing."

Sloan leaned forward slightly. "I wiped the hard drive before I destroyed the computer. If you try to make trouble, I have more than enough ways to make sure you never publish another novel again."

I stared at her for several seconds.

It was like looking at a complete stranger.

I didn't argue or make a scene. I simply turned and left.

By the time I returned to the Davidson house, the living room was bustling. Sloan's parents were sitting on the couch, holding Flynn's hands and beaming at him.

"Our family is incredibly lucky to be gaining such an accomplished son-in-law."

Flynn looked up and saw me. Panic flickered through his eyes before he quickly put on his usual sweet smile.

I gave Sloan's parents a brief nod in greeting, then went straight upstairs.

The shattered pieces of my computer were still scattered across my desk.

Sloan had given me that computer. She'd told me that since I spent every day staring at a screen and writing, using something she'd given me would make me think of her all the time.

I stared at the spiderweb of cracks across the screen for a long time. Whatever feelings I'd still had left for her finally went cold.

The door opened.

Flynn leaned against the frame, grinning smugly. "Sloan told me everything. So what if you two knew each other before? She still chose me in the end.

"She said someone like me is the only kind of man worthy of being her husband. You'll never belong in her world."

I couldn't even be bothered to look at him. I stuffed every broken piece of the computer into my backpack.

As I passed him, I stopped for a moment. "I don't want any part of your world."

When I arrived at Adrian's studio, Dominic was there too. He was the award-winning actor who'd lent me the custom tuxedo.

He'd starred in the first novel of mine ever adapted for the screen. Back then, he'd been virtually unknown. The series had made him famous overnight.

After that, I'd personally requested him for every adaptation of my work, helping propel him all the way to the A-list.

As soon as I walked in, he handed me a cup of hot chocolate. "Don't worry. The data-recovery expert I found is the best in the business. He'll get your files back."

Less than half an hour later, the specialist handed me a flash drive. "The hard drive was only physically damaged. I recovered all the original files. Every revision, timestamp, and edit history is intact. I even recovered the cloud backups of your messages."

Dominic clenched his phone, furious. "I'm posting this right now. I've got 300 million followers. They'll bury him alive."

I shook my head. "Not yet. Let him win the gold medal first. We'll expose him onstage at the awards ceremony."

Dominic stared at me for a second, then smiled. "You must have a lot of confidence in your work."

Beside him, Adrian raised an eyebrow. "Of course he does. He's Midnight Ember."

A week later, the Nobel Predictor Award announced its gold medal winner: Flynn Davidson.

The news exploded online.

But the day of the awards ceremony was also the day I had to leave for Europe to enroll at the European Academy of Literature.

Once I'd packed my bags, I gave Adrian my instructions, "Go to the ceremony. I'll release the evidence from Midnight Ember's account. We do it at the same time."

On the day of the ceremony, I sat at the airport with the livestream playing on my phone.

Onscreen, Flynn stood onstage in a diamond-studded designer suit, clutching his gold medal as tears streamed down his face. "I spent three years writing Dark River, one word at a time. Thank you all so much..."

The next second, Adrian stood up, holding a flash drive. "I'd like to report plagiarism. Flynn Davidson's competition entry, Dark River, was stolen from its original author."

I watched the livestream on my screen.

Then I opened the post I'd prepared in advance.

Attached were the original manu files, timestamps, complete revision history, and screenshots of every conversation I'd had with Sloan while developing the outline for Dark River.

The caption contained only three words: "I'm Midnight Ember."

I hit Post.

At that exact moment, an announcement sounded throughout the airport.

"Flight GZ3287 to Paris is now boarding. Passengers may proceed to Gate 3."

I stood and picked up my bag.

My phone began vibrating wildly in my pocket.

The caller ID read: Sloan Patrick.