Never Steal From Your Ghostwriter

The New Year’s Eve countdown on the stadium’s jumbotron was ticking down its final ten seconds. Around me, eighty thousand voices roared in a deafening, unified wave. I stood in the VIP sound booth, lifting my phone to frame a shot of myself against the stage where Jason—the country’s reigning pop sensation—stood bathed in silver light. For six years, we had lived in the dark. Six years of secret late-night studio sessions, whispered promises in unmarked hotel suites, and quiet sacrifices. But tonight, he swore, was the night he would finally give me a name. He had promised that when the clock struck midnight, he would tell the world who had been standing behind him all along. The countdown hit "One". Confetti cannons exploded, filling the arena with a blizzard of gold foil. And right there, dead center on the main stage, Jason dropped to one knee. He wasn't looking toward my section. He took the hand of Virginia, the pop princess and media heiress sharing the stage with him. "Thank you all for witnessing this," Jason’s voice echoed across the stadium, smooth and breathless through his headset mic. "Virginia and I officially tied the knot last month." The crowd went into a frenzy. The roar rattled my ribcage. My fingers went numb. My phone slipped from my grasp, hitting the concrete riser with a sickening crack. The glass shattered into a spiderweb of white fractures. A second later, the screen buzzed against the floor. It was a text from Richie, Jason’s personal assistant, along with a photo of a newly signed cashier’s check: "Jason says thanks for six years of being his live-in ghostwriter and housekeeper." "Virginia’s family just handed him a global luxury ambassadorship. Be realistic." Then came a direct message from Jason’s private number: "Finding out you’re the other woman on national television must sting, but this is the cleanest exit I could give you." "Don’t even think about running to the press. I still have every private video we ever made on my cloud drive." "Be a good girl, sweetheart. Play nice, or you won’t even get to stay on as my side piece." 1 "Lola, Jason wants you in the Sprinter van on P2. Keep your hood up. Don’t give the paparazzi a reason to start digging." Richie stood in the shadows of the arena's backstage tunnel, his voice clipped and professionally dismissive. Above us, the lingering cheers of eighty thousand fans vibrated through the steel girders. I looked down at the ruined screen of my phone. In the fractured reflection of the glass, I could see my own face—pale, hollowed out, stripped of any color. Richie tapped the toe of his designer sneaker against the shattered phone on the floor. "Move it, Lola. Jason’s doing you a favor by having a car take you back. Virginia’s in a great mood tonight; don't ruin it by causing a scene." My legs moved mechanically, like limbs on a marionette whose strings had been severed, as I followed him down into the concrete gloom of the underground garage. The door of the matte-black Sprinter van slid open. Inside, the climate control breathed a wall of dry warmth, heavy with the suffocating scent of expensive Bulgarian rose and cedarwood. Jason sat back in the butter-soft leather captain's chair, swirling a crystal flute of vintage Dom Pérignon. Curled beside him was Virginia, the five-carat emerald-cut diamond ring on her left hand catching the overhead LED strips. When Jason saw me standing outside in the cold draft of the garage, he set his glass down. He stepped out of the van, shrugging off his custom shearling coat and draping it over my shoulders with an easy, practiced grace. "Why are you dressed so light down here? Your hands are freezing." His warm palms cupped the backs of my hands. The look of tender concern in his hazel eyes was identical to the one he had given me every winter for six years whenever I stayed up late arranging his vocals. A wave of nausea hit me so hard my vision blurred. I yanked my hands back. The heavy coat slipped from my shoulders, tumbling into the oil-stained dust of the parking bay. Jason’s expression flickered, but he didn't snap. He simply let out a patient, patronizing sigh, bending down to retrieve the coat and dusting off the hem. "Lola, I know tonight was sudden. I know it’s a lot to process," he said, stepping closer to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His tone was drenched in the romantic cadence he used for camera interviews. "You’re a smart woman. You know how this industry works. Virginia’s father controls half the theatrical distribution and streaming networks in the country. She’s the only one who can take me to the absolute top." He lowered his voice, offering a faint, conspiratorial smile. "But you know who I actually love. It’s always been you." I stared at the face I had built my entire life around. My eyes burned, hot and dry, but not a single tear fell. "You love me?" My voice was barely a whisper, brittle as dry leaves. "So you married her behind my back? You threatened me with revenge porn to keep me as your dirty little secret?" Jason’s brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of irritation breaking through his polished veneer. He took half a step closer, dropping his voice to a low, soothing hum. "That was just to keep you from doing something reckless. I know how stubborn you get when your feelings are hurt. I couldn't let you throw away six years of what we built together." From inside the van, a soft, melodic laugh drifted out. Virginia stepped down onto the asphalt, perfectly poised, carrying a sleek orange Hermès box tied with a brown ribbon. "Miss Antony," she said, her voice smooth and magnanimous, without a hair out of place. "Thank you for looking after Jason all these years. His schedule can be terribly demanding." She held the box out toward me. "This is the newest Birkin—you can't even get on the waitlist in the States. Consider it a token of my appreciation on Jason’s behalf. After we’re settled, he might not have as much free time. But as long as you stay discreet and remain in the apartment, our family will make sure you're well taken care of." Every word was delivered with the calm, aristocratic benevolence of a queen granting an allowance to a discarded concubine. I didn't reach for the box. My eyes shifted between the two of them. "Are you two for real?" I looked directly at Virginia. "You know he’s been living with me for six years, and you still went through with this?" The corner of Virginia’s red lips lifted, her eyes glittering with cold condescension. "Lola, darling, the adult world is about maximizing leverage. Jason needs my family’s empire; I need his public profile. As for you..." She gave me a sweeping, indifferent glance. "Men like Jason will always keep a pretty little pet somewhere on the side. I’m not small-minded enough to care, as long as you know your place." Jason slipped an arm around Virginia’s waist, shooting her a look of open admiration before turning back to me with a smile so gentle it made my skin crawl. "See, Lola? Look how generous Virginia is. I’ll do the red carpets and brand galas with her during the day, and I’ll come home to the penthouse to be with you at night. You don't have to worry about rent, or bills, or anything. You just get to be my girl. Isn't that what you always wanted?" Every drop of blood in my veins turned to ice. A chilling, hollow clarity settled deep into my bones. "Jason," I said, my voice steady, sharp, and razor-cold. "You are completely, utterly pathetic." The manufactured warmth on his face finally fractured. He released Virginia’s waist, his gaze dropping several degrees, though his voice remained chillingly even. "Lola, don't mistake my patience for weakness. Go home, sleep it off. When you wake up tomorrow, you'll still be my favorite girl." He turned back toward the van, delivering his final order just before the tinted glass door slid shut. "Richie. Take her back to the penthouse. Stay outside the door; make sure she stays put." The exhaust fumes washed over me in a warm, suffocating cloud as the Sprinter pulled away. Richie walked over and popped the locks on a beat-up silver sedan parked nearby. "Get in, Lola. Jason’s being nice. Don't push your luck." 2 The sedan tore through the freezing fog along the elevated highway. I leaned my forehead against the cold passenger window, watching the neon signs of the skyline blur into long, bleeding streaks of light. It was nearly two in the morning when we pulled up to the high-rise overlooking the bay—the penthouse Jason and I had shared for the last six years. I had toured dozens of properties across the city before choosing this one, spending months curating everything from the reclaimed oak floors to the custom velvet cushions on the sofa. I walked into the quiet lobby, rode the private elevator to the top floor, and pressed my thumb against the biometric smart lock out of sheer muscle memory. A sharp red light flashed twice. "Access Denied. Fingerprint not recognized." I froze. I keyed in my six-digit PIN. "Incorrect Passcode." A smooth, synthesized female voice chimed through the intercom speaker: "Primary resident Virginia Kincaid updated all security permissions today at 3:00 PM. Visitors must contact the primary owner for access." The draft in the high-rise hallway bit straight through my thin wool sweater. I stood there, utterly paralyzed, staring at the walnut door I had unlocked thousands of times. In my pocket, my backup burner phone vibrated. Jason’s name lit up the screen. I swallowed the lump of ash in my throat and swiped to accept the call. Jason’s voice came through, drowsy and relaxed, accompanied by the rustle of high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. "Lola? Did you make it back?" I stared at the dead red light on the lock. "You changed the master code." A soft, apologetic chuckle came through the earpiece. "Ah. Sorry about that, sweetheart. Virginia moved her luggage in this afternoon. She’s... particular about security. She said since we’re married, the deed needed to be transferred into her name for tax structuring. I signed it over after lunch. She changed the codes, and I didn't want to make an issue out of it." Every syllable felt like a dull blade dragging across an open wound. "Jason, everything I own is in that apartment. My clothes, my instruments, my life. That is "my" home." From the background, a soft, sleepy female voice murmured, "Jason? Who is that? Come back to bed." Jason immediately lowered his tone, his hand cupping the receiver as he whispered, "Just the studio assistant, babe. Go back to sleep." When he spoke to me again, his voice was coated in that familiar, suffocating pity. "Lola, stop throwing a tantrum. I just wired fifty thousand dollars to your checking account. Go get a suite at the Four Seasons downtown for a couple of days. Once the novelty wears off for Virginia, I’ll buy you a place in Tribeca. Just be good. Don't make this harder on me than it needs to be." "Click." The line went dead. The elevator doors at the end of the hall slid open with a soft chime. A private security guard stepped out, his hand resting near his utility belt as his eyes locked onto me with immediate suspicion. "Ma'am? Can I ask what you're doing up here? The homeowner just logged an alert about an unauthorized individual on the private landing. If you aren't on the resident manifest, you need to vacate the premises immediately, or I'm calling the police." I parted my lips, but the air caught in my throat. Six years. Six years of ghostwriting his platinum tracks, managing his diet, smoothing over his PR crises from behind the curtain, only to end up standing in the hallway, treated like a common trespasser. I turned around, my heavy boots dragging against the plush carpet, and walked toward the elevator. When I stepped out onto the street, the winter wind hit me like a physical blow. The burner phone in my coat pocket began chiming uncontrollably with notifications. I unlocked the screen and saw that I had been added to an iMessage group named "The Inner Circle"—a private chat consisting of Jason’s wealthy industry friends, managers, and high-rolling hangers-on. Chad, an heir to a tech fortune who hung around Jason’s entourage, had dropped a high-res photo of Jason and Virginia passionately kissing beneath the chandelier of the penthouse master bedroom. "Congrats to our boy Jason! Locked down the bag and the queen of the industry!" A cascade of fire emojis and congratulatory texts followed. Then Chad tagged my handle: "@Lola, Virginia already gave the green light. You can stick around as an assistant if you behave. Jason felt bad for you back in the day, letting you tag along to VIP parties, but did you actually think you were ever gonna be the first lady?" "Go clean out your thrift-store junk before Virginia has the cleaning crew throw it in the dumpster." Another member piled on: "Right? A background track-writer thinking she was gonna turn into an A-list wife. Virginia drops more on a weekend trip to Aspen than Lola’s entire catalog is worth." I stared at the glowing blue bubbles from people who, for years, had greeted me with hugs and called me "the real brains behind the throne." A sour taste rose in my throat. Three years ago, Chad’s venture-backed media startup had collapsed overnight. He had been facing margin calls and personal bankruptcy, sobbing in my kitchen, ready to jump off a bridge. I had secretly loaned him two hundred thousand dollars—my entire savings from early production royalties—to keep the wolves away from his door. He had dropped to his knees, swearing I was his sister for life. Now, he was the loudest dog barking at my heels. I didn't reply. I simply left the group chat. Before I could lock the screen, a breaking alert from Jason’s verified PR team popped up on my news feed. "OFFICIAL STATEMENT: Addressing recent online harassment and extreme fan stalking." Attached to the release were three heavily blurred, out-of-context photos of me following Jason out of hotel lobbies over the past year. "A former freelance crew member, identified as Miss L. Antony, has engaged in persistent unauthorized surveillance and inappropriate conduct toward Jason. The matter has been referred to our legal department for immediate restraining orders." Beneath the post, hundreds of thousands of comments were already pouring in like an avalanche of sewage: "What a desperate, pathetic clout-chaser!" "Jason has been so patient dealing with this psycho for years." "Doxx her. Ruin her life so she never comes near him or Virginia again." Within twenty minutes, my personal social media accounts, my voter registration records, and even the address of the specialized care facility where my younger brother was undergoing medical treatment were plastered across public forums. 3 The next morning, I woke up on the stiff mattress of a twenty-dollar-a-night motel on the industrial edge of the city. Outside the grease-stained window, the sky was a dull, bruised slate, spitting freezing rain against the glass. My phone had been plugged in all night, its lock screen flooded with hundreds of unread threats, blocked calls, and vile messages—some users had even sent Photoshopped images of tombstones bearing my brother's name. I ignored every single one of them. I washed my face with cold tap water, pulled my hair into a tight, severe bun, and caught an Uber straight to Jason’s private production studio in the arts district. Over the last six years, Jason had climbed from an unranked reality-show runner-up to the undisputed king of the contemporary pop charts. Every single hit, every hook that dominated radio airplay, had come from me sitting cross-legged on the studio floor until four in the morning, bleeding melody lines into an MPC. But to protect his image as a "generational musical prodigy," my name had never appeared on a single official credit sheet. I wasn't there to beg. I was there to retrieve the offline hard drives and original session multi-tracks locked inside the studio’s fireproof safe. Those master stems were the physical proof of my ownership—the only leverage I had left. When I pushed through the heavy glass doors of the studio lobby, the room fell dead silent. Two receptionists who had worked there for years immediately dropped their eyes, pretending to rearrange paperwork on their desks. I walked past them, heading straight down the soundproofed corridor toward Master Studio A. The double oak doors were slightly ajar. Through the crack, the steady, rhythmic clicks of DSLR shutters and the voices of journalists drifted out into the hall. "Jason, word is your upcoming studio album, "Genesis", explores an entirely new sonic architecture," a reporter from "Rolling Stone" was asking. "Can you tell us about the creative spark behind this shift?" I stood in the shadows outside the door, looking through the glass insert. Jason was impeccably tailored in a double-breasted charcoal Dior suit, his fingers lightly intertwined with Virginia’s. He turned toward the cameras, offering that effortless, boyish grin that had won over millions of fans. "Honestly, the entire vision for this record belongs to my wife, Virginia," Jason said smoothly, raising her hand to his lips for a soft kiss. "She didn't just inspire the tracks—she composed the chord progressions and wrote the lyric concepts from scratch. "Genesis" is our wedding gift to each other, and to our fans." The reporters let out a collective murmur of awe. Flashbulbs went off in blinding clusters. Virginia leaned her head against Jason’s shoulder, radiating effortless glamour. "Jason is too kind. I’ve always treated songwriting as a private diary. He was just the muse who brought it out of me." A sharp, ringing tone exploded in my ears. "Genesis." I had written every single arrangement on that record during three brutal, sleepless nights in a hospital waiting room while my brother hung between life and death. Every progression, every lyric was carved out of my own marrow. And now, with a casual flick of the wrist, they were presenting it as the romantic foundation of their corporate union. I slammed the studio door open. The heavy thud echoed off the acoustic baffling. The room froze. When Jason saw me standing in the doorway, a flash of panic crossed his eyes, but it vanished instantly behind a wall of polished professionalism. "Lola," he said, smoothly letting go of Virginia’s hand and stepping in front of the press cameras. "Everyone, please excuse us. This is my former studio coordinator. She’s been under an immense amount of personal stress lately." He glanced sharply toward the corner. "Richie, please escort Miss Antony to the private lounge." Richie materialized from the hallway, his fingers digging like iron claws into my forearm as he hauled me backward. "Jason! That album is my blood!" I yelled, struggling against Richie’s grip. "You have no right to put her name on it!" The heavy studio doors swung shut, cutting off the flashes and the widening eyes of the press corps. Richie shoved me into the adjacent green room and turned the deadbolt from the inside. Three minutes later, the door opened. Jason walked in, followed closely by Virginia. The charming smile on Jason’s face was gone, replaced by a dark, suffocating hostility. He closed the distance between us, looking down at me with cold disgust. "Lola, what the hell are you doing?" he hissed under his breath. "Did I not make myself clear last night? Stay out of my way." I stared into his eyes, my hands trembling as my nails bit deep into my palms. "You transferred the publishing rights of "Genesis" to her? Without my signature?" Jason let out a short, mocking laugh. His tone shifted back to that familiar, terrifyingly gentle register. "Your publishing rights? Lola, take a look at the copyright filings since day one. Every single track lists me as the sole composer and lyricist. Even if you went out there right now and screamed until your lungs collapsed, who do you think the industry is going to believe? An uncredited production assistant, or an artist with eight platinum plaques?" He reached out, his thumb and forefinger clamping down on my jaw, forcing my face up. "Virginia is launching her own imprint. She needs the prestige of a serious songwriter to solidify her brand. You're my woman. What's yours is mine. If I choose to hand my music to my wife, that's my business." I looked at him, feeling a profound, nauseating revulsion. Six years of intimacy hadn't built a partnership; it had only refined his ability to harvest everything I had to offer. Virginia walked over to the velvet lounge sofa, sat down, and took a slow sip from a porcelain coffee cup. "Miss Antony, don't be so dramatic," Virginia said, setting the cup down on the glass table with a delicate clink. "Jason already agreed that if you stay cooperative, we'll assign you a ten percent back-end production royalty on the streaming revenue. Consider it a generous buyout for your labor." She looked at me with open amusement. "Let’s be honest. Without Jason’s face and my family’s marketing machinery, your little chord progressions wouldn't make a dime on their own." Jason released my jaw, pulled a folded legal document from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and tossed it onto the glass table. "This is a complete, irrevocable copyright surrender and non-disclosure agreement. Sign it." He leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice a soft, venomous whisper. "Lola, your brother Jonah has his bone marrow transplant scheduled for next Tuesday at Columbia Med, doesn't he?" My breath hitched. My entire body went rigid. "Those sterile isolation rooms run five thousand dollars a day," Jason whispered, his tone gentle as a lullaby. "His insurance ran out months ago. You have no job, no industry references, and your reputation is already in the dirt. How are you going to keep him alive?" He patted my cheek twice. "Sign the paper. Be a good girl, and Jonah’s medical escrow account stays fully funded." 4 Staring down at the NDA and copyright waiver on the glass table, I pressed my nails into my palms until the skin broke and a thin bead of red welled against my skin. Jason had calculated every move. He knew that Jonah was my only family in this world—an eighteen-year-old kid whose life had barely begun. I slowly raised my head, meeting Jason’s cold, expectant gaze. "You're using my brother’s life as leverage?" Jason sighed, reaching out to stroke my hair. I jerked my head away, avoiding his touch. He didn't get angry. He simply adopted an expression of profound, weary disappointment. "Lola, why do you always assume the worst of me? I'm trying to help you. Your name is radioactive online right now. Even if you took your demos to another label, who would touch you? Sign the document. Tomorrow night, Virginia’s family is hosting our wedding reception at the Hilton ballroom. The entire entertainment board and every major investor in the city will be there." He paused, his voice hardening into an absolute command. "You will be there. As my former head of operations, you will present a toast to Virginia on stage, publicly putting an end to the rumors about our past. You do that, and the wire for Jonah’s transplant clears to the hospital's account by Wednesday morning." Virginia let out a soft, mocking laugh from the sofa. "Consider it Jason’s final act of charity, Miss Antony. Learn to read the room. Don't bite the hand that feeds you." I looked between the two of them—the golden boy and the billionaire heiress—operating in seamless, sociopathic synchronicity. Six years of devotion had earned me an extortion contract and a public humiliation ritual. Without saying a word, I picked up the Montblanc pen from the table and scrawled my signature across the bottom of the agreement. Jason picked up the document, his signature easy smile returning. "Good girl. Dress appropriately tomorrow night. Don't embarrass me." The following evening, the grand ballroom of the Hilton Downtown was a sea of crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne towers, and tailored tuxedos. Jason and Virginia moved through the crowd like royalty, accepting the fawning congratulations of studio executives, record label presidents, and hedge fund managers. I stood in the furthest, darkest corner of the ballroom, wearing a simple, high-collared black dress. Chad drifted over from the open bar, a martini glass in hand, his eyes raking over me with blatant disdain. "Well, well. Look who made the guest list," Chad smirked, swirling his drink. "No designer gown tonight, Lola? Did Jason finally cut off your company card?" A few trust-fund kids around him chuckled. "Take it easy on her, Chad. She’s the staff. You wouldn't want the help upstaging the bride." I met Chad’s eyes, my expression completely flat. "Chad, when you were on your knees in my kitchen begging for two hundred grand so you wouldn't get indicted for wire fraud, you weren't nearly this loud." Chad’s face flushed a violent, mottled crimson. He stepped into my personal space, his teeth clenched. "You listen to me, you nobody. Jason belongs to the Kincaid empire now. You're nothing. Keep running your mouth, and I’ll have security drag you out into the snow." Before he could finish, the ambient music faded. Jason stepped onto the raised center stage, taking the gold microphone from the stand. His eyes swept across the crowded room, locking directly onto me. "Good evening, everyone," Jason’s voice resonated through the room, warm and commanding. "Beyond celebrating this incredible union with Virginia tonight, there is someone very important I want to personally acknowledge." The chatter died down. The spotlight shifted, swinging away from the stage and pinning me against the dark velvet curtains at the back of the room. Hundreds of heads turned in unison. Dozens of phones and media cameras swung toward me. Jason held his hand out toward me, the picture of magnanimity. "Over the past forty-eight hours, there have been some unfortunate, baseless rumors circulating online regarding Miss Antony's role in my organization. I want to clear the air. Lola has been a dedicated, hardworking member of my logistical team for years, and both Virginia and I are immensely grateful for her service." He turned to Virginia, taking her hand. "Lola, please come up. Join us for a toast to new beginnings, as colleagues and friends." The entire room remained dead silent, waiting for the disgraced assistant to bow her head and play her part. Virginia stood on the stage holding two crystal flutes of Dom Pérignon, looking down at me like an empress waiting for a subject to kneel. I stepped out from the shadows. With measured, deliberate steps, I walked down the center aisle, feeling the weight of hundreds of mocking, curious stares. When I reached the stage, Virginia extended one of the flutes toward me. Her voice was pitched just loud enough for the front row of journalists to catch every word: "To moving on, Miss Antony. Drink this, and we’ll consider the past entirely settled." I took the glass. Jason stood half a step behind her, his lips moving silently, mouthing three distinct words: "Think of Jonah." I looked down at the pale gold liquid in the crystal flute. Inside my right coat pocket, my fingers rested against the cold toggle of a high-gain digital transmitter plugged into a pocket recorder. Last night, while Richie was busy managing Jason’s press releases, I had accessed the cloud server connected to the studio’s backup drive, pulling every single raw multi-track session file from the last six years, every timestamped vocal guide track, and every audio memo Jason had ever sent me. And in that same pocket was the pristine, high-fidelity recording of our conversation in the green room yesterday afternoon. I looked up, looking directly into Jason’s confident eyes, and offered the first genuine smile I had smiled in three days. "Jason. Virginia." I lifted the crystal flute. "To your union." I didn't drink. With a sharp, fluid snap of my wrist, I launched the entire contents of the glass directly across Jason’s meticulously styled face. The room gasped in unison. Champagne dripped from Jason’s nose, soaking his satin lapels. Virginia let out a high-pitched, furious screech, frantically grabbing a napkin to dab at his jacket. "Lola! Are you insane?!" Jason closed his eyes, his chest heaving as the polite mask shattered into pure, unadulterated rage. "Security!" he roared, pointing a trembling finger at me. "Get this psycho out of here right now!" Four private security guards in dark suits moved in from the perimeter of the stage. I didn't back up an inch. Instead, I reached down, pulled the micro-receiver from my pocket, and shoved the gold-plated auxiliary pin directly into the master input jack of the ballroom’s main soundboard beside the podium. "Don't bother touching me," I said, my voice cutting through the silence as I slammed the master fader to maximum. "I'm leaving. But first, let’s give the room the wedding gift you actually deserve."