Prologue

  It’s been 538 days since I killed myself.

  Now, you’re probably thinking, "Wait… what?! He killed himself? Then how the hell is he telling a story?"

  Well, let me assure you, dear living people—writers never truly die. We go somewhere else. Not heaven, not hell. Somewhere... different. Somewhere the dead whisper in ink, and our words breathe long after our lungs stop.

  Yes, my darlings, _our words live._

  Unfortunately, I’m not here to talk about the immortality of writers, although I wish I were. I'd much rather sit down and have a spectral coffee with Jane Austen or swap horror tips with R.L. Stine. But no, I’m here to talk about something far less pleasant.

  My death.

  The police called it a suicide. Case closed. Tragic, yes, but nothing extraordinary.

  I’m telling you it wasn’t.

  The truth is, do you really trust a dead man’s words?

  Chapter 1

  It all started 752 days ago.

  I had been drinking since 10 p.m. I stumbled into my apartment around 2 a.m. Now, I could lie and say I was just buzzed. Maybe give you the illusion that I was still in control.

  But no, I was absolutely, utterly, and completely wasted. The kind of drunk where you’re not just seeing double—you’re seeing an entire ensemble cast of yourself, all doing slightly different things. One of me was crying, another was laughing, and a third was staring blankly into the void.

  And why was I drinking myself into oblivion? Oh, just another failed book submission. Another rejection letter telling me my work lacked “market appeal.” It was pathetic, really. A man in his late thirties, getting blackout drunk because he couldn’t handle failure.

  I wish I could tell you I handled my emotions like a grown-ass man—stoic, collected. But no. I never handled emotions well. I drowned them, suffocated them, choked them with whiskey and self-loathing.

  I’m sure you’re wondering, "Well, wasn’t your wife there to support you?"

  Ah, my wife. Yes. She was very supportive.

  _She also didn’t exist._

  Before you applaud me for focusing solely on my career, let’s be clear..that wasn’t the reason. I was an arrogant, self-absorbed prick in my younger years. I didn’t see the point in a wife. What could a woman possibly do for me? Cook? Clean? That’s it, right?

  Yes, I was that kind of asshole. A young, rich, sought-after bachelor who thought love was just an accessory.

  By the time I realized I was wrong, I was a good fifteen years too late.

  Chapter 2

  Perhaps my aversion to women started with Miss Stella.

  She was my tutor when I was a teenager. A married woman in her early thirties with a soft voice, gentle hands, and a smile that always seemed too sweet to be sincere.

  At first, she was kind. She baked me cookies, made sure I had a snack during lessons. She laughed at my jokes, even the bad ones.

  Then, she got comfortable.

  She started touching me—small, casual touches at first. A hand on my shoulder. A lingering brush of her fingers against mine when I wrote.

  I never stopped her. My parents were absent workaholics, and Miss Stella was the only adult who paid attention to me. So when she started holding my hand longer than necessary, I told myself it was affection.

  Then, one evening, she kissed me.

  Then, another evening, she dragged me to my bedroom.

  Then, the next evening, she did it again.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Again.

  And again.

  And again.

  She told me to keep it _our little secret_ . She said if I told anyone, she’d say I was failing my lessons. And I couldn’t let that happen. My parents didn’t care about me, but they cared about my grades.

  So I let it happen.

  I stopped resisting.

  Eventually, I didn’t just submit.

  _I enjoyed it_ .

  That’s the part that fucks with me the most.

  At fifteen years old, I didn’t understand that what she was doing was rape. I thought I was just lucky. I thought I was special.

  Then one day, she disappeared.

  No goodbye. No explanation. Just gone.

  My parents gave me some excuse—she had other commitments—but I knew better.

  She got bored of me.

  And the worst part? A small, twisted part of me missed her.

  Chapter 3

  I thought Miss Stella’s actions didn’t affect me long-term.

  I was wrong.

  After she left, I never found women attractive. Not in a normal way, anyway. I wasn’t disgusted by them—I was terrified of them.

  So I avoided them.

  In college, while other guys were getting drunk and making bad decisions with the nearest warm body, I was writing. Studying. Avoiding eye contact with girls because their smiles made my stomach twist in ways I didn’t understand.

  I assumed I was asexual. I never connected the dots.

  Miss Stella didn’t molest me—she rewired me.

  By the time I graduated, I had no relationships, no interest in dating, and no desire for anything outside of my books.

  So, I kept writing.

  Got a degree. Then a Master’s. Then a Ph.D..

  By my late twenties, I was writing for Vogue magazine, working on my first novel. When I finished it, I sent it to a publishing company.

  They loved it.

  It got published. People bought it. I made money.

  And like any addict, I wanted more.

  Writing makes books.

  Books make money.

  Money makes me feel like I matter.

  So, every six months, I wrote another book. Sent it in. Got it published. My earnings skyrocketed.

  Within two years, I had won multiple awards. My books were global bestsellers.

  And, of course, I was chased by women.

  But, as you know, my darlings…

  I never gave them a second glance.

  Chapter 4

  My downfall began when the rejections started piling up.

  At first, they were polite. The usual "Your work doesn't fit our current publishing needs."

  Then, they became harsher.

  One editor simply wrote, "Not marketable."

  Another said, "You used to be brilliant. What happened?"

  I’ll tell you what happened.

  I got *old.* I got *stale.*

  The world had moved on from me.

  And that? _That was worse than death._

  So I drank. I drank a lot.

  The night everything changed, I had been drinking since ten. I stumbled into my apartment around two in the morning.

  I wish I could say I was just buzzed. I wasn’t.

  I was _utterly, irreversibly wasted._

  The rejection letter was still on my desk. My twentieth one this year.

  "Your novel lacks emotional depth.”

  I laughed. Hard.

  Emotional depth?

  _Emotional depth?_

  I wanted to cram that letter down their throats and make them choke on it.

  I grabbed a pen, meaning to scribble something -anything to take my mind off it. But my hands were shaking.

  And then—

  I saw her name.

  Not in my mind. *On the news.*

  A TV interview.

  *Stella Carter, Secretary of Education.*

  I sobered up in seconds.

  Chapter 5

  Her voice was exactly the same.

  Soft. Sweet. Deceptively warm.

  She spoke about children’s literacy. About shaping young minds.

  I sat there, frozen. Listening. Watching.

  This woman— _this monster_ —was being celebrated.

  I should have looked away. But I couldn't.

  Then, I saw something worse.

  *Her husband.*

  Jon Carter.

  Tall. Well-dressed. A picture-perfect politician’s spouse.

  But his eyes?

  Cold. Calculated. The eyes of a man who had no problem getting his hands dirty.

  A man who would do *anything* to protect her.

  That’s when I knew.

  If I wanted to confront Stella, I would have to go through Jon.

  And Jon?

  *He was ready for war*

  Chapter 6

  I emailed her first. No response.

  Then, I showed up at one of her public events.

  She was surrounded by reporters, shaking hands, smiling.

  I managed to get close. Close enough to call her name.

  "Miss Stella?"

  She turned.

  And for a split second, I saw it.

  Recognition. Fear.

  Then—it was gone.

  Her face softened into a confused smile. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  I felt something in my chest snap.

  I opened my mouth to say something—anything but before I could, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  A strong grip.

  I turned.

  Jon.

  “Walk away,” he said.

  His voice was calm. But his grip on my shoulder? *Painfully tight.

  “You don’t want to do this.”

  I laughed.

  “Don’t I?”

  Jon leaned in, his voice barely a whisper.

  “If you try this again, I’ll destroy you.”

  His fingers dug into my skin.

  "Understand?"

  I did.

  But I didn’t care.

  Chapter 7

  I started digging.

  Old records. Old addresses. People who used to know Stella.

  And every time I got close—Jon showed up.

  One night, I came home to find my apartment door unlocked.

  My laptop? Wiped clean.

  My manuscripts? Gone.

  Jon wasn’t just protecting her.

  He was _erasing_ me.

  Then, he got violent.

  I tried confronting Stella at a charity event.

  I didn’t even get inside.

  Before I could step out of my car, something slammed into my ribs.

  A fist.

  I hit the ground, gasping.

  Then—a kick.

  Hard. Brutal.

  Jon crouched beside me. Smiling.

  "I warned you, writer.”

  Another kick—to my head.

  Everything went dark.

  I woke up on the ground a while later and went back home

  Chapter 8

  I had one option left.

  I had to expose her.

  I set up a camera.

  I sat in front of it.

  And I told the world *everything.*

  I spoke about Miss Stella.

  The cookies.

  The soft touches.

  The way she used me.

  I told them how she had become a national icon.

  A *fraud. A predator. A liar.*

  I let them see the child she had _broken_ .

  Then, I uploaded the videos.

  I named her.

  *STELLA CARTER. SECRETARY OF EDUCATION. PEDOPHILE.*

  The internet _exploded_ .

  That night, I locked all the doors and closed of the windows but it didn't matter.

  Jon was already in my apartment.

  Chapter 9

  I woke up dizzy.

  My mouth was dry. My limbs—heavy.

  Something was wrong.

  I tried to move. Couldn’t.

  My wrists were tied. My ankles—tied.

  And then—I saw where I was.

  _My balcony._

  Jon stood there, holding a knife.

  "You really thought this would work?”

  I struggled against the ropes as I spoke.

  "People know the truth now. You can’t stop it.”

  Jon smiled.

  "Of course, I can.”

  He held up a vial.

  *Chloroform.*

  My pulse *spiked.*

  “It’s simple,” he said. “You’ve been depressed for years. The world thinks you were unraveling. The stress got to you. So, you jumped.”

  He cut the rope.

  I felt the *slack.*

  I started to tip backward.

  Jon leaned in close.

  “Goodbye, writer.”

  Then—

  *Falling.*

  The wind in my ears.

  The city lights blurring.

  The feeling of weightlessness before—

  Epilogue

  The news called it *a tragedy.*

  A writer, lost to his demons.

  Stella Carter? Untouched.

  Jon Carter? Untouched.

  The world moved on.

  Because that’s what the world does.

  But my words?

  They’re still here.

  *Writers never die.*

  _And I am not finished yet_.