Chapter 3

I needed to see.

To know the extent of it.

"Hey Mark," I said, trying to keep my voice casual. "Jessica's been with the company a while now, right? Does she have, like, a portfolio of her work I could see? Just curious about her style."

He shrugged. "Sure. HR keeps a file of all creative submissions for internal review. I can send you the link to her public-facing stuff, pitches and loglines she's cleared for sharing."

A few minutes later, a link appeared in my inbox.

My hand trembled as I clicked it.

A list of files popped up. Script titles. Treatments. Loglines.

"Desert Bloom." "Neon Shadows." "City of Fallen Angels."

I opened the first one. A treatment for a noir thriller.

My blood ran cold.

It was a story I'd outlined years ago, a private project, something I'd tinkered with on weekends. Never shown a soul.

The character names were different, some plot points tweaked, but the core, the unique twists, the soul of it – it was mine.

I clicked another. And another.

Page after page, idea after idea.

Some were fragments, things I'd jotted down and forgotten.

Others were fully formed concepts, stories I'd poured my heart into, saved on my personal drive, labeled "Future Projects."

Many of them, I saw with a sickening lurch, had notes beside them: "Pitched to IndieProd," "Optioned by Starstream Digital," "Short film produced – LA Shorts Fest."

She hadn't just stolen my competition script.

She'd been systematically looting my mind for years.

My unreleased work. My private thoughts.

How?

It was impossible.

Unless...

Unless the fortune teller wasn't entirely wrong.

Not about star signs. But about a connection. A parasitic one.

The air in the office felt thick, unbreathable.

I closed the files, my mind reeling.

This wasn't just about one competition. This was my entire creative life, siphoned off, claimed by her.

Okay.

Okay.

I died once. I came back.

There had to be a weakness. A flaw in her method.

If she could somehow access my digital work, my written notes...

What if there was nothing digital? Nothing written?

A new plan, desperate and wild, began to form.

I wouldn't write a new script for the competition. Not on a computer. Not even on paper.

I'd create something fresh, something only in my head until the last possible moment.

And I'd do it differently this time.

I grabbed my sketchbook and a pencil, the old-fashioned tools of my college days before screenwriting software took over.

I wouldn't design a script.

I'd design an object. A visual.

A short film storyboard. Simple. Direct.

I started to draw. A single, striking image.

A necklace.

Turquoise and silver. A desert motif.

I called it "Desert Morningstar."

A piece of jewelry, yes, but with a story embedded in its design. A visual narrative.

I sketched quickly, furiously, pouring all my focus into the lines, the shading.

The story unfolded with each stroke: a lost traveler, a guiding star, a piece of the fallen sky.

It felt pure. Untainted.

Mine.

I finished the last panel, a close-up of the necklace against a backdrop of a dawn sky.

A small smile touched my lips.

Let her try to steal this.

Then I glanced at my phone.

My Instagram feed was open.

And there it was.

A new post from Jessica. Uploaded two minutes ago.

A sleek, professional graphic.

A turquoise and silver necklace, almost identical to my sketch.

Below it, the caption: "New inspiration! Working on a short film concept called 'Desert Morningstar.' A story of hope, found in the stark beauty of the desert. #screenwriting #newproject #desertvibes"

My sketchbook slipped from my fingers.