Chapter 2

Five years later, Ethan had kept his promise. Our Austin home was a sanctuary. He' d built me a private editing suite, a sleek, soundproofed room where I could lose myself for hours. He framed my script pages, hanging them on the walls like priceless art.

"My brilliant wife," he' d say, kissing my forehead as I typed.

He used the posters I designed for my "private" scripts as his social media avatars. He celebrated every scene I finished, every character I brought to life. He was my biggest fan, my only audience. I was so safe, so loved, and so completely isolated. He' d convinced me to stop following film news, to disconnect from the industry that had hurt me. He said it was for my mental health.

I believed him.

Tonight, I was scrolling through Instagram, a mindless habit. I saw a post from the Sundance Film Festival, a place I hadn't dared to think about in years. The photo was of a cheering crowd, celebrating a new indie masterpiece called "Dust Devil Heart."

The festival's darling director, Sabrina Lawrence, stood in the center, bathed in applause.

But the story they were describing... it was mine.

The main character, a lonely waitress in a West Texas diner who finds a map in a dead man's boot. The key scene where she confronts her estranged father in a dust storm. It was all there, ripped directly from the script I had finished six months ago. The one I' d read aloud to Ethan in our living room.

My blood ran cold. My hand started to shake. I zoomed in on the photo.

There, in the background, half-hidden by the celebrating crowd, was my husband. His arm was wrapped tightly around Sabrina Lawrence's waist, his head bent close to hers, a look of adoration on his face I hadn't seen in years.

He wasn't in Los Angeles for a production crunch. He was at Sundance. With her.