Chapter 4

"Your project is being reassigned."

Frank, the showrunner, slid a folder across the desk. The cover had the title of my script—the original pilot I had spent three months perfecting.

"Reassigned to whom?"

"Serena. She said you’ve been dealing with some family tragedy and aren't in the right headspace. She offered to take over the client meetings so we don't fall behind schedule."

"When did she say this?"

Frank flipped through his planner. "Last Thursday. She brought your outline to my office and said you authorized her to take the lead."

Last Thursday. That was the day of my Grandma's memorial service. I was kneeling in front of her grave, unable to even look at my phone. Serena had sent me a text that morning: *“Chloe, honey, take all the time you need. I've got things covered here.”*

I thought she meant she was watching Asher.

"Frank, I never authorized that. That outline is my intellectual property."

Frank sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"You two need to work this out between yourselves. The network executives have already met with Serena, and they loved her pitch. It's too late to swap writers now."

"It's my show! The pitch deck, the character bibles, the episodic breakdowns—I wrote every single word!"

"I know, Chloe. But the executives only know Serena's face. She ran the last two creative sessions and they bought into her vision. If we pull her now, it looks bad on the studio. I can't do that."

He said "I can't do that" so casually. Like he was commenting on the weather.

I stormed out of his office and immediately called Serena.

"Chloe! Hey, are you back? About the studio—"

"You stole my project."

"I didn't steal it, babe. You were gone, and the network was breathing down our necks. I was just keeping the seat warm for you."

"You told Frank I authorized it."

"Chloe, I was panicking. I couldn't reach you, and we couldn't just let the deadline pass. I fully intended to hand it back to you once you got back."

"Then hand it back. Now."

The line went quiet.

Then, she let out a soft laugh.

"Chloe, honey, I’ve already done two rounds of revisions based on the network's feedback. If you take over now, you won't know what they liked or hated. If you change it back to your original vision, the executives are going to lose their minds."

"The revisions are still based on my outline. I can handle it."

"But what if you can't? Why don't you take a few more days off, let me finish this phase of development—"

"Serena."

"Yeah?"

"Do you think because I’m grieving, I’m an easy target?"

There was a three-second silence.

"You're overthinking, Chloe. I was genuinely trying to help you."

Her tone was warm, gentle, and utterly sympathetic. The perfect facade.

Like I said, I was the one who taught her how to play the game.

I hung up and opened her Instagram.

Her latest post was from this morning. A photo of her laptop screen showing my script document, next to a Starbucks cup.

The caption: *“Crushing those revisions! So excited to be head-writing my very first show! 👩‍💻✨”*

Head-writing.

In the comments, our coworkers were leaving emojis of fire and congratulations. Not a single person pointed out that it wasn't her show.

Because they didn't know.

Or rather, Serena had already convinced everyone that it belonged to her.

I scrolled down her feed. For the past ten days, her profile had been an alternating showcase of two narratives:

First, Asher. Photos, videos, cute snippets. *“Making him dinner,”* *“He said the sweetest thing to me today,”* *“Can't believe we found each other.”*

Second, her career. Pitch meetings, late-night writing sessions, network feedback. Not once did she mention my name.

Ten days.

In just ten days, she had constructed a perfect narrative online. The hardworking rising star, the devoted girlfriend, the angel of support.

And in her story, I was nothing but "a colleague going through a rough patch."

That afternoon, I ran into Zach in the breakroom.

He hesitated when he saw me, then walked over with his coffee mug.

"Hey, Chloe. Welcome back. You holding up okay?"

"I'm fine, Zach."

"Serena’s been really looking out for you. At the pitch meeting, she told the network executives that you guys co-created the show, but you had to step away for a family emergency, so she’s carrying the torch."

Co-created.

My pitch deck. My character bibles. My outline. She hadn't even read the first draft before I left.

"Is that what she said? Her exact words?"

Zach tried to recall. "Yeah... she said, 'Chloe and I built this project together. She’s dealing with a personal loss right now, so I'm stepping up to keep us on track until she's ready to jump back in.'"

*Built it together. Stepping up. Keeping us on track.*

Every word was calculated. It wasn't a theft; it was a rescue. It wasn't greed; it was teamwork. Anyone who heard it would think she was a saint of a friend, and that I was incredibly lucky to have her.

Seeing my expression, Zach whispered, "Is everything okay? You guys are a team, right?"

"Yeah," I said, throwing my paper cup into the trash. "A team."

As I walked out of the breakroom, my phone buzzed. A text from Serena. It was a photo of Asher sleeping on the couch, with Mochi curled up on his chest.

She attached a two-word message.

*“Good night.”*

Every time Asher fell asleep, I used to text myself the date followed by "Good night."

She had even copied that.

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