Chapter 4

"Is my tie straight? Come here and check."

Three days later, Friday. Julian adjusted his tie for the fourth time in front of the mirror.

He wore a dark navy designer suit with the publisher's badge pinned to his lapel. The outfit was brand new, costing $2,000.

I leaned against the bedroom doorframe.

He caught my reflection in the mirror and frowned.

"Come cuff my sleeves. Keep your dirty hands off the fabric."

I walked over and fastened his left cufflink. His wrist was thicker than it was seven years ago, his knuckles calloused from typing.

"Clean up the study completely this afternoon. Lily is bringing her kid over. And don't worry about the fridge; I'll hire someone to fix it later."

"So you're finally willing to spend that hundred and fifty bucks."

His reflection in the mirror went cold.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"Chloe, don't start with your passive-aggressive attitude today. The gala this afternoon is the biggest moment of my life. The entire industry is watching. Just stay home and don't embarrass me."

The doorbell rang.

He went to open it. Lily stood outside, wearing a white floral dress, her hair in a loose low ponytail, wearing a delicate pearl bracelet.

"Julian, I'm ready. I made a few quick edits to your acceptance speech slides last night. Do you want to take a look?"

"You're so thoughtful, Lily. Thank you so much!"

Julian took her bag, his voice light and cheerful—a voice he never used with me.

I stood at the entryway, watching them stand side by side.

Lily smiled at me, a perfect, gentle smile, her chin lowered slightly, looking sweet and harmless.

"Chloe, sorry to leave you with the housework. I’ll bring Julian back safe and sound."

*Bring Julian back.* She said it so naturally, as if she had been doing it for a decade.

Julian bent down to change his shoes.

"Julian."

He paused but didn't look up.

"Today is the biggest day of your life."

He tilted his head slightly, not understanding why I was saying this.

"Make sure you're not late."

He let out a cold snort, slammed the door, and left.

Their footsteps faded down the hallway.

I stood in the entryway, listening to the silence for three seconds.

Then, I walked back to the bedroom and opened the very back of my closet.

I pulled out a black blazer. I bought it when I graduated college and had barely worn it. I shook it out, then retrieved a hard-shell document folder from the bottom of the closet.

Three items were inside.

First—a stack of manuscript copies, each bearing a registered postmark from the post office in the bottom left corner. The earliest was dated March 11th, five years ago—exactly four months before *The Whispering Wind* was first published online.

Second—a notarized certificate from the City Notary Public. Serial number, signatures, and red seal—all perfect.

Third—a letter. Addressed with three bold letters: **WIPO**. An official arbitration acceptance letter from the World Intellectual Property Organization.

I placed the folder into my bag, threw on my black blazer, and walked out.

I didn't call an Uber. I took the subway four stops to the convention center.

There was a long line at the entrance. I didn't have a guest pass. Instead, I held a temporary media pass—obtained three days ago through an old college classmate who worked at Julian's publishing house and knew the true origin of *The Whispering Wind*.

The hall was massive.

Julian stood under the bright lights of the main stage, looking sharp and victorious.

The giant screen behind him displayed his name and a massive poster of *The Whispering Wind* celebrating its millionth sale. The hand-drawn cover art was something I had sketched on our tiny rental table at 4:00 AM years ago.

Lily sat in the front row, hands folded on her lap, looking up at the stage with adoration.

I sat down in the very last row.

The ceremony began.

The host delivered the opening remarks, and Julian stepped to the center of the stage to receive his golden trophy. The spotlight hit his face, and his smile was radiant—exactly like the boy who had promised me a better life seven years ago.

Just as he opened his mouth to deliver his acceptance speech—

The giant screen went black.

The house lights dimmed for two seconds.

When the screen lit up again, it was no longer the cover of *The Whispering Wind*.

It was a formal document with a bold header.

An official public notice from the Federal Copyright Office.

The title read:

**"Notice of Revocation of Attribution Rights for Julian Vance's 'The Whispering Wind' Series and Recovery of Unlawful Income."**

The crowd fell into a dead silence.

Then, whispers erupted like boiling water throughout the hall.

The smile on Julian's face froze. He stared at the words on the screen, his lips trembling.

Lily stood up abruptly in the front row, covering her mouth.

I stood up from the back row.

Holding the document folder against my chest, my footsteps sounded incredibly clear in the sudden quiet of the room.

I walked from the very back row to the front.

Then, I walked up the stairs to the stage.

Julian turned and saw me.

He saw me wearing my old blazer, my hair neatly tied back, my spine perfectly straight.

For the first time in his life, I saw something new in his eyes.

Terror.

I stopped right in front of him.

I pulled out the top page of the manuscript—the one with his shaky signature from five years ago.

I took the microphone from the stand.

Hundreds of eyes locked onto me.

"Julian, do you recognize this handwriting?"