Prologue – The Ghostwriter's Secret
The glow of Harper's laptop screen was the only light in the room. The electricity had been out for days, and the building's landlord didn't bother fixing anything for a girl who technically didn't exist on paper. Her flat was little more than a forgotten attic above a shuttered laundromat, with rain-stained ceilings and mold threading through the corners like ivy.
She didn't care.
It was quiet. It was hers.
And it was where her stories came to life.
She sat cross-legged on a secondhand mattress, headphones on, fingers flying across the keyboard. The walls around her were covered with torn pages, scribbled notes, printouts of articles, and one worn-out poster of Eli Rivers from the Neon Flame tour.
"Eli knew he was broken," Harper whispered as she typed, narrating like she always did. "But in her eyes, he found the man he could be. Not the icon. Not the mistake. Just... Eli."
She finished the paragraph and hit save.
No one knew the girl behind the screen name SilverQuill. Her fanfiction about Eli Rivers had developed a cult following online, especially her fictional redemption arc for the fallen pop star. She wrote him raw—lonely, struggling, a boy trying to escape the cage of fame.
And always, always, she gave him someone who saw him.
Someone like her.
Harper tucked her knees to her chest. The boiler rattled somewhere below. It was another night of canned soup and a candle stub flickering beside her.
She didn't want fame.
She wanted stories.
Stories that helped people survive—like they helped her.
Harper had never known her parents. She was left at the doorstep of St. Miriam's Orphanage the night she was born, bundled in a weathered blanket with no note, no name. The nuns gave her one—Harper Lane—and a crib near the window.
She grew up watching families come and go, always left behind. At seventeen, she was told she'd aged out. "You're smart," they said. "Go get a job."
So she did. She scrubbed dishes in a battered local fast-food joint with flickering lights and chipped counters. It didn't pay much, but she saved every penny. Enough to enroll in a local college and pay her first month's rent on a condemned attic apartment no one else wanted.
She thought things were finally turning around.
Then came Jesse.
He had a crooked smile and promises of forever. Said he loved her, that he'd help. That they could build a future. But the day after she gave him access to her savings—everything she had scraped together—he vanished. Took her money. Her laptop. Even her winter coat.
She missed rent.
The fast-food place shut down two weeks later. The owner went bankrupt and laid off the whole staff.
Still, she stayed. She squatted in the flat, dodging her landlord and boiling water on a camping stove. And she wrote. She wrote because it was the only thing left that made her feel like she mattered.
She ghostwrote term papers, essays, even lyrics for desperate art students. Once, she wrote a breakup song for a girl who ended up getting back with her ex. Harper didn't mind. It paid the bills—barely—and helped her get a second-hand laptop for a very cheap price.
And then came the night that changed everything.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown caller.
She ignored it.
It buzzed again. Then came a message:
LAYLA: HARPER. PICK UP. YOU GOT IN!!
Confused, Harper called back.
"What do you mean I got in?"
Layla was screaming. "The contest! The Eli Rivers contest! You're a finalist! They LOVED your writing! I sent them a few of your fanfics and snippets—they couldn't stop reading! They said you've got the kind of emotional depth they want in a screenwriter or creative partner!"
"What contest are you talking about? I thought this was a casting call thing."
"It was. Originally it was for finding a fake girlfriend for Eli Rivers to help boost his album sales with a drama-packed PR stunt. Girls were supposed to audition through videos and scripted monologues, show confidence and chemistry. I had to improvise. I told them you had the flu and couldn't record anything. So instead, I sent your stories. And they loved them! They said you had a voice, Harper. That you made Eli feel real."
"Layla, are you serious right now? You sent my writing to a contest I didn't enter?"
"Technically, I did. But you made it to the final three! Out of hundreds, Harper! They're bringing the top finalists to his private mansion for orientation. It's real. This is huge."
Harper stood frozen.
Eli Rivers.
He would actually read her words.
She almost said no.
Until she heard a loud bang on the door.
It was her landlord, shouting. Telling her she had until morning. That he'd change the locks this time.
So Harper Lane packed the little she owned, stuffed her printed manuscript in her coat, and whispered to herself:
"This is just a story. One I get to be in for a while."
But stories have a way of changing when they leave the page.
And Harper was about to learn that hers had only just begun.