Stolen Scripts, Shattered Life

Stolen Scripts, Shattered Life

Elizabeth

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My film career was soaring, my dreams finally within reach. Then, the word "Plagiarist!" echoed through the festival hall, a death knell for everything I' d built. Industry contacts vanished, my name became a hashtag for fraud, and my working-class parents, who' d sacrificed everything, disowned me. Just as I contemplated tearing up my life, producer Ethan Scott appeared, a charismatic savior who saw through the lies, stood by me, and whisked me away to a secluded Austin home. He built me a private editing suite, framed my old scripts, and became my biggest fan, my only audience, convincing me the outside world was too dangerous. For five years, I was safe, loved, and completely isolated-until tonight. Scrolling Instagram, I saw a Sundance hit, "Dust Devil Heart," hailed as a masterpiece by Sabrina Lawrence. Its story was identical to the script I' d just finished, the one I' d read aloud to Ethan. And there, in the background of Sabrina's celebratory photo, was my husband, his arm possessively around her, a look of adoration I hadn't seen in years etched on his face. My "savior" was at Sundance, not in L.A., and everything I believed about my perfect, safe life shattered into a million pieces. I had married the man who orchestrated my downfall and stole my art, turning my life into his "content farm." But he underestimated me. He broke my spirit once, but this time, he just ignited a fire.

Introduction

My film career was soaring, my dreams finally within reach.

Then, the word "Plagiarist!" echoed through the festival hall, a death knell for everything I' d built.

Industry contacts vanished, my name became a hashtag for fraud, and my working-class parents, who' d sacrificed everything, disowned me.

Just as I contemplated tearing up my life, producer Ethan Scott appeared, a charismatic savior who saw through the lies, stood by me, and whisked me away to a secluded Austin home.

He built me a private editing suite, framed my old scripts, and became my biggest fan, my only audience, convincing me the outside world was too dangerous.

For five years, I was safe, loved, and completely isolated-until tonight.

Scrolling Instagram, I saw a Sundance hit, "Dust Devil Heart," hailed as a masterpiece by Sabrina Lawrence.

Its story was identical to the script I' d just finished, the one I' d read aloud to Ethan.

And there, in the background of Sabrina's celebratory photo, was my husband, his arm possessively around her, a look of adoration I hadn't seen in years etched on his face.

My "savior" was at Sundance, not in L.A., and everything I believed about my perfect, safe life shattered into a million pieces.

I had married the man who orchestrated my downfall and stole my art, turning my life into his "content farm."

But he underestimated me.

He broke my spirit once, but this time, he just ignited a fire.

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My fiancé, the ruthless Mafia Underboss, tore my dead mother's necklace from my throat and fastened it around another woman's neck. "Diana needs it," Arthur said, his eyes cold. "My blood remembers loving her. It calms her anxiety." He was referring to the bone marrow transplant that saved his life. Diana was connected to the donor, and Arthur believed his new blood made him belong to her. I became a ghost in my own home, forced to watch him crown a usurper. When Diana faked a fall at a gala, accusing me of pushing her, Arthur didn't hesitate. He decided to "discipline" me publicly to teach me respect. He raised the whip. "Arthur, please, I'm pregnant!" I screamed, shielding my stomach. "Don't lie to me," he spat, and the lash came down. I lost our baby on that cold marble floor in a pool of blood. He didn't believe me. He stepped over my body to take Diana to dinner. He didn't stop there. He let my grandmother die in the ER to tend to Diana's bruised nose. He even dug up my grandmother's grave because Diana wanted the view for a garden. I finally fled, vanishing into the night. It wasn't until months later, when he found the autopsy report of our unborn child and the toxicology results proving Diana had been drugging him, that the fog lifted. He tracked me down to a small town, where I was finally healing with a good man. The feared Underboss fell to his knees in the pouring rain, holding the whip he had used on me, shaking violently. "Beat me, Ella," he begged, tears mixing with the mud. "Hurt me. Make us even." I looked at the monster I used to love and dropped his ring into the dirt. "You can't bring back the dead, Arthur," I whispered. "And you are dead to me."

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