HER RETURN once weak now ruthless by Divah

For seven years, I lived in Chloe Adams' s shadow, the architect of her fame, ghostwriting her witty captions and composing jingles, content to be the loyal friend.

Then, at her engagement party, Chloe announced her new brand deal, her arm linked with reality TV star Brody Hayes.

"It' s time for you to find your own spotlight, you know? Away from me."

Her casual dismissal, meant to be a gentle nudge, landed like a physical blow, firing me from her life.

Everyone in the room watched, waiting for me to nod, to accept my role as Chloe' s devoted groupie.

But something inside me snapped.

"No," I said, the word cutting through the celebratory hum like glass.

Chloe' s perfect smile faltered.

"I' m just done. Done writing your posts, done composing your jingles, done being your shadow."

Her face blotched red, the gracious influencer replaced by a furious toddler.

"You can' t be 'done' !" she hissed. "I' m not done with you!"

I thought I was finally free, but her fury escalated. She shoved me, then roared, "Your parents gave me a key years ago, remember? What' s yours is mine."

I rushed home to find my sanctuary invaded, my studio defiled.

A stranger strummed my grandfather' s prized vintage Martin guitar, another giggled, scrolling through my private files.

Rage burned through me. As I called 911, Brody snatched my phone and smashed it.

"He thinks he' s so much better than us just because his parents have money," Brody declared, manipulating the crowd.

Chloe' s eyes blazed. I felt a sharp sting as she slapped me, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth.

Helpless, I watched as she grabbed a bottle of sticky red liqueur and upended it over my head.

Laughter and jeers erupted, phones flashing, recording my humiliation.

Then, I saw it: Brody wore my mother' s hand-carved wooden bird necklace, a sacred link to her memory.

"Chloe gave it to me. Said it was just some trinket she found lying around. A good luck charm."

"It' s a cheap piece of wood. Stop making a scene over nothing. You' re embarrassing yourself."

My mother' s last gift, the most precious thing I owned, dismissed as "nothing."

A raw, desperate cry escaped me. "That was my mother' s. It was a gift from my dead mother!"

Her face went dead white. "You shut your mouth!" she shrieked, striking my head.