The Billionaire Ghostwriter

I'm done writing this trash. Time to go home and inherit my billions.

The whole internet is mocking me for plagiarism? My scumbag boyfriend is forcing me to pay off debts?

At the press conference, I publicly deleted the author account Id used for six years and sneered as I announced my retirement.

Watching the panic set in on the face of the "Genius Beauty Writer" and my ex-boyfriend down below, I was laughing maniacally on the inside: In my last life, you stole my drafts to get famous. In this life, Im cutting off the supply!

Lets see how you two, with straw for brains, manage to finish the rest of this masterpiece!

Chapter 1

"Ms. Sloane, you keep claiming you have evidence to prove you didn't plagiarize. So, where is it?"

"As a former reader of yours, I really don't want to believe you'd do something like this. But did you actually write your previous works yourself?"

Faced with the countless microphones thrust toward me, I froze for a split second before my heart started hammering against my ribs.

I was back.

I had been reborn. Reborn to the very day I held this press conference to prove my innocence.

In my past life, my boyfriend's "one that got away"his perfect, untouchable obsessionplagiarized the novel based on my own secret unrequited love. On the day of its launch, the book shot up the charts, shattering sales records in the teen romance genre.

After being reposted by major influencers, countless users were raving about how moving it was. I had intended to show my original creation drafts as proof.

But unexpectedly, on the day of the press conference, my files were wiped clean. Not a trace was left.

I went through unprecedented cyberbullying. Every day, I received dead animals, photos of myself with the eyes scratched out, and terrifying packages from all over the country. I gritted my teeth and tried to keep writing, only to end up stabbed to death by a radical hater who found my door.

Right now, I only hesitated for a moment, but Nashmy "good" boyfriend of three yearscouldn't wait to open fire.

"Sloane, if you say Dakota is framing you, then show us the proof! Don't just make empty accusations and throw dirt on people!" He glared at me furiously, but a flash of smugness darted through his eyes.

Yeah. How could he not know what was in my folder?

He wanted my reputation in ruins. He wanted Dakota to become the new "It Girl" author.

I lowered my eyes, picked up my laptop, and walked over to the projector stand.

Power on. Screen share.

Chapter 2

The next second, under the stunned gaze of the entire room, I confirmed the action.

Click.

I permanently deleted the author account I had built for six years.

Nash and Dakota shot up from their seats instantly.

I spoke, my voice cold and steady. "Ladies and gentlemen, I have been framed today. Since the evidence was conveniently destroyed by someone with an agenda, I cannot defend myself."

I looked around the room, making eye contact with the cameras. "I am retiring this pen name effective immediately. I will no longer have anything to do with the web novel industry."

I closed my laptop and turned to leave.

Nash sprinted over, blocking my path like a desperate linebacker. "What the hell are you doing?" His voice was a harsh whisper. "Didn't you say you still have a ton of debt to pay off? You're just going to quit? Isn't writing your biggest dream?"

Right. My debt. My dream. The money I earned that he spends.

Dakota panicked too. She rushed over, her eyes already swimming with unshed tears. "Sloane, you don't have to punish yourself like this," she wobbled, her voice trembling. "I'm willing to give you a chance to start over."

I looked at the two of them. It was like watching a bad soap opera. A sneer tugged at the corner of my mouth.

Then, Dakota bit her lip, looked at the cameras, and dropped to her knees.

Thud.

"Sloane, I'm begging you! Please don't leave the industry over a little thing like this!" She wailed, clutching at the air. "Your readers will never forgive me! I... I can delete everything! We can pretend none of this happened! If you quit, the guilt will kill me! I won't write anymore either!"

Click-click-click-click.

The shutters of the cameras went into a frenzy. The flashbulbs were blinding, spotlighting her performance.

Bridget, my former "Star" editor, couldn't sit still anymore. She rushed forward to pull Dakota up.

"Dakota, what are you saying? Why are you kneeling to a plagiarist?" Bridget scolded loudly, making sure the reporters heard every word. "She dug her own grave. You just signed the Platinum contract with the company. Don't forget, you have work to finish."

I didn't have the energy to watch the rest of this circus.

I sidestepped them and walked out the back exit to avoid the swarm of reporters waiting at the front. I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of my rental apartment.

On the ride home, my phone started vibrating. A constant, angry buzz. Notifications were exploding.

I opened Twitter. Four of the top ten trending topics were about me.

SloanePlagiarism

SloaneVsDakota

DakotaForcedToKneel

DakotaGhostwriter

The gossip blogs and drama channels were in a frenzy, denying every single work I had ever created. They spun a narrative that I had been plagiarizing Dakota's ideas for years, threatening her into being my ghostwriter.

My comment section was a toxic wasteland.

[Ew. This is disgusting. I can't believe I was a fan of a copycat.]

[I watched the livestream. Sloane couldn't say a single word to defend herself, and then she forced Dakota to kneel! What a bully!]

[At least you have the self-awareness to retire. If you didn't, we'd ruin you.]

[Even her own boyfriend stood up to expose her. Sloane, seriously, what is wrong with you?]

[I bet she made enough money scamming us and is running away now. I support Dakota suing her until she's bankrupt! Lock her up!]

Chapter 3

My inbox was a sewer of filth and death threats.

Dakotas follower count, on the other hand, was skyrocketing. Her comments section was a love-fest of "You go, girl" and "Stay strong, Queen."

I typed out a single comment under her latest post.

[Good luck keeping up the daily updates for the second half. Don't let the fans down.]

I knew exactly what I was doing. My backlog of drafts was thin.

Dakota had been too impatient. She was terrified I wouldn't finish the manuscript before publishing, so she stole what she could and struck first.

But she didn't have the ending. She didn't know the plot twists or the Easter eggs I had buried in the early chapters. Exposing her wasn't a matter of if. It was a matter of when.

I went back to the rental apartment.

It was a cozy nine-hundred-square-foot place. I had spent years making it feel like a home. One wall was covered in photos arranged in the shape of a heart. Me and Nash.

But every single one was a candid shot Id taken secretly and printed out myself. He never let me take a proper photo with him. He never posted me on his socials. On our anniversaries, he would start a fight or just ghost me for days.

I paid the rent. I paid the utilities. Every dinner date, every shopping tripmy card was the one being swiped.

I didn't hesitate. I called the landlord and agreed to pay the penalty for breaking the lease early.

I started packing. Anything I didn't need went straight into the trash. I moved with the speed of someone escaping a burning building. Just as I was taping up the last box, a heavy knock pounded on the door.

I opened it. Nash and Dakota stood there.

"Sloane, are you moving?"

Dakota stepped inside, her face twisted into a mask of fake concern. She reached for my hand.

I snatched my hand back like she was radioactive. My expression was ice.

Nash leaned against the doorframe, sneering. His disdain was palpable.

"Moving? Where to? The gutter?" He laughed, a cruel, barking sound. "Everyone knows her dad, Barnaby, died leaving her nothing but crippling medical debt. She works herself to death just to pay off his bills."

He looked around the apartment with exaggerated disgust. "She cries over the rent here. If she's moving, it's probably to some rat-infested basement."

I stared at him, my face a blank slate. "What do you want?"

Nash's lip curled. "Apologize to Dakota. Publicly admit you plagiarized."

My brow twitched.

Is he actually speaking English? Or is this some dialect of Delusional?

"Nash," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "Do you not know the truth? For three years, you ate my food, lived in my apartment, and spent my money. Where exactly do you get the audacity to say that to me?"

Nash didn't even blink. No shame. No hesitation.

"Just because you're a jobless orphan with no one to teach you better," he spat. "Dakota has been a princess since the day she was born. Whatever she wants, I will help her get."

He took a step closer, towering over me. "You probably didn't know. Dakota's parents are respected academics. She comes from a decent family. In every single way that matters, she is a thousand times better than you."

Chapter 4

The boyfriend I had loved since college was now attacking me with the most venomous words he could find.

He only knew the surface. That I came from a single-parent home. That I moved out because I didn't get along with my mother.

He didn't know that my mother, Wilhelmina, was the Asia-Pacific Director for a multinational conglomerate. He didn't know that when my father, Barnaby, passed away, he left us a billion-dollar inheritance.

If I hadn't chosen to stay here to escape the burden of taking over the family business, I would be someone Nash couldn't even dream of reaching.

Seeing my silence, Nash thought his attacks were working. He sneered, digging the knife in deeper. "Some people are born princesses. Others, no matter how hard they try, are just maids meant to stay in the shadows."

He stepped closer, his voice dripping with arrogance. "If I were you, I'd leave with my tail between my legs. Leave everything here for Dakota. What are you staring at? Log onto Twitter right now and apologize to her, or else"

Snap.

My hand moved faster than my thoughts. I didn't just slap him. I put my entire body weight into the swing.

Crack.

The sound was like a gunshot in the small apartment.

Nashs head snapped to the side. The force was so violent it nearly dislocated his jaw. He stumbled back, eyes wide, shock replacing the arrogance. Within seconds, his eyes went completely bloodshot.

"Sloane... did you just hit me?"

"Ah!" Dakota screamed. She scrambled back, fumbling to pull out her phone to record.

I didn't give her the chance. I swatted the phone out of her hand. It hit the wall. Screen shattered.

Adrenaline hijacked my system.

I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and swung it with everything I had. The heavy bag slammed into them, sweeping them both aside like trash.

"You want my stuff so bad?" I screamed, my voice raw. "Take it! Take it all!"

I grabbed a vase. Smash.

The lamp. Crash.

I destroyed everything in sight. Glass flew. Plastic splintered. The sound of destruction was the only music I wanted to hear.

The room was a wasteland. A graveyard of the last three years.

I kicked the door open and stormed out. I didn't look back. I walked out of the complex, my chest heaving, oxygen burning my lungs.

I pulled out my phone. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely unlock the screen. I dialed the number.

It had been years. We hadn't spoken. The silence between us had been a wall I built myself.

Ring.

Click.

She picked up instantly. "Hello?"

That voice.

The moment I heard it, the rage evaporated, leaving only a hollow, aching void. My throat closed up. I couldn't breathe. Tears didn't just fall; they exploded from my eyes, hot and blinding.

In my last life, from the moment I left college in a huff until the moment I died, I never spoke to her again. I couldn't imagine the hell she went through when she heard I was dead.

This time? I didn't care about pride. I just wanted my mom.

"Mom..." I choked out.

On the other end of the line, there was a sharp intake of breath. Then, a voice trembling with a thousand unspoken emotions.

"...Come home. Just come home."

She repeated it, over and over, like a mantra. Like a prayer answered. "Come home."

---

I was on the next flight to Shanghai.

Before the plane took off, I checked Twitter one last time. Dakota had posted again. Of course she had.

[I'm sorry, everyone. I'm going to stop writing for a while. The recent events have left me mentally collapsed. Sloane was always a veteran author I respected. I need to take a leave of absence to heal myself.]

Chapter 5

Bridget, the editor who once pretended to care about me like a sister, wasted no time. She reposted Dakotas fake apology instantly.

[Fans, please give Dakota a little time to create something even better for you. Next month, we are hosting a massive fan meet-and-greet in Shanghai! We can't wait to see you there!]

It was obvious. They were pivoting. They wanted to turn Dakota into an influencer author. A brand.

I sighed, letting the breath rattle in my chest. I turned my phone off.

Darkness. Silence. Sleep.

---

By the time the plane touched down in Shanghai, the cavalry had arrived.

Wilhelmina was waiting on the tarmac. A fleet of black SUVs escorted a silver Rolls-Royce Phantom. Bodyguards in earpieces scanned the perimeter.

She had already heard everything. Her team was mobilizingPR crisis management, top-tier litigators, the works.

"We are going to pursue this to the end," she said, her voice shaking with controlled rage. "No oneno onemakes my daughter suffer."

I didn't say a word. I just leaned into her. I collapsed into the safety of her embrace.

The heavy door of the Rolls-Royce thudded shut, sealing us inside a vacuum of silence. The world outsidethe noise, the hate, the internetceased to exist.

I laid my head on her chest. I could hear the steady, rhythmic thump of her heart. It was a metronome, slowing down my own racing pulse. Her hand moved against my back. Up and down. Up and down.

It wasn't just a pat. It was a grounding force. The friction generated a warmth that seeped through the fabric of my shirt, melting the ice that had formed around my spine.

She rested her chin gently on the top of my head. The weight of it was heavy, solid, and undeniably real. It was an anchor.

You are safe. You are here. You are held.

The car was filled with the scent of her familiar perfume and the comfort food she had prepared the second I called. My favorite drinks. Delicacies I hadn't tasted in years.

My nervous system, which had been in fight-or-flight mode for seventy-two hours, finally received the signal to stand down. I tightened my arms around her waist, burying my face in the soft cashmere of her coat.

"Don't worry, Mom," I murmured, my voice muffled but steady. "You don't need to get your hands dirty."

I pulled back slightly, a small, cold smile touching my lips. "The real plagiarist is about to taste her own medicine. It won't be long."

---

Moving back into the family villa was a system shockin the best way possible.

No more waking up at dawn to haggle for groceries. No more scrubbing dishes or washing clothes until my hands were raw. My bank account looked like a phone number. The zeros stretched on forever. The anxiety of rent and utility bills evaporated.

Wilhelmina had cleared out a wing of the house for me. A massive study. Walls lined with books. A custom-built PC setup that cost more than my old apartment. It was a sanctuary where I could do anything I wanted.

My routine transformed.

Morning: Yoga in front of floor-to-ceiling windows, bathed in sunlight. Skincare treatments that cost a fortune.

Lunch: A Michelin-grade feast prepared by our private chef.

Afternoon: Shopping. High tea. Horseback riding. Golf. Reconnecting with the muscle memory of the upper class.

Evening: A glass of vintage red wine. A soak in a tub the size of a swimming pool. A sleep therapist hired by my mother playing singing bowls to lull me into a deep, dreamless slumber.

My physical health skyrocketed. My mental state sharpened. I was leveling up.

But while I was healing, the internet was getting restless.

Dakota's "hiatus" was dragging on. The updates stopped. The cliffhangers were never resolved.

Dissatisfaction started to bubble up in the comment sections.

[Can Dakota actually write? Or was she just a one-hit wonder?]

[Wait... was Sloane telling the truth?]

[Why stop updating right when the book went viral? This is suspicious. Zero professionalism.]

[Are you playing us? Refund! I want my money back!]

Dakota was panicking. I could tell. Her Twitter activity became frantic. She was online constantly, posting selfies, posting vague quotes, trying to distract the mob.

I knew her. I knew her down to her rotten core. She had a pretty face and a talent for manipulating men. She was used to being saved.

But she didn't have a single drop of real talent in her blood.

Chapter 6

Asking Dakota to write a coherent paragraph was like trying to teach a fish to ride a bicycle.

Besides, that book was my blood and tears. It was based on my reality, detailing the years I spent pining after Elliott, my untouchable crush. Nash might have known the broad strokes, but he could only feed Dakota fragments.

Under the crushing pressure, Dakota cracked. She forced herself to write a chapter with Nash guiding her hand.

It was a disaster. The reader retention rate dove off a cliff. The comments section was a bloodbath of criticism. She deleted it almost immediately.

Then came the victim card. She went on Twitter, claiming a sudden medical emergency required surgery. "My heart wants to write," she sobbed digitally, "but my body won't let me."

But she made a promise: she would release a finale that would satisfy everyone at the upcoming offline fan meet.

---

A few days later, I was browsing inside Hermes, debating which bag would best complement my revenge era.

My phone buzzed. A message from Bridget.

[Sloane, I saw your latest post is geotagged in Shanghai. I'm here on a business trip. Let's talk. I think there might be a misunderstanding.]

My heart did a traitorous little flutter.

For a secondjust a split secondI thought vindication was coming. I thought they wanted to apologize.

I was naive.

Bridget didn't want to clear my name. She wanted me to clean up the mess she helped create.

---

We met in a coffee shop.

Bridget sat across from me, her eyes scanning my new outfit. She lingered on the latest season Chanel jacket. She let out a short, dismissive laugh. A smirk played on her lips.

"Name your price, Sloane," she said, leaning back. "I know your family situation is... difficult. How much will it take for you to pick up the pen again?"

She didn't wait for an answer. "Dakota is the site's golden goose right now. She has generated massive profits for us. The company is going to protect her at all costs."

I sat in silence. The seconds stretched out, feeling like centuries.

"Your pen name is dead," she continued, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. "Your readers are gone. And let's be honest, you only made it big because the site spent money promoting you."

Bridget pushed her coffee cup aside and leaned in, invading my personal space.

"Fifty thousand dollars."

She said the number like she was tossing a bone to a starving dog. "That should be enough to replace that outfit you're wearing with a genuine version. And itll help you pay off those debts youre so worried about."

I stared at her. My expression darkened.

She thinks I'm wearing a knock-off? She thinks I'm here in Shanghai doing what? Yacht girling?

The insult burned, but I shoved the anger down into the pit of my stomach. I needed to be the desperate, broken girl she expected. I needed to be the "good dog."

"Okay," I said, squeezing the words through my gritted teeth.

I looked her in the eye, masking the predator behind my pupils. "No problem. I already have the outline drafted. Give me three days. I will finish the last hundred thousand words for you."

Bridget shot up from her chair, her face lighting up with greed. "Great! It's a deal then. I'll wait for you right here in three days!"

I grabbed my bag and turned to leave.

Enjoy your victory lap, Bridget. You have no idea what you just bought.

Chapter 7

I went back to the villa and opened my laptop. I pulled up the outline I had drafted years ago in my old notebook.

Maybe it was the rest, or maybe it was the thrill of the hunt, but my energy was boundless. My fingers flew across the keyboard. Three days later, sporting dark circles under my eyes that no concealer could hide, I handed the manuscript to Bridget.

Bridget was overjoyed, but she was still a snake. She made me sit there while she scanned the files, checking for any obvious sabotage.

Once she confirmed the word count and the plot flow were "normal," she let out a breath shed been holding. The transfer came through. Fifty thousand dollars. Then, she slid the Non-Disclosure Agreement across the table. I signed it without hesitation.

But Bridget didn't know.

She didn't know that once these files were uploaded to the websites reader interface, the formatting would shift. The line breaks would realign.

And in the middle of the most emotional climax, if you read the first letter of every line vertically, a hidden message would appear.

D-A-K-O-T-A I-S A F-R-A-U-D.

Dakota is a fraud.

With the manuscript in hand, Dakota seemed to come back to life overnight. She was back on social media, clapping back at haters with newfound arrogance