The music video, The Ghost of the Garden, didn't just trend; it broke the internet. Julian's performance was visceral, fueled by the "burn the dock down" rage Maya had demanded. Though Maya was never on camera, her influence was everywhere—in the haunting dialogue, the pacing, and the raw, unmasked vulnerability Julian displayed.
Fans and critics alike began dissecting every frame. The "chemistry" between Julian and the story itself was so palpable that the world became obsessed with the woman who wrote it. The media pressure was a tidal wave, and for the first time, the lace mask felt like it was made of glass rather than armor.
///
Maya sat in her darkened apartment, the glow of her phone screen illuminating a new, terrifying headline every few seconds. She had thought her "PR Masterclass" at the studio would buy her safety through status. She was wrong.
In a high-rise across town, Cynthia Vane was not finished. She had spent the last week obsessively comparing the grainy photo from the villa in Cabo with the high-resolution shots of M.K. Thorne on the music video set. The height, the jawline, the way she held her shoulders—it was all there.
Cynthia didn't just want Maya out of the picture; she wanted her destroyed.
"If she wants to be a literary icon," Cynthia whispered to her publicist, "let's see how she likes being a common tabloid scandal."
The Leak
The blow didn't come from a reputable news source. It came from a notorious "blind item" gossip account that suddenly posted a thread of high-definition photos from the Cabo resort—images Julian's security had missed.
The First Photo: Maya, unmasked and laughing, entering the penthouse suite with Julian.
The Second Photo: A close-up of Maya's face through a glass window, looking rumpled and glowing in the early morning light.
Captioned "The 'Reclusive' M.K. Thorne isn't so reclusive when it comes to Julian Cross's bed. From a one-night stand in Cabo to 'script consultant' in NYC—is this a literary masterpiece or just a well-played groupie story?"
The reaction was instantaneous and cruel. The internet, which had been praising her as a genius, turned on her with the speed of a predator. They called her a fraud. They claimed she had slept her way into the video credits. They dissected her shyness as a "calculated act" to snare a pop star.
""""
Maya's door didn't just open this time; it was nearly beaten down. She didn't even check the peephole. She knew the heavy, frantic rhythm of that knock.
When she opened the door, Julian was there. He looked exhausted, his shirt untucked, his eyes rimmed with red. Behind him, the hallway was filled with the distant shouting of paparazzi who had followed him to her private sanctuary.
"Maya, I'm so sorry," he rasped, stepping inside and slamming the door shut. "I tried to stop it. My legal team is sending out cease-and-desists, but once it's out there—"
"They know my face, Julian," Maya said. Her voice was eerily calm, the kind of calm that comes after a total collapse. She was holding a printed copy of the tabloid photos. "They don't care about my books anymore. They don't care about the mask. I'm just 'the girl from the penthouse' now."
"That's not true," Julian said, reaching for her.
She flinched away. "It is true! Cynthia won. She took the one thing I had—my choice to be invisible—and she turned it into a joke."
Julian's expression shifted from guilt to a cold, hard resolve. He looked at the mask lying on the coffee table, then back at her. "Then we stop playing her game. We stop letting them tell the story."
"What are you talking about?"
"You're a writer, Maya. You hate the ending where the main character walks into the sea, remember?" He stepped into her space, his presence filling the small room. "So don't walk into the sea. Set the dock on fire. Tell them the truth—all of it—before they can twist it any further."