Scarlet hit the living room like a storm.
Her eyes locked onto the box sitting near the couch.
Her heart slammed into her ribs.
"No no no no…"
She dropped to her knees and began snatching up crumpled paper from the floor, stuffing them into the trash with frantic hands.
Then she paused.
Stared at the trash.
And immediately started pulling them back out.
"Idiot," she mumbled to herself.
Those weren't just trash.
Those were drafts.
Chapters.
Scenes she'd rewritten a hundred times, only to hate them again five minutes later.
She shoved them into a box instead, pushing the lid down like she could bury her stress along with them.
From the breakfast nook, Thomas sat comfortably with his coffee, watching her like he was enjoying a morning show.
Scarlet dragged the heavy box across the floor, struggling as it scraped loudly.
She shot him a glare. "Aren't you going to help me?"
Thomas didn't even look guilty.
He sipped his coffee like he had all the time in the world. "Nope."
Scarlet narrowed her dark brown eyes.
Her ash-brown hair was a mess, her oversized sleep shirt hung off one shoulder, and she looked like she'd fought an entire army in her dreams and still lost.
She was tall, fit, and strong enough to break someone's ego with one look.
But right now, she looked like exhaustion wrapped in anger.
She scoffed. "Asshole."
Thomas's eyes stayed on his phone. "You'll survive."
Scarlet grunted and hauled the box into her bedroom herself.
The living room looked clean now.
But her room…
Her room still looked like a crime scene.
She stepped back inside, scanning the floor.
Paper everywhere.
Ink stains.
Half-empty notebooks.
A laptop on the bed.
And a dozen rejected beginnings of a story that refused to behave.
Scarlet bent down and began picking up the drafts again, shoving them into another box.
Her movements were quick, messy, desperate.
Her shin caught the edge of the box.
"Aw, fuck!"
She stumbled and fell, smacking her leg hard.
She hissed and rubbed the sore spot, then slapped the lid like it was personally responsible for her suffering.
The lid popped open.
Books stared up at her.
Scarlet blinked.
Then her eyes landed on one in particular.
White cover.
Red details.
Bold title.
Dirty Sheets.
She picked it up carefully, like it was fragile, like it was something she'd once bled for.
Her fingers brushed over the cover, and a small smile tugged at her lips despite everything.
Her third book.
Released months ago.
It hadn't sold like her first, but she still loved it like a child nobody else understood.
Scarlet Smith.
Twenty-eight.
Single.
And somehow still managing to write romance novels that made strangers scream into their pillows.
She stared at the book for a moment.
Then sighed.
"Maybe Emily's right…"
Her voice came out quieter.
Dry spells didn't just ruin your love life.
They ruined your imagination too.
Her fans probably thought she lived inside some fantasy world where men were devoted, kisses were addictive, and love was always dramatic enough to feel like a movie.
If only they knew.
Her love life was a wasteland.
She'd dated, sure.
Plenty of times.
But love?
Real love?
That shit had never happened to her.
Yet she still wrote about it like she owned it.
Because she wanted to believe in it.
And because writing it felt safer than living it.
Scarlet's gaze drifted to the papers around her feet.
More drafts.
More frustration.
More failure.
Her jaw tightened.
She could still hear her father's voice from years ago, sharp and dismissive.
A writer isn't a real job.
It's unstable.
You're wasting your life.
That day had been a war.
And Scarlet had lost.
At least on the surface.
Because she still wrote.
She just did it in secret.
A double life.
Scarlet Smith, the heiress of K&S Group.
And Victoria K.S., the faceless author whose books were selling like wildfire.
Only two people knew the truth.
Thomas.
And Emily, her best friend and agent.
The rest of the world only knew the name.
They didn't know the face.
No interviews.
No photos.
No public appearances.
Just words on pages, written by a ghost.
Scarlet's throat tightened as she shoved the book back into the box.
If her father ever found out…
She didn't even want to imagine it.
A chill crawled down her spine.
Then Thomas's voice rang out from the living room. "Dad's here!"
Scarlet jerked upright like she'd been electrocuted.
Her hands flew to the box.
She slammed it shut, shoved it under her desk, then wiped her palms on her shirt like she could erase evidence with sweat.
She stepped out of her room, trying to look normal.
Trying to look like a daughter.
The second she entered the living room, Adler Smith's eyes landed on her like she was a disappointment he'd been saving up all morning.
His suit was immaculate.
His expression wasn't.
"Go shower and change," he said immediately. "You're coming with me to the company today."
Scarlet's lips parted.
"But—"
"I don't want to hear any excuses," Adler Smith snapped. "You're almost thirty. I can no longer tolerate your slacking."
Scarlet stiffened.
Her nails dug into her palm.
"But I—"
Her gaze flicked to Thomas.
He gave her a small shake of his head.
A silent warning.
Don't start.
Scarlet swallowed her anger, forced her shoulders down, and nodded like the obedient daughter her father wanted.
"Yes, Dad."
The words tasted bitter.
She turned around and dragged herself back to her bedroom like she was walking toward execution.
*
K&S Group
Scarlet stepped out of the car looking like she belonged on a runway instead of a corporate building.
Black long-sleeved dress.
Too short for an office.
Too tight for comfort.
And exactly the kind of outfit that made people forget how to breathe.
She walked beside Thomas, heels clicking on the polished floor, while their father moved ahead like a king entering his palace.
Employees froze as they noticed them.
Then they bowed quickly.
"Good morning, President Adler."
"Good morning, Sir."
"Good morning, Miss Smith."
Scarlet's smile was polite, automatic.
A mask she'd perfected since childhood.
But she felt the eyes.
Male employees, especially.
Their gazes followed her like heat.
Some looked away quickly.
Some didn't bother.
She caught the reflections in the glass walls.
The subtle double-takes.
The quiet whispers.
She didn't visit often, and when she did, she left an impression.
Her hair used to be long.
Now it was shoulder-length balayage, soft waves brushing her collarbone.
And every time she tucked it behind her ear, exposing her neck, she could practically feel the attention sharpen.
She lifted her cappuccino, her favorite, and took a sip to calm herself.
Coffee first.
Emotional breakdown later.
Thomas leaned slightly closer as they walked.
"You're doing that thing," he murmured.
Scarlet shot him a look. "What thing?"
He nodded at her hand. "Tucking your hair behind your ear every ten seconds."
Scarlet's lips tightened. "Shut up."
Thomas smirked, but didn't push.
They headed toward the private elevator, passing the receptionist's desk.
Scarlet's gaze flickered casually, then stopped.
Her heart jumped.
The receptionist was holding a book.
A familiar cover.
Lust and Lies.
Her second book.
Scarlet's fingers tightened around her coffee cup.
A strange warmth spread through her chest, quiet but real.
She forced her face to remain calm, but her lips betrayed her, curving into a small smile.
The receptionist didn't even notice.
She was too busy reading, eyes glued to the page like she'd been hypnotized.
Scarlet walked past slowly, pretending she didn't care.
But inside, something brightened.
Something alive.
Because no matter how exhausting her nights were, no matter how much pressure her father dumped on her shoulders…
Someone was reading her work.
Someone was lost in her words.
And for a writer, that was its own kind of victory.
Scarlet took another sip of her cappuccino, her steps lighter now as the elevator doors opened.
Maybe today wouldn't completely suck.
Maybe.
Just maybe…
It wouldn't be hell.