My sister invited me to her extravagant wedding solely to shame me: “You’re nothing but a failure!” she said in front of 200 guests. I stayed quiet, holding myself together — until the groom stepped away from her at the altar and dropped to his knees in front of me. She erupted into frantic screams as the entire crowd turned against her. Her career was destroyed.
My sister Vanessa’s wedding was held at a private resort on the Malibu cliffs, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It was a Vogue-covered event: “The wedding of the century” between Vanessa Cole – Hollywood’s golden screenwriter, who had just won an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay, and Ethan Hunt – one of Los Angeles’ most powerful film producers.
I, Mia, stood timidly in the corner of the waiting room, wearing the oversized, ash-gray bridesmaid dress Vanessa had personally chosen. “This color suits your pale complexion, Mia,” she’d said, a smirk playing on her lips as she handed me the dress. “And it helps you blend into the background, so you don’t overshadow me.”
Vanessa was being attended to by three makeup artists. She looked like a goddess in her custom-made Vera Wang gown. She turned to look at me in the large mirror, her gaze sharp.
“Did you bring that?” Vanessa asked curtly.
I nodded, patting my handbag. “I brought it. The last set of documents.”
“Good,” Vanessa gestured with her chin. “After the wedding, I need you to sign a new non-disclosure agreement (NDA). I don’t want anyone to know you’re involved in my next project. Understood?”
I remained silent. For the past ten years, I had been her shadow. Vanessa was the face of the business, beautiful, diplomatically adept. And I was the mouse in the dark room, writing scripts, dialogues, stories that Vanessa used her name to win awards. She paid me enough to live on and pay my mother’s medical bills, but she stole my soul.
“Don’t make that gloomy face,” Vanessa snapped. “You should be grateful I invited you here. A failure like you, a college dropout, a cashier at a used bookstore… without me, do you think you’d have a chance to enter this high society?”
I clenched my fists. “You’re not a failure, Vanessa. You’re the one who wrote my career.”
“Shut up!” Vanessa threw her makeup brush down on the table. “I’m the one who sells it. I’m the brand. You’re just a tool. Today, know your place. Don’t embarrass me in front of Ethan.”
Chapter 2: The Stage of Pretense
The wedding hall was set outdoors, on a lush green lawn overlooking the sea. 200 guests, all A-list directors, actors, and discerning film critics, sat there, whispering in admiration of Vanessa’s talent and beauty.
Ethan stood on the platform, elegant in his black tuxedo. He looked towards the aisle, where Vanessa was walking to the sound of melodious music. Ethan was a decent man, a true art enthusiast. He loved Vanessa because he thought she was the author of the screenplay for *The Silent Echo* – a work that touched his heart and saved his film company from bankruptcy.
He didn’t know that *The Silent Echo* was the story of my life. About the pain of losing a child and the loneliness I experienced, something Vanessa had never known.
The ceremony went smoothly until the vows.
Vane took the microphone. She didn’t read the usual vows. She wanted to turn this wedding into a high-profile PR (public relations) performance.
“Before saying yes to Ethan,” Vanessa said, her voice choked with emotion (perfect acting), “I want to take a moment to talk about compassion.”
She turned to me, standing beside her as bridesmaid.
“Everyone knows me as a successful person. But few know I have a younger sister… who is less fortunate.”
The entire audience stared at me. My face flushed.
“Mia,” Vanessa approached me, her smile icy cold. “I invited you here today, to give you this place of honor, to prove that I will never abandon my family. Even if you dropped out of school, even if you live a miserable life, even if you’re just a failure with no achievements in life… I still love you.”
Whispers arose. Eyes filled with pity and contempt were thrown at me like daggers. “Poor Vanessa, with a freeloading younger sister.” “She looks so slovenly compared to her older sister.”
Vanessa continued, raising her voice to ensure all 200 people could hear: “Mia, look around. This is the world of hard work. I hope this glamour will teach you a lesson about stopping your pipe dreams and starting to work hard. Don’t be a burden to me anymore.”
I stood frozen. She didn’t just want me to be a background figure. She wanted to destroy my self-esteem right in front of the people I admired most, so that I would never dare to hold my head high again, forever resigned to being a ghostwriter in the shadows.
I looked up at Vanessa. I didn’t cry. My endurance had reached its limit. “Are you finished?” I asked softly.
“Not yet,” Vanessa whispered, turning off the microphone so only I could hear. “After today, you’ll sign that contract, or I’ll cut off your mother’s medical expenses.”
Chapter 3: The Shocking Kneeling
“Enough.”
A deep, sharp voice rang out.
It wasn’t me. It was Ethan.
Ethan stepped down from the platform. He didn’t look at Vanessa. He walked straight towards me.
“Ethan?” Vanessa stared blankly, her voice trembling.
I grabbed the microphone. “What are you doing? I’m…”
Ethan glided past Vanessa as if she didn’t exist. He stopped right in front of me – the trembling bridesmaid in her ash-gray dress.
And then, to the horror of 200 guests, before the cameras of dozens of reporters, Ethan Hunt – the Hollywood mogul – slowly knelt on one knee before me.
The space froze. Only the distant roar of the waves could be heard.
Vanesh screamed, “Ethan! Are you crazy? It’s my failed child! What are you doing?”
Ethan looked up at me, his eyes red, filled with profound remorse and respect. He pulled a worn, tattered leather-bound notebook from his breast pocket.
I held my breath. It was my notebook. The one I’d lost three days ago.
“Mia,” Ethan said, his voice echoing through the speaker system he was wearing. “This morning, I stumbled upon this notebook in Vanessa’s car. She said it was an old draft she’d thrown away.”
He opened the notebook.
“But it’s not just the original manuscript of The Silent Echo in your handwriting. It also contains tear-soaked diary entries from 2015 – a time when Vanessa was traveling in Europe and you were struggling in the hospital.”
Ethan turned to look at the stunned crowd.
“In this notebook, there are detailed sketches for Midnight Rain, The Glass Cage, and even the script for Solstice, which Vanessa won an Oscar for last week. Every page is dated, with marginal notes that only the true author would understand.”
Ethan looked deep into my eyes.
“I loved The Silent Echo before I loved Vanessa. I loved the soul that wrote it. I loved the woman who understood the pain and turned it into art. I thought it was Vanessa. But I was wrong.”
He took my hand, calloused from holding a pen, and placed a tender kiss on it.
“The one I love, the one I admire, the true artistic genius… is you, Mia. Not her.”
Chapter 4: The Fall of a Monument
“LIPS!” Vanessa lunged forward, screaming hysterically, trying to snatch the notebook. “Give it back! It’s mine! This brat stole my ideas! She’s a failure! How could she possibly write those things!”
But Ethan stood up, shielding me. He looked at Vanessa with disgust.
“You say Mia is a failure?” Ethan asked coldly. “Then why did I find hundreds of threatening messages on your phone pressuring Mia to submit the script on time? Why did your bank account transfer money to Mia monthly with the description ‘silence fee’?”
Ethan gestured to his assistant. The large screen behind the stage – which had been used to display wedding photos – suddenly went dark, revealing evidence: email exchanges, drafts signed by me, and a recording of Vanessa berating me for writing an ending that didn’t meet her expectations.
“Turn it off! TURN IT OFF NOW!” Vanessa screamed, tearing her wedding dress and lunging at the screen like a wounded animal.
But no one helped her. 200 guests – the most powerful people in Hollywood – rose to their feet. They no longer looked at Vanessa with admiration. They looked at her as if she were a parasite.
A renowned film critic stepped out of his seat, taking off his glasses: “So that Oscar was a sham. Your career is a fraud.”
“You’re not a screenwriter,” another director shouted. “You’re just a thief.”
Vanessa looked around. Eyes turned away. Headshakes of contempt. She realized her kingdom was crumbling beneath her feet.
She turned to me, her eyes shifting from fierce to patheticly pleading: “Mia… Mia, tell them! Tell them you taught me to write! Tell them we worked together! Mia, you’re my sister! Don’t let them ruin you!”
I looked at the sister who had called me a “failure” just five minutes ago. I looked at the man standing guard over me.
I took the microphone from Ethan’s hand.
“Vanessa,” I said, my voice strangely calm. “You’re right about one thing. I don’t belong in this glamorous world.”
I took out the document she’d made me carry from my bag – the script for the next blockbuster.
“This is the last script I’m making you write. You haven’t signed the NDA.”
I tore the script in half. Then she tore it again and again until it was just a pile of white paper scraps fluttering in the Malibu sea breeze.
“From now on, you’ll have to write your own life. And I guess… it will be a tragedy.”
Chapter 5: The Finale
Vanessa completely collapsed, sitting down on the grass, sobbing uncontrollably in her tattered wedding dress. Security was called to remove her for disturbing the peace.
The wedding was canceled. But a new legend was born.
Right there, amidst the chaos of the wedding, film producers surrounded me. They handed me business cards, they offered contracts. They wanted to work with “J.M. Cole”—my real pen name in the original scripts.
Ethan stood beside me, not as the groom, but as a companion.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I almost married an empty shell.”
“Thank you,” I smiled, feeling truly alive in the sunlight for the first time. “Thank you for reading that notebook.”
Three months later.
Vanessa was stripped of her Oscar.
She was sued by studios for breach of contract and fraud. She had to sell her Malibu house to pay off debts and moved into a small, dilapidated apartment, ostracized by Hollywood.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting in my private office at Ethan’s studio, writing the script for his new film, *The Ghost Writer*.
I’m no longer a failure. I’m the author of my own life. And this time, my name will be prominently displayed on the screen, big and clear, no one can obscure it anymore.
