At 55, my life was in shambles. The marriage? Over. The kids? Distant. The only thing keeping me grounded was the novel I’d poured my entire soul into.
Then my wild, no-nonsense best friend Lana showed up.
“That’s it,” she said. “We’re going to the islands. You need sun, rum, and something—or someone—to distract you.”
I laughed. And agreed.
Enter Eric: charming, smart, devastatingly attractive—and 15 years younger. I knew it was reckless, but for the first time in years, I felt wanted. Alive. We shared an unforgettable night under the stars, and I thought maybe—just maybe—this was the fresh start I’d been waiting for.
But the next morning?
No Eric.
And worse—no novel. My laptop had been wiped clean.
Panic set in. I raced to tell Lana—only to stop cold when I heard his voice coming from her room.
Eric: “We just need the right publisher. It’s a bestseller.”
Lana: “She won’t know what hit her.”
I stood frozen, heart pounding. They were in this together. My best friend and the man I thought could be something real… plotting to steal my work.
Lana laughed, casually cruel. “She thinks this is some fairy-tale romance. She probably thinks he’s The One.”
Eric: “She’s talented—but careless. Leaving her laptop open? She basically gift-wrapped it.”
I felt sick. Every word I’d written, every sleepless night and tear-streaked paragraph—they were mine. And they were about to take everything.
But not if I could help it.
I stormed back to my room and called the front desk. “Send security to Room 312. Now.”
The guard showed up minutes later. Lana answered in her robe, all innocent smiles.
“Stolen? Oh my gosh, no. Must be a misunderstanding.”
Eric stood behind her, cool as ever. I stepped into the hall. “Where’s my novel, Eric?”
He feigned confusion. “Novel?”
I demanded they check their devices. Eric handed over his phone with a smirk. Of course—nothing. No trace.
Lana folded her arms, smug. “See? False accusation. Maybe apologize?”
I wanted to scream. I knew they did it—but had no proof.
As they closed the door, Eric leaned in. “Better luck next time, sweetheart.”
That night, I paced the floor, replaying every detail. Then it hit me: they didn’t email the file. No digital trail. It had to be a flash drive.
At 3 a.m., I crept down the hall, using the keycard I’d swiped from Lana’s beach bag. I slipped into their dark room, heart racing.
Eric’s bag sat on a chair. I searched—clothes… wallet… there. A flash drive.
I had it.
The floor creaked. Eric stirred. I froze, breath caught.
Then silence. He didn’t wake. I slipped out and back to my room.
Plugged it in. Prayed.
There it was. My novel. Every chapter. I backed it up everywhere, then wiped the flash drive clean.
The next morning, I walked into the hotel lobby like I owned it. Lana and Eric were laughing over breakfast.
I dropped the flash drive onto their table.
“You dropped this.”
They went pale.
“I sent an email last night,” I said casually, “to every major publisher I could think of. Told them about two scammers trying to steal manuscripts. Included your names, of course.”
Eric stiffened. “You’re bluffing.”
I smiled. “Try me.”
Lana’s face twisted in rage. I held up a hand. “You lost.”
And I walked away.
Because here’s the thing:
If you pour your soul into something, protect it like your life depends on it.
And never underestimate a woman with nothing left to lose.