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Monday morning, Elly showed up at Niall's apartment with coffee and pastries, playing the role of grateful collaborator.

She needed him to believe nothing had changed. That she hadn't discovered his emails. That she still saw him as her ally.

"You're in a good mood," Niall observed, taking the coffee she offered.

"I feel like we're finally getting somewhere. This exposé is going to change everything." She smiled, and it felt like putting on a mask. "I've been thinking about the structure. What if we frame it chronologically? Start with how Dave and I met, then show how each text message got twisted into fiction."

"That could work. It makes the theft more obvious when readers can see the transformation happen step by step." Niall pulled up their working document. "We should probably add more about the emotional impact too. Make people understand what it's like to see your private pain turned into entertainment."

Elly nodded along, taking notes, acting like they were true partners.

All the while, she was studying him. Looking for cracks in his facade.

What did he really want from this? Redemption was the obvious answer, but the emails suggested something darker. There was a coldness in how he'd discussed manipulating her story. A clinical precision that spoke of someone who saw people as narrative elements rather than human beings.

Over the next two weeks, Elly played her part perfectly.

She worked with Niall on the exposé, refining arguments and gathering evidence. But every night, alone in her apartment, she worked on her real project. A tell-all that would expose both men.

She started with Dave's theft, just as they'd planned. But then she added a second section, detailing Niall's role. She included screenshots of the emails she'd found, showing how he'd suggested making her character more villainous. How he'd coached Dave on marketing the book as authentic fiction.

The hardest part was maintaining the performance.

When Niall put his hand on her shoulder or smiled at her like they were truly in this together, she had to suppress her rage. When he talked about his guilt and his desire to make things right, she had to nod sympathetically instead of calling him a liar.

"I think we're ready for the leak," Niall said one evening.

They were sitting on his couch, the completed first draft of the exposé open on his laptop.

"I'll send the anonymous tip to Spine tomorrow. Something simple, just questioning whether Dave's novel is truly fiction."

"What will you say?"

"Something like: 'Industry insiders are whispering that Dave Maxell's bestselling novel might be less fictional than readers think. Sources close to the author suggest the character of Isabelle was based on a real ex-girlfriend, with text messages lifted verbatim. If true, this raises serious questions about literary ethics and authorship.'" Niall looked at her. "That should be enough to start the fire."

"And then we wait for Dave to respond."

"Exactly. He'll either stay silent, which makes him look guilty, or he'll defend himself, which opens the door for us to release more evidence." Niall closed the laptop. "This is really happening."

Elly measured the weight of the moment. Once that tip went out, there was no stopping the chain of events.

"Are you nervous?"

"Terrified, actually." He laughed, but it sounded hollow. "My entire career is about to implode. But it's the right thing to do."

Is it? Elly wanted to ask. Or are you just trying to control the story again?

But she kept her expression neutral and said, "You're brave for doing this."

"I'm not sure brave is the right word. Guilty, maybe. Or just tired of living with this secret." He turned to face her. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"When this is all over, when Dave is exposed and the book is pulled from shelves, what will you do? Will you go back to your own writing?"

"That's the plan. I have a novel I want to finish, one that's actually mine." She paused. "What about you?"

"I'll probably have to leave publishing. No one will hire an editor who exposed his own client." Niall smiled sadly. "Maybe I'll move back to Dublin. Start over somewhere people don't know my name."

Elly measured a flicker of something that might have been sympathy.

Then she remembered the emails. The calculated cruelty of his suggestions.

The feeling disappeared.

"We should celebrate," she said instead. "We've been working on this for months. We deserve one night where we're not thinking about Dave or the exposé or any of it."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Dinner. Somewhere nice. My treat." She stood and held out her hand. "Come on. Let's pretend we're just two people who like each other, not co-conspirators planning literary arson."

Niall took her hand and stood. "That sounds perfect."

They went to an Italian restaurant in the West Village. Dim lighting and candles on every table. They drank wine and talked about everything except the plan.

Niall told her about his favorite books from childhood. Elly told him about the year she spent in Paris after college, trying to write the great American novel in a city that had inspired countless other writers.

For a few hours, she almost forgot she was acting.

Niall was good company when he wasn't scheming. Intelligent and funny and surprisingly self-aware.

Under different circumstances, in a different life, maybe they could have been friends.

But this wasn't a different life.

This was the life where he'd helped destroy her, and now she was going to return the favor.

When he walked her home that night, he kissed her at her door.

A soft kiss, tentative, full of questions. Elly kissed him back because the role required it. Because she needed him to believe they were building something real.

"I'm glad you found me," Niall said when they finally pulled apart. "I know the circumstances are strange, but I think we make a good team."

"We do," Elly agreed, hating herself a little bit more.

She watched him walk away, then went inside and locked the door.

She leaned against it, eyes closed, feeling the full weight of what she was doing.

This wasn't just revenge anymore.

It was betrayal layered on betrayal. Manipulation wrapped in manipulation.

But she'd come too far to stop now.

Her phone buzzed. Text from the Atlantic journalist.

Got your emails. This is bigger than I thought. When can we meet?

Elly typed back.

Tomorrow. And I'm ready to go on record.