Amy didn't write.
She watched.
Rowan's pen moved the second Sarah finished explaining the prompt.
No hesitation.
No tapping the page.
No staring at the ceiling for inspiration.
Just movement.
Like he'd already known what he was going to say.
Like he'd been waiting for permission.
Sarah leaned against the edge of the desk at the front of the circle. "Remember — this isn't about drama. It's about voice. Who holds the power in the secret? Who understands it best?"
Amy's stomach tightened.
Across from her, Rowan didn't look up once.
His handwriting was sharp. Controlled. No crossing out words that no longer fit in.
That bothered her more than anything.
When time was called, chairs scraped softly against the floor. A few people volunteered. A short poem about a hidden diary. A story about a surprise birthday party.
Then Rowan raised his hand.
Amy's pulse stumbled.
Sarah smiled. "Go on."
He stood slowly. Paper steady. Expression neutral.
"It's short," he said. "It's from the perspective of someone who knows the truth but can't prove it."
Amy's fingers curled into her sleeve.
He began.
"I told her once.
It starts with help.
It always does.
'Let me fix that.'
'Let me improve it.'
'Let me make it stronger.'"
Amy's throat felt dry.
"You won't notice the shift at first.
You'll think you're lucky.
You'll think someone finally sees what you could be."
Rowan's voice didn't shake.
But it wasn't steady either.
It was careful.
"Then one day you'll read something and not recognise the voice.
And they'll say it's still yours.
And you'll nod.
Because it's easier than admitting you've disappeared."
Silence followed.
The room felt smaller.
Sarah spoke gently. "That's powerful. Is it fictional?"
Rowan gave the smallest shrug. "Everything is."
Amy's heartbeat thudded in her ears.
Because it wasn't just about editing.
It was about control.
After the session ended, people filtered out in small groups. Chloe lingered near the doorway, watching Amy carefully but not interrupting.
Amy approached him.
"You've written that before," she said quietly.
Rowan didn't look surprised.
"Maybe."
"It didn't sound new."
His eyes flicked to hers.
"Some things aren't."
A beat.
"What was the first thing she changed?" Amy asked.
The question landed harder than she expected.
His jaw tightened.
"Why?"
"Because someone told me to ask."
There.
She'd said it.
Rowan went still.
"Who?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes," he said immediately.
Not defensive.
But urgent.
Amy studied him.
There was something different now.
Not smugness. Not calculation.
Tension.
"She changed the title," he said finally.
Amy blinked. "What?"
"The first time." His voice lowered slightly. "She said it was stronger. More marketable."
Marketable.
"She said mine was too quiet."
The word hung between them.
"What was the original?" Amy asked.
Rowan hesitated.
Then—
"Echo."
Amy's breath stalled.
The file was sent to her earlier.
Echo_Draft.docx.
Her stomach twisted.
"And the new one?" she pressed.
Rowan's gaze shifted past her shoulder, toward the window.
"Louder."
That wasn't an answer.
"Rowan."
He met her eyes again.
"It wasn't about the title," he said softly. "That's the point."
Before she could respond, Sarah approached with a bright, unaware smile.
"Rowan, can I have a quick word about the showcase next week?"
He nodded once.
Conversation closed.
As Amy stepped back, her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She didn't want to look.
But she did.
Unknown account.
One new notification.
You're asking the wrong question.
Her pulse pounded.
A second message appeared before she could breathe.
Check the properties. Not the name.
Properties.
Her mind snapped to Jamie's laptop. Metadata. Hidden layers. Revision history.
Across the room, Rowan glanced up.
Their eyes met.
And this time —
He looked afraid.
Not guilty.
Afraid.
Like someone watching a fuse burn too quickly.
Amy's phone buzzed again.
3:17 wasn't the start.
Her stomach dropped.
Because 3:17 had been the first timestamp she'd found.
The first visible breach.
If that wasn't the start—
Then someone had been inside her work before the logs began.
Before September.
Before writing club.
Before Rowan.
Her screen dimmed.
In the reflection, she caught a faint detail she hadn't noticed before.
The notification banner wasn't perfectly aligned.
It flickered slightly at the left edge.
As if it had been pushed through a scheduling app.
Or sent from a desktop client, not a phone.
Not spontaneous.
Timed.
Deliberate.
She looked up again.
Rowan was still with Sarah, but he wasn't listening.
His gaze kept drifting.
Not to her.
To the wall behind her.
Where the club noticeboard hung.
Pinned with sign-up sheets.
Meeting times.
And a printed list of member emails.
Her name was third from the top.
Below it—
Another set of initials.
R.W.
But not Rowan's handwriting.
Different pens.
Different ink.
Older.
Amy felt something shift inside her.
The mystery wasn't narrowing.
It was widening.
And if Rowan was afraid—
It might not be because she'd figured him out.
It might be because she was getting close to someone else.