He asked me to 'reclaim his narrative.' I'm doing him one better. I'm publishing it. Every pathetic draft, every secret fantasy, every tear-stained confession he sent me in the dark. Tyrone wanted his story told? Fine. I'm the author now. Tonight, I'm hosting a little release party. The guest list is curated. The theme is 'The Anatomy of a Breakdown.' The main event? A live reading of his most intimate writings, set to the soundtrack of me being thoroughly, vocally pleased by a man who isn't him. Every moan, every gasp, every 'harder' will be punctuated by his own words. He wrote about my 'surgical precision.' Let's call this the grand rounds. We're all here to learn. And the lesson, boys and girls, is this: never hand your scalpel to the woman you tried to cut out of your life. She'll use it to dissect you for the audience. Tickets are complimentary. The humiliation is priceless. My cunt is already wet thinking about it. The first draft he ever sent me was a poem about my 'eternal soul.' Tonight, I'll show them exactly where that soul lives—wrapped around a cock that's about to become the new narrator. Enjoy your public debut, Ty. You always wanted to be a writer. Now you're the story.