With trembling hands, Anya reached into her bag and pulled out the document Daniel had given her the night before, her eyes scanning the words on the page with a frown.

As she read through the clause about the copyrights of her work being transferred to the writer of Autumn’s Snow, her eyes narrowed dangerously.

If she had been played this long, it would be too shameful.

She hoped Daniel was wrong, but she doubted it.

Her husband was rarely wrong, unless he had ...