It was supposed to be his success story

After that I had to pay several people more, who promised they'd never let a rumour ruin my and my theatre company's reputation, yet I was too paranoid that they were talking behind my back. I stopped going outside, every time I looked at the people around me I felt they were whispering about me, I started drinking more to stay oblivious of the darkness spreading its tendrils to trap me.

Yet, I couldn't deny his pull. I wanted him more and more. The nights he would say no, I reminded him of the play and asked him to tie me up. I couldn't see in my frenzy how distorted his face was. He kept saying, "Just finish the play."

I didn't know then, but he had been altering the plot. When I read the final print of the play, the completed version, I was shocked. It was not the story I planned. I gave the manuscript to David and watched his face brighten up. He read the whole story intently.

That was the first time I saw emotions playing on his stone face. Ral emotions, not the performance he put up in each one of his shows. There was sadness, elation, heartbreak, humour, even he blushed at times. Imagine my surprise, watching him reacting in such an amazing way to something I didn't write.

"Are you happy with it?" I asked him.

"Of course, it is perfect," he said happily. He caressed the manuscript as though it was his lover. My brain was shutting down slowly as I watched him.

"This is not what I planned." I sat on my study table, my head resting on my hands.

"Really? How so?" his innocent question felt like a taunt.

"Well, to begin with, the main character was a woman who was created by a man, a sculptor. She had a very different journey in his life. There was a happy ending, something my audience craved for."

He did not say anything in the beginning. He walked to the cabinet where I kept my liquors. Pouring some for himself, he smiled innocently. After taking a sip or two, he finally said, "A woman who was taken advantage of in worst possible ways, how do you suppose she finds a happy ending? By following your way where she becomes a nun?"

"What else did you expect?" I asked him. I had a feeling how my story had changed, now I needed a confirmation.

"What about the course of her almost inhuman life that was given by the creator? And what of the man who created her? Most importantly, what of the love they had?" he asked again, frowning at the view out of the window.

"It was not a love story to begin with. It was lust, and do you realise how wrong it is?" I stood, pushing the chair back a little too loudly.

"Which part was wrong?" he asked again, coldly.

I did not go to the ethics and morality of love and lust. Something in my mind told me, it would not affect him to the list. So, I pointed out the second reason that bothered me.

"The part where you altered the story without telling me, how could you do that?" I hissed now, being very aware that the people downstairs were probably eavesdropping. "This was supposed to be our masterpiece. How could you ruin it? I trusted you."

"You never trusted me; you wanted me as your dirty little secret. Your careful efforts to hide me did not go unnoticed by me." He finally looked at my face.

That one comment brought back every memory when I had asked him to cover his face while leaving my room, switched off every light in the staircase and balcony so that we could stay behind the darkness, all the bribes I had paid to keep my sexuality a secret, all the men I had pleasured to keep up with the reputation.

He picked the manuscript, gently kept it in a leather bag, and moved towards the door. That moment I felt my world cracking around myself.

"Are you leaving me? You bastard, after taking advantage of my kindness you are leaving me?" He did not stop, and I did not stop spewing curses and accusations after him. "I made you a star, turned you into a somebody while you had nothing. You had nothing, do you hear me? You are nothing. I made you. You are mine. Do you hear me?" when he did not even turn to face me, I threw a paperweight targeting his head.

I was just too angry, furious. Still I knew I had hit him hard. I heard his scream, saw him kneeling down holding the back of his head; I saw blood trickling down his arms. I ran to him, fell on his feet, held him tightly to beg him to stay. I begged with everything I had. I cried, I tried to stop him with my kisses, my pleads, with threats; you see, I knew I had not done justice to him. I had not done the least I could have. Not as a lover, not as an employer. I had not even paid him his salary for so many months, letting him borrow from me and live like a refugee.

But that was the end of it all.

When he looked up at me, I saw blood had covered half of his face. Grinding his teeth he told me something I was not ready to hear. "I belong to somebody else. I never belonged to you. You are not the one who made me."

I sobbed. "I am sorry, I am so sorry…" I kept on repeating. He kicked me away and stood up. Before leaving he turned to me one last time, to tell me what I needed to hear when I started working, in my youth.

"You will never be a great director. You are successful, you might earn more money in future but you will never be successful. You will never achieve the greatness you want. Do you know why? Because you do not create. You are not a real artist. Your work does not come from your heart."

That was the last time I, or anyone I knew, had seen him."

"Well, you are a pretty great director and screenplay writer of your time." The young lady tried to console the man.

"Miss, you have not done your research properly. If you had, you'd know who I was, and what they wrote about me. He was right. I was a fraud, and my work never came from my heart. I was not an artist, rather a businessman." The man stood up, clearly hinting towards the end of the interview.

"I don't care what you write about me anymore. I am dying, and I will leave nobody behind me. I had no family to begin with, thus no family name to tarnish. Let this be the last confession of a cancer patient. And one more thing, Miss—"

"Emma, please call me Emma," the woman said hurriedly while standing up with the man. A servant had arrived to support him. For the first time in the past two hours, he looked genuinely sick.

"If you want me to believe that name, I will, but Miss. Emma, do not lie the next time you plan to interview someone, especially someone like me. After fifty years of experience, we can see through the journalists and writers, and you, are not one. Have a good day."

The young woman stood still for a moment, then she dropped herself on the same chair. She opened a file containing newspaper cuttings, articles, and copies of more documents. All of them were about a distinct playwright, director of his time. He was able to bring out various emotions among his audiences, which made him successful and immensely rich.

However there are articles written by the critics, pointing out how is work was mediocre recycles of different classics. They accused him of plagiarism as well. His final straw was a play about two men who fell in love, a creator and his creation, which was not only criticized but also banned. He was arrested after that. There was no record on how he was released, but one fact was obvious in his last work.

"He tried."

Nobody heard the whisper of the young woman who probably stifled a sob before leaving the theatre.

Such is the riddle of the life. She could never have imagined the consequences of the quest she had set herself into. She did not know how to handle all these emotions playing with her conscience. She opened the manuscript of his last play, "A Love Written in Stones".

That was his last condition, she had to publish the play. Let people, the new generation who were not bound by the constraints of the society, who were free to love whoever they gave their hearts to without being judged, read the play. She would do it. She decided, she would keep this promise.