After signing the contract and sending the payment, the silence came.
For the first few weeks after I got the confirmation that the payment was confirmed, there was nothing—no updates, no confirmation, no communication. I emailed them multiple times, trying to be patient, trying not to panic, assuming they were just busy with onboarding or internal processes. But weeks passed, and all I got was silence. No answer. No timeline. No work started. It was as if, the moment the money left my account, I had become invisible.
Then, finally, they got back to me—but instead of updates, they asked me if I had published the book on platforms like Barnes & Noble or IngramSpark.
That was confusing—because they were supposed to take care of all of that. That was part of the package. That was the deal. At that moment, it was like something cracked inside me. I shared my frustration, expressed how concerning the delay and lack of clarity had been. They apologized, told me things had been slow but that they were now working on getting the book up on Amazon.
So I waited again.
A few weeks later, they finally sent me confirmation that the book was live on Amazon. They also asked me to personally upload it to another platform—another task I thought they were responsible for. Again, I went along with it. Still trying to believe this was just a hiccup, not a pattern.
They told me my author website was live. I checked it—it looked nice. Simple, but functional. The kind of site you expect when someone promises you a “professional author platform.” I appreciated that. But then I tried to search for it online.
I typed in my name.
I typed in the title of the book.
Nothing.
The site didn’t appear anywhere. Not in the first 10 pages of Google. Not even after one full year. The only way to access it was to use the direct link they had sent me in an email. No SEO, no visibility. A ghost website—just like the company itself.
Then I noticed something else: my book was live on Amazon under another profile that wasn’t even mine. A generic seller account, not tied to me or my name. And the price? Almost double what I had originally intended to charge. I reached out, confused and concerned. Their answer?
“That’s part of our marketing strategy—it helps position the book better.”
It didn’t make sense, but I let it pass. I was tired. Tired of emailing. Tired of hoping. Tired of chasing.
Weeks later, they sent me a content calendar for my “social media strategy.” A schedule of posts. Quotes. Book blurbs. But the quality was terrible—generic captions that felt like they had been copy-pasted from ChatGPT, with no tone, no brand, no substance. Nothing that would stop a scroll, let alone sell a book.
By then, we were six months in. Six months after a contract that guaranteed ROI within six months. And I had made exactly one sale—to a friend. Not through their efforts. Not through any of this “strategy.” Just someone in my circle who wanted to support me.
At that point, I gave up on the fantasy. I didn’t even argue anymore. I accepted that maybe it wasn’t entirely their fault—maybe the book market is hard, maybe even good marketing doesn’t always work right away.
So I waited.
Quietly.
I told myself: “Fine. I’ll wait until the one-year mark and get my refund like the contract says.”
I didn’t want excuses. I didn’t want drama. I just wanted what we agreed on.
In the meantime, “Rose Daniels” would call me once every two weeks. Sometimes to check in. Sometimes to talk about how she was doing. She told me she found my book interesting. She shared personal anecdotes—details about her life, her emotions, her health. At first, it felt human. Like someone genuinely cared.
But after a while, it started to feel off. Misplaced. Performative. As kind as she may have sounded, I didn’t see how any of it was helping me sell my book. And not to sound cold, but—I didn’t pay $4,000 for check-in calls and emotional bonding. I paid for marketing. For real strategy. For results.
And none of it came.
Everything was surface-level. And behind that surface?
Nothing.
EternalGhostwriting scam 