The Montgomery Bookstore atrium in New York was thick with perfume, damp wool, and vanilla-scented paper. At the center, I sat behind a mahogany table, my hand cramping as the fountain pen grew heavier with every signature.
"To Sarah," I murmured, my voice a practiced melody of grace. "May you always find the strength to write your own ending."
I flourished a signature that had become a brand, a sweeping G. L. Sterling that appeared on the back of millions of jackets worldwide. I handed the book back to the weeping teenager, offering a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes.
"Thank you, Georgia," the girl sobbed. "Your words saved me."
My heart gave a familiar, painful tug. It was the same sentence I heard fifty times a day. "Your words saved me." I wanted to tell her that words were just ink, they couldn't save anyone from the cold reality of a life lived in silence.
Instead, I just nodded.
"Keep reading, Sarah. That's where the power is."
As the girl moved away, I glanced at the line of people snaking through the aisles, disappearing into the history section. Hundreds left. My publicist, Clarice, a sharp-featured woman who moved with the efficiency of a shark, leaned in and tapped her watch.
"Ten-minute break, G," she whispered. "The store manager has some sparkling water and those little cucumber sandwiches you like in the back office."
"I just need air, Clarice," I replied, my voice cracking.
"You need to finish this line. The Times is here for a candid shot. Look successful. Look inspired."
I stood up, my joints popping. I was dressed in a charcoal-colored silk suit, the uniform of a Renowned Academic and Bestselling Author. To the world, I was the pinnacle of female achievement, thirty-two, beautiful, wealthy, and intellectually untouchable. But as I smoothed the fabric over my hips, I felt like an imposter.
I retreated to the back room, the heavy door muffling the roar of the crowd. The silence was instantaneous and jarring. I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I didn't have to look to know who it was.
Noah: Hey babe, the internet is acting up again. Can you call the provider? I'm in the middle of a project and I can't get anything done. Also, we're out of those espresso pods. Grab some on the way back.
I stared at the screen. A project.
Noah's projects usually involved high-resolution graphics and a headset, rarely resulting in a paycheck. I had spent five years funding his tech-startup dreams, which had slowly devolved into him sitting in our sprawling penthouse, complaining about the lag on his server while I worked all day to maintain the lifestyle he had grown accustomed to.
I began to type a reply:
I'm at a signing, Noah. Can't you…
I deleted it. A fight would only trigger his favorite lie, that he'd supported me when I was a starving student. In reality, he was just a warm body in the room while I fought my own demons.
I tucked the phone away and sipped lukewarm water. Exhaustion pulled my mind back to the university the smell of old stone, the laughter, until the memory soured into Anthony's face, watching me with a terrifying, dark possession.
I shook my head, forcing the image away. I couldn't afford to spiral. Not here.
"Georgia? We're ready," Clarice called through the door.
I took a deep breath, adjusted my glasses, and stepped back out into the light.
Two hours of faces and platitudes blurred by. Aspiring writers watched me with a stomach-turning envy, craving my fame and perfect fiancé. They didn't know that the man waiting at home was just another luxury I paid for, currently raiding my fridge in a robe l bought him.
Toward the end of the line, a woman approached who made the hair on my arms stand up. She was older, dressed in a faded but neat coat, and her eyes held a piercing, knowing quality.
"You write very well about trauma, Miss Sterling," the woman said, sliding a first edition across the table. "One might almost think you were writing from a diary rather than a vacuum."
My hand paused over the title page. "Fiction requires a great deal of empathy, ma'am."
"It also requires a great deal of hiding," the woman whispered, leaning closer. "Be careful, dear. When you build a house out of secrets, the foundation tends to rot before the roof is even on."
I looked up, startled, but the woman simply smiled, took her signed book, and disappeared into the crowd.
"Creepy," Clarice muttered, appearing at my elbow. "Anyway, that's the last of them. The car is waiting out back. We have the dinner with the publishers at eight."
"Cancel it," I said.
Clarice blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Cancel the dinner. Tell them I'm ill. Tell them I've lost my voice. I don't care what you tell them, Clarice, but I am going home."
"Georgia, the CEO of Harper-Collins is…"
"The CEO will understand that his golden goose is exhausted." The first flash of real emotion broke through my polished exterior. "I need to go home."
My phone buzzed again. I pulled it out, expecting another demand from Noah.
But the message was from an unknown number.
Unknown: I know what happened with Anthony. And I know what you did after. We need to talk.
My blood turned to ice.