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More than only smut, though, yes, plenty of that, unapologetically. But also stories with teeth and softness. Stories about girls who cursed bad lovers and accidentally summoned better ones. Stories about women who weren’t broken, just unfinished.
Sometimes, in interviews, someone would ask what inspired her.
“When I start writing those books,” she’d say, lips curved in a secret smile, “a few women I know ended up meeting their partners in, glitchy ways.”
And if they pressed, because they always did, she’d lean in and whisper:
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. But maybe that’s the fun of it.”
Blair got her happy ending.
Not perfect.
Not polished, but real.
And it turned out she’d been writing it all along.
