If Jessica ever found this room, I’d probably die on the spot, which would at least solve the problem of having to explain myself.
I unlock the door and step into a different world.
Where the rest of the condo is cold surfaces and carefully curated emptiness, this room is warm chaos. My leather chair has molded itself to my shape over countless late-nightwriting sessions. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are crammed with romance novels—hundreds of them, organized by subgenre and author and level of emotional devastation.
My desk is covered in coffee rings because I never remember coasters when I’m deep in a scene. Stacks of manuscript pages are covered in my handwriting because sometimes the words flow better by hand.
And on the wall directly across from my desk, in a simple black frame, hangs the review that broke me.
J.A. Reads Romance left a two star review six months ago.
I’ve read it approximately five hundred times. Maybe more. I’ve memorized every word. Every devastating, accurate observation.
Most people put motivational quotes on their walls. I put my worst review.
This is probably why I’m single.
She was right, though, I’m assuming she’s female, that’s the impression I’ve gotten. But her accurate assertion is the part that gutted me. Not that someone finally noticed my books had gone hollow—plenty of reviewers had. But thatshenoticed. The anonymous voice who’d been championing my work since book one. Who wrote reviews that understood what I was trying to say even when I didn’t fully understand it myself.
I’m a romance author who broke a reader’s heart, and not in the satisfying “ugly-crying at the black moment” way. In the “you used to be good and now you’re not” way.
But everything is fine, right?
I sit down at my desk, narrowly avoiding the coffee cup I left there three days ago with the questionable contents and open my laptop. I keep J.A. Reads Romance’s complete review history bookmarked because I’m not obsessive, I’mthorough.
There’s a difference. Probably.
I’ve read all her reviews. The glowing five-star raves for books that moved her. The thoughtful three-star assessments that acknowledged flaws while finding the heart. The rare two-star devastations reserved for books that felt dishonest or manipulative.
Books like my last three releases.
It’s been a delightful six months, really. Nothing builds confidence like watching your favorite reviewer systematically dismantle your life’s work with genuine disappointment.
My phone buzzes with an email notification.
I almost ignore it but I’m busy wallowing. Then I see the sender.
Harold Brix.
My stomach executes a complicated gymnastics routine involving at least three flips and a dismount into pure dread.
Harold is one of Reed Development’s primary investors. He and Patricia Morgan sit on our advisory board, which is a polite way of saying they own enough of the company to make my life miserable whenever they feel like it, which is often, because Harold’s only joy in life appears to be disapproval.
I open the email.
Scott,
I know we’ve discussed this at length, but it seems you need another reminder.
Patricia and I have reviewed the Q3 performance metrics. Several properties are still significantly underperforming. The boardwalk location (currently leased to the bookstore) is flagged as 47% below market rate for comparable retail space.
We need a resolution within 90 days. Either bring the property to market rate or sell to a tenant who will.
Let’s schedule a call this week.
-HB
I read it again, hoping the words might rearrange themselves into something less catastrophic, but they’re still the same the second time. Imagine that.
