She took the first book from a shy, nervous-looking boy and gently asked his name.
Despite her playful tone to the audience, Miranda’s email about the overdue pages nagged at the back of her mind. She still hadn’t answered.
Her publisher had surely picked up the online frenzy around her yesterday—if they hadn’t, Leah would have called their attention to it with the subtlety of a boat horn—but that would only buy her so much time.
That was the catch, wasn’t it? Writing wasn’t just fun and creative anymore. There were expectations. Deadlines. Budgets and sales projections. Pressure settled over her, sudden and heavy, making her want to fold in on herself.
She pushed the feeling aside, rolled her shoulders back, and signed the next book, then the next, slipping into the rhythm of it. Names. Doodles. Brief conversations about plot twists and unwritten backstory. Every so often, someone asked about Lucen, and the memory of Darren’s eyes on hers flashed through her, sharp as a pulse.
She was in the middle of jotting a few stars by someone’s name when it happened: the atmosphere shifting. First a hush, then a flutter, like the collective intake of a hundred breaths.
Emma looked up.
The ripple traveled through the line before she even saw him. Phones lifted. A squeal burst from somewhere in the back. Then Darren came into view, trailed by two stone-faced men who were unmistakably security, striding toward her table like the entire hall belonged to him.
And he’d changed clothes.
Instead of the shirt he’d worn earlier, he was sporting a dark gray T-shirt that readFROM THE DEPTHSin large letters, the red octopus sprawling across the fabric in a snarl of tentacles.
Emma could only stare, unable to move.
The crowd lost it. Someone shouted, “NO YOU DID NOT,” and the rest dissolved into chaos.
Darren stopped beside the table, utterly unfazed. “Thought I’d come say hi. Just finished aDarkreachphoto op. Been smoldering for forty-five minutes straight. It is quite exhausting, actually. Nice line.”
Emma narrowed her eyes, instinctively leaning back from the octopus crawling across his chest. “Really?” she blurted.
He looked down at his shirt as if noticing it for the first time. “Oh, this? Total coincidence. Just showing support for a debut movie in an underestimated genre.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Nothing to do with a certain someone nearly fainting at the sight of robotic tentacles this morning. Although careful, gradual proximity is actually how phobias are treated, I believe.”
She gave a discreet nod toward the line. The curly-haired girl closest to the table was visibly trembling, eyes darting between them as if she’d stumbled into a fanfic.
“As you may have noticed from their reactions,” she said under her breath, “they are aware of my octopus phobia. I posted about it once, just to see if there were any other people out there with the good sense to abhor them.”
More screams from the line. Someone shouted, “Lucen energy!”
“Ah.” Darren’s nose crinkled in the most unfairly cute way. “Did not know that.”
Emma let out a slow exhale. “Well, it’s a good thing you brought security for this stunt. You do realize this will invoke the wrath of Leah when it hits the feeds? Which is probably happening as we speak.”
“Worth it.” He grinned, utterly unrepentant.
The answer rolled off him so easily—too easily. Part of her thrilled at how unapologetic he was, showing up here like he didn’t care who saw him with her.
But a smaller, quieter part of her couldn’t help wondering why. For all his talk about not wanting to be ruled by the fans’ expectations, he was certainly feeding the spectacle.
As much as she hated it, she couldn’t quite tell if this was Darren Cole, the star, performing for the crowd—or the man who’d brought her hazelnut coffee that morning, showing up just to say hi.
The two security guards kept a few steps behind him, impassive and broad-shouldered, a silent reminder that he lived in a world very different from hers.
He didn’t stay long. Just long enough to sign a few books with her, charm the volunteers, and leave a trail of speculative whispers in his wake.
As he walked away, flanked by his security, he shot one last glance over his shoulder—dark and deliberate, enough to send a spark running through her. And yet...she couldn’t shake the doubt. Was that look meant for her, or was it part of the performance? Judging by the squeals from the front of the line, she clearly wasn’t the only one who caught it.
The line surged forward again, the room snapping back into focus. Emma leaned over the next book, pen poised.
