Her writing is… sharp. Funny. Emotional. She has this way of peeling back every feeling—humor wrapped around heartbreak, like she’s both bleeding and winking at the same time.
Raw. Brave. Brilliant.
I scroll further, skimming a few lines of earlier posts. Blog titles like:
“I Highlighted So Many Lines, My Kindle Started Judging MeandI Read 12 Billionaire Romances in a Week—Here’s What I Learned”
make me snortout loud.
But it’s the comment section that really hits me.
Dozens of them. No,hundreds.
Little hearts and usernames I don’t know, pouring in their thoughts:
“Crying in my car right now. You GET it.”
“This is why I come back to this blog. Every single post is a hug.”
“I added every book you mentioned to my TBR. My weekend is ruined. Or saved.”
“If you don’t write a book, I will riot.”
I blink, stunned.
She’s not just blogging. She’sbuilding something.A real audience. People whocare.
Whosee her.
I glance at the follower count.
Overa hundred thousand.
Holy shit.
She’s been doing this right under my nose—pouring her heart out, crafting something incredible—and I never knew.
A knot forms in my chest.
She’s got something real here. Not just a blog—but a voice, a community, maybe even a career if she wants it.
And all this time, I thought I was the one with the spotlight.
Turns out, she’s had her own the whole damn time.
And now?
Now I want the world to see it too.
I wantherto see it.
Because Olive Hart is a hell of a lot more than my fakefiancée.
She’s a fucking star.
***
I’m still on my phone, reading—still in awe—when the door creaks open.
