“Okay,” I manage, then glance at Penny. “Wait—can we grab a chair? I want her to sit up front with me.”
Penny blinks. “Oh no, Sam. This is your moment in the spotlight.”
“It’s not up for debate,” I start, but before I can push, Derek steps in.
“Sam,” he says, tone gentle but firm, “you really need to do this on your own. Those readers have been standing in line for hours to meet you.They want that one-on-one connection. It’s part of the experience. Plus”—he hesitates, choosing his words carefully—“we want to preserve a certain illusion. That you’re… well, single.”
My jaw tightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Derek says smoothly, “your readers like a little fantasy. It’s not about hiding who you are, it’s about selling what they connect to—the dream. And right now, that dream is that every woman out there has a shot at the mysterious, charming S. P. Rochelle.”
I start to protest, but Penny lays a hand on my arm. “Hey,” she says softly, “listen to him. He knows what he’s doing.”
“Penny—”
She squeezes my arm before I can argue further. “I’ll just stand off to the side and beam with pride. You’ll know I’m here.” Her gaze lift to mine, steady and sure. “You’ve got this.”
I exhale, frustration loosening into something gentler. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”
“Pretty much,” she teases.
The store manager clears her throat politely. “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Rochelle.”
I give Penny’s hand one last squeeze and force myself toward the door. I take stock of how I’m feeling. Sure, the nerves are still there, but I’m also noting a little excitement. I write for these people and to see how muchthey love my stuff… it’s surreal.
The threat of vomiting is gone and now… I feel ready.
I step out and head toward the table. Derek and Penny angle off to the side near a tall shelf of paperbacks, whispering to each other as staff open the front doors and guide the fans inside. I take my seat, forcing my shoulders to relax.
The line moves slowly at first, women filtering through the velvet ropes, clutching tickets to get their advanced copy ofThe Ruin of Gods. The air hums with laughter and excited chatter.
Then I spot her—the first woman in line. She’s probably mid-forties, bright pink blouse, blond curls that bounce when she walks, clutching her ticket like it’s a backstage pass to heaven. She looks at me with uncertainty, then glances around.
“Hi there,” I say, smile ready, pen in hand. “Thanks for coming out today—”
Before I can finish, she lets out a sharp, piercing shriek that echoes off the brick walls, and I jump in my seat.
“Oh my God!” she yells, eyes wide, hand flying to her chest. “S. P. Rochelle is a man?”
The room goes dead silent for half a second. Then comes the murmuring—soft at first, then rising like wind picking up through the trees.
“Wait, what?”
“No way.”
“I thought he was a woman!”
“Did you know?”
I swear I can hear the wave of realization rolling through the crowd, spreading in a ripple of gasps and louder exclamations. I had expected this. So had Derek, who mutters, “Here we go.”
Penny’s covering her mouth with both hands, her shoulders shaking in barely contained laughter.
I take a breath, force a grin, and gesture toward the woman. “Surprise!”
Her shock melts into astonishment, and then into sheer delight. “You’re joking! You’re really him? You wroteThe Shadow PrincessandThe Chronicles of the Stone Veil?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, voice calm, hands steady even though my heart’s going full speed. “Guilty as charged.”
