Rachel smiles. It’s soft and sardonic. “Well, for one, because people need entertainment. Hating influencers is super popular right now. I’d say about sixty percent of our followers, both our personal ones and the ones onEmpress’s page, are hate-following.They love ragging on us for ‘doing nothing all day’ and assume we’re scam artists. But secondly, thisisa job. A real one. Whether or not people like it. We put a lot of effort into our posts, our captions, our stories. We have to market ourselves, market Royal Yachts. We’re salespeople, photographers, editors, actors. If you’re influencing right, you’re doing a full-time job. And we deserve to be paid for that. You’re not the only one who needs money, Charlie. All the girls hereneedto be here, for one reason or another.”
I shift on the bed so I can face Rachel. She’s right. Maybe I’m not the only one who joinedEmpressout of desperation. Sure, influencing can be fun; I have a stack of advance reader copies waiting for me on my bedside table back home, and I get free book boxes and autographed novels all the time. But it’s also work—a job I’ve struggled to do with any competency since this summer.
My eyes drift over Rachel’s shoulder, almost magnetized by an unseen force. As if thinking obliquely about it has summoned it into existence, I spot the book on Rachel’s nightstand. It’s half-hidden by the cookbooks, only noticeable from the bed. This copy is a special edition—blue sprayed edges with delicate paintings of mermaids twirling through water. The gilded cover glints in the light, the scales unmistakable.
My stomach sinks.
Rachel tilts her head, noticing my torn attention. She follows my eyes, turning around. “Oh,” she says, cheeks flushing. “Yeah. I don’t usually read romantasies, but something about this onepulled me in.”
“It’s a Greek myth retelling, you know.” My words are bitter and sharp; they cut my tongue on their way out. “Persephone and Hades, except Persephone is a mortal woman and Hades is a merman who turns her into one of his people.”
Rachel nods. “It was like everyone was getting sick of Greek mythsandromantasies, until this book came along and blew people out of the water. Literally, I guess.”
“Sure,” I deadpan. “People love it.”
Rachel faces me again, raising her brows. “Actually, I’m surprised you haven’t reviewedASOSAS. I checked out your page and couldn’t find it there. That book is everywhere. Especially because of the tragedy. So awful.”
A Song of Scales and Saltwould have been a success anyway. It hit the bestseller lists right before Sage’s death, after all. But the fact that Sage drowned, just like her protagonist, catapulted the novel into legendary status. The fervor around the book didn’t die with her. In fact, it sold evenmore. People are ghoulish; those who were disinterested before suddenly had to get their hands on the dead girl’s book.
In the novel, the drowned protagonist comes back to life, held by the strong arms of her lover. Only what happened to Sage was real and permanent. There was no hot merman god to give her a second chance.
YetA Song of Scales and Saltis moving forward without itsauthor. The promised sequels are in flux, but there’s been chatter online that the publisher is looking into hiring a ghostwriter or IP author to finish the series under Sage’s branding. Even so, the book itself is selling like crazy. It was optioned for film before it even came out. It’s been translated into fifteen languages and counting.
I grit my teeth, jaw clenching as tears pool. Looking down, I lace my fingers together and will the waterworks away, taking steady breaths.
Rachel notices. “What? Charlie? You okay?” I can almost hear the gears in her mind turning as she puts two and two together. “Wait… Did you say your friend’s name was…”
Something is poisoning my insides, spreading farther and farther throughout my body. It’s gotten worse since seeing that damn book in the coffee shop. Maybe I’ll feel better if I spit it out. Maybe I should be honest like Rachel was with me.
“Yeah. Sage istheSage.” It slips out before I can second-guess myself and decide that this is a terrible idea. “As in Sage Tartnet. The author ofA Song of Scales and Salt.”
“Wait, really?” Rachel’s eyes widen.
“Yeah.” I nod, ignoring the frothing gorge in my gut. “She wrote a bestselling book about mermaids being the denizens of the underworld, and then she fuckingdrowned.”
“Lord,” Rachel says, inching closer. “I had no idea. Charlie, I’m sorry.”
“It gets worse,” I warn her, fiddling with my fingers.
“How?”
My tears evaporate as I meet Rachel’s gaze. It’s been so long since I’ve told someone the truth that at first, I think it won’t come. Only my sister knows the full story. But then the back of my throat unlocks and words tumble forward, picking up momentum:
“It was my idea. Sage stole my book.”
Chapter 7
Sage and I had a ritual.
It started in college—we were both at UW–Milwaukee, taking creative writing classes and dreaming of being authors. We sat next to each other in Classic American Literature in sophomore year and clicked immediately. She was petite, toothy, with a short dark bob and a wardrobe that encompassed her energy: vibrant yellows, curious oranges, and outspoken reds. Sage latched on to me, seeing someone who was shy and tentative about making friends. We became a pair, our different personalities meshing due to our similar interests.
Sage was a welcome relief after an aborted friendship with my freshmen roommate, Yonica. Yonica was clingy, possessive, and when she saw me branching out and making friends with other people on our hall, she accused me of ditching her. I’d try toinclude her, unsure of what I was doing wrong, but it was like she only wanted to be friends with me. Then, in our second semester, Yonica joined a sorority and told meIcould no longer hang out withher.
I didn’t fight the rift that formed, but I did cut tiny, barely noticeable holes in all of Yonica’s dresses before she moved out.
Sage was different: self-possessed, creative, charming. There were others, at school. Boys and girls I’d make out with, date for a little bit, try to befriend. But everything always boiled back down to Sage. She was a star I circled around, and in return, she lit me up.
“We’ll be bestselling authors, someday, you wait,” she’d say. “I can feel it.”
