It’s time for a big change! Introducing our newest Empress Queen, @ChaptersWithCharlie! Her story is one you don’t want to miss. We’re so happy to have you on this new adventure, Char! @EmpressRoyalYacht @livewiththeviv @ashleytanga @eatswithrachel @feelashes @pipertwombly
My gut churns. The comments are slow to load as the internet starts to go in and out, but I’m as horrified as the posters. Some people are aghast. Some are confused. Some are sympathetic. And theASOSASfans are starting to pour in, calling me a liar, a hater, an opportunist. But to my surprise, others are wading into the conversation, arguing with them, defending me or noting that there were murmurs that something wasn’t quite right with Sage Tartnet.
One comment from a burner account with no profile picture catches my eye. It already has four hundred and twelve likes:
This doesn’t surprise me at all. I won’t out myself, but I was involved with ASOSAS, and I have it on good authority that Tartnet turned in complete trash for Book 2. We had to pivot. Talked about hiring a ghostwriter to help.
There’s no way to confirm or deny what this random, unverified account is saying, but people are engaging with it anyway, asking follow-up questions, needing more gossip. The original poster hasn’t replied yet, and if theyarewith the publisher, I can’t imagine they’ll have a job after this. Even an intern should know better.
There’s adrenaline flooding through my system as I check my own profile. The number of followers has drastically increased. I have a collaboration request fromEmpress—as if I’d accept it and have that rotten video populate on my page too.
I have to do something. Delete my page? Report theEmpresspost? Start fielding all the comments and DMs flooding in?
But before I can decide, a red bar appears at the top of the app:“Connection lost.”
“Shit.”
I try closing the app and opening it again, but it’s too late. The bar at the top of my screen tells me I have no service.
The internet is out.
Chapter 18
I burst from my room, strangely vindicated that the weather tearing at the yacht matches my mood. Anger clears my thoughts, leaving my mind blissfully blank and worry-free. There is no room for anything else except thumping flat rage.
My feet pound on the stairs as I charge through the yacht, sparing a quick glance at the main level, pausing long enough to note Viv’s absence. I ignore the twins and Trey, who are staring curiously at me from the island, and race up to the top floor.
I’m greeted by a full view of the stormy sky, shrouded and tumultuous, through the sliding doors that lead to the roof deck. It’s darker up here, and dimly lit. The hallway splits, and I turn right, jogging, hoping it leads to Viv’s room.
When I reach the room at the end of the hall, it’s clear Viv isn’t here. The room is disheveled and messy—there are beautifuldesigner clothes everywhere. Shoes are flung across the room. More than a few empty bottles are scattered on the floor. This room—which is much larger than mine, complete with a full floor-to-ceiling window—somehow feels as close and tiny as a cave. There’s a smell too, like something is mildewing in a corner.
This must be Piper’s room. Do the stews not clean in here? Why is this place such a mess?
The door to the private en suite bathroom is closed, and I can faintly make out the sound of the shower running over the howl of the storm. And maybe… Is that…crying?
I step back quickly.
The others made it clear that Piper has been struggling lately, but no one wants to be disturbed when they’re naked and sobbing. She’s probably freaked out about the hurricane, even though she acted unperturbed earlier. Besides, I definitely don’t want Piper to catch me snooping around her room. I quickly turn and leave, going the opposite direction down the hall, finally reaching the other bedroom.
It’s my first time in Viv’s room, and now I understand why she was so proud of the fact she has the VIP suite: It’s exquisite. It looks like a hotel penthouse, one that I could never afford. The headboard is a mosaic of a thousand tiny mirrors that must normally reflect the gorgeous natural lighting from the floor-to-ceiling windows. But right now, darkened by the storm, the mirrors make the headboard look like a giant spider, kaleidoscope eyes watching me enter.
There’s an ivory-colored leather couch nestled against the footboard of the bed, an ash wardrobe leaning against one wall, and mirrored end tables holding vases of fresh roses.
But it’s the bathroom, visible from the doorway, that stands out the most. Its French doors are flung open to show how huge it is—almost as large as my room downstairs—and it’s all black cabinets, white tiles, and slick marble. There’s a deep clawfoot tub next to a standing shower with glass walls and a waterfall showerhead. A large circular mirror stretches over the sunken sink—I’m starting to think Viv might be a narcissist what with all the reflective surfaces everywhere.
My eyes snag on a mermaid, carved into the side of the tub, and Sage’s voice floats into my memory.
“What do your mermaids look like? Are you going sexy sirens or creepy creatures?” she asked during one of our brainstorming sessions on her boat, sun beating down as we sipped beers and jotted notes.
“A combination of both, I think,” I had replied, leaning on the hot leather of the pontoon seat, twirling a pen. I was nearly ready to swim; I was tipsy and hot, eager for the cool kiss of Lake Michigan. “They’re going to look like deep-sea creatures. Black scaled tails, white eyes, bioluminescent algae in their hair. But they’ll be hot, of course. It’s a romantasy, after all. Like swimming Goth elves. It’s perfect, Sage!” I exclaimed, getting more and more excited. “Did you know that the deepest part of the sea is named after Hades?The hadal zone; it’s in those horrifying oceanic trenches. So of course that’s where Hender and the other merpeople will live. They’re the guardians of the underworld, so they live at the very bottom of the sea.”
“That’s a great idea,” Sage replied, nodding at me and swigging from her drink. “After all, we don’t know what’s at the bottom of the ocean. It very well could be a portal to the afterlife.”
Later, the trade reviewers all complimented Sage’s “unique” take on mermaids, salivating over the “fresh depiction of a Greek myth.”
The memory feeds my anger, until my body is brimming with it.
I did so well the past two months—I worked hard to blot out Sage from my mind, taking a thick marker and scribbling over the memories, good and bad. But being onEmpress, being forced to talk about Sage and think about Sage and apparently post the truth about Sage was too much. It was bringing up stuff I didn’t want to think about. Stuff I buried for a reason.
