She smiles, and there's something secretive in it. "I do more than read it."
I stare at her, not understanding.
Olive reaches for her tablet and taps the screen a few times, then turns it to face me. On the display is an author page, one I recognize immediately. The profile photo shows a woman in shadow, face obscured, but the name blazes across the top in elegant script.
Victoria Blackwood.
My tea cup rattles against the saucer as I set it down too hard.
"You're Victoria Blackwood?"
"Guilty as charged."
I feel like the floor has dropped out from under me. Victoria Blackwood is a legend in the romance world. She's written over thirty books, sold millions of copies, topped bestseller lists more times than anyone can count. Her dark billionaire series was what got me through my MFA program, the guilty pleasure I hid from my literary fiction professors who would have sneered at anything with a shirtless man on the cover.
"I've read all your books," I manage. "Every single one. The Obsession trilogy changed my life."
Olive laughs, delighted. "Really? That's one of my favorites. Though the critics weren't kind to it at the time."
"The critics are idiots."
The words come out with more vehemence than I intended, and Olive's laughter deepens.
"I like you, Jade Catalano. I can see why Phoenix is so taken with you."
I feel heat rise to my cheeks. "I can't believe you're Victoria Blackwood. Does Phoenix know?”
"Phoenix knows, of course, and so do Nicholas and my closest friends." She sets the tablet aside. "But I don't broadcastit. Writing romance isn't exactly cocktail party conversation in certain circles, and I've never felt the need to explain myself to strangers.”
"But you're so successful. You're one of the biggest authors in the genre.”
“I've come to enjoy the privacy.” She shrugs, unbothered. "Victoria Blackwood can say things Olive Crawford never could. She can be passionate, unfiltered, raw. She doesn't have to perform for people who wouldn't understand her anyway.”
I think about my own writing, the way the words have been flowing since I started the fantasy romance. The freedom of writing something I actually want to write instead of what I think I should write.
"I understand that," I say quietly. "More than you know."
"Tell me about your book." Olive tucks her feet up under her, settling in like we have all the time in the world. "I want to hear everything."
So I do.
I tell her about a half-elf scribe hiding in plain sight at the palace, translating ancient texts and keeping her head down while the kingdom tightens its grip around everyone she loves. About the rebel leader who kidnaps her when she uncovers a scroll that could change everything. About the way they circle each other with distrust and fury before something changes and they fall in love.
I tell her about the darkness that threads through every chapter, the violence and the tenderness existing side by side. A kingdom where dragons enforce the crown's power and rebellion gets crushed before it can spark. A woman who thought survival was enough, until she learned her father was framed and her whole careful life was built on lies.
"It sounds like it has real stakes," Olive says, and I can hear she means it.
"It does," I say. "It's not just about the romance. It's about what you do when the world you thought was safe turns out to be the cage.”
I think about how words have been flowing since I started the fantasy romance. The freedom of writing something I actually want to write instead of what I think I should write.
"I understand that," I say quietly. "More than you know."
I tell her how I've never written anything so quickly, so desperately, so honestly.
Olive listens without interrupting, her expression thoughtful. When I finally trail off, embarrassed by how much I've shared, she nods slowly.
"It sounds like you're writing your truth," she says. "That's the only way to write anything worth reading."
