“Nova… Latin fornew,” she said, drawing each word out in a low, sensual tone. Her smile was slightly crooked as she stopped to stand in front of me, eclipsing my view of anyone else. “Or a star that illuminates space with a sudden brightness.” She inhaled deeply, her features suddenly serene, as if filled with holy bliss. “Are you going to burn for us, Nova?”
My mouth was dry, my mind blank. It took me a second to find my footing again. “I’m guessing you’re Jayne.”
Someone coughed, and a whisper followed.
“Fire play is a hard limit of mine,” I added.
She laughed, and the smooth, pleasing sound belonged in this beautiful space filled with these beautiful people.
I gained a sudden burst of confidence. I could do this. I knew enough to play the part—I wrote romance novels for a living, and I’d read hundreds more romance novels over the course of my life, in all different genres—erotica included. I would never be like them, but I could pretend I was.
In true cult leader fashion, Jayne inexplicably read my mind. “What do you do for work, Nova?”
“I’m an author.”
“Of what?”
“Romance.”
A couple of the women behind her made excitedoohsounds. Someone asked for an Amazon link, but Jayne ignored everyone butme.
She nodded. “Do you have a publisher?”
I was used to this question. “Nope. Indie published.”
“Ah,” she said, and something shifted in her eyes—as if she were calculating something. “Times are changing. Archaic structures are in decay, struggling to keep up with our new world. Good on you for forging your own path.”
I faltered, not expecting that response. Generally, people smiled politely when I told them I was self-published, or they gave me a well-meaningyou’ll get there one dayplatitude, as if all indie authors desired to be picked up by a publisher. I did want this, but many of my peers did not.
Maybe it was childish, but I’d had this vision of my future since I first moved here at eighteen: the idyllic life of a successful author, a degree from NYU, a big New York City publisher. I thought I’d be someone who wouldn’t have to worryabout student loans or living with two roommates or negligent landlords or ever-changing social media algorithms.
I didn’t expect to be four years out of college still having to take odd jobs to subsidize an inconsistent writing income, not a single publisher knocking on my door. They didn’t evenknowabout my door.
I didn’t want to be a #girlboss, but I knew Jayne was being kind and empowering, even if with ulterior motives. I also actively fought the pessimism I could feel creeping up again, shoving it away so I could focus on what I could control. The dream was still within reach. Just one more book.
Jayne’s face shifted, as if she’d read my mind for a second time, an omniscient guru in designer clothes who could read my every last desire and fear.
“Thank you,” I said quickly. “It’s a lot, but I love it. I feel super grateful to be doing what I love.”
She could see straight through me and my autopilot response. I felt naked, exposed, in need of escape.
She gently placed a hand on my shoulder and guided me to walk with her. Her hand slid down my arm before returning to her side.
“What do you fear, Nova?”
I glanced around the room, realizing several men and women had stopped what they were doing to look at us.
Including Wes.
He stood with two other men, the glass of water from downstairs still in his hand. The other men looked like they’d just gotten off a train from Midtown, complete with expensive suits and receding hairlines.
His eyes narrowed; I hadn’t realized he’d been so close to me. I wondered if he’d heard our conversation.
I looked back to Jayne. “What do I fear?” I repeated.
I feared a lot of things, but what didshewant to hear?
“Don’t think about what I want from you. I want you to tell me the first thing that comes to mind.”
