Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Inside is a stack of printed emails, all of them clipped together with a red paperclip. My hands shake as I read the subject lines:
RE: Cabin Retreat Arrangements
RE: Writer’s Block—Possible Solutions
RE: Sweet Lies—Payment and Confidentiality
The first email is from Jonah Everett, the name instantly familiar from last night. He’s Talon’s literary agent, the guy whom Talon called “J.E.” last night.
Talon—Glad to hear you made it to the cabin safe. As discussed, Sweet Lies has arranged for a “research companion” per your specs. Contract runs month to month. All services and scenarios are covered, as you requested. This should help you get out of your rut and deliver the new book by deadline.
There’s a string of replies, most of them brief, some one-liners from Talon:
Appreciate it. Will keep you posted.
Second one is better than the first.
No need for contact unless urgent.
Another email, this one from “Sweet Lies Admin”:
Mr. McKnight—Per your request, Katherine Vreeland is en route to your location. She has signed the necessary NDAs and will comply with all specified scenarios. Please remit balance due upon completion of term.
Below that, a summary sheet: fees, performance bonuses, optional “special experience” surcharges.
I feel my stomach turn, hot and wet, and for a moment I’m sure I’ll puke all over the desk. My mouth tastes like metal. My brain latches onto the word “scenario,” then cycles through every day I’ve spent here—every role play, every story, every “scene” we acted out together. Of course, this was all somewhat expected, but still, seeing it makes me nauseous.
The next email is short, from Talon to Jonah:
She’s better than advertised. Might keep her longer.
I choke out a laugh, bitter and desperate. I think about the way Talon looks at me when he thinks I’m asleep, the way he calls me “Kitten,” the way he split my world open and made it impossible to ever go back. Was that all just part of the “research?”
I dig deeper, frantic now, looking for anything—anything—to prove it’s not all a lie. There’s a folder on the desktop, “Works In Progress.” I click it open, pulse banging so hard I can barely focus. The latest document is titled “Project Angel—First Draft.” I double-click and skim the first page.
It’s indisputably a thriller, and not a romance. The story is about a man who isolates himself in a remote fishing town, ultimately boarding a submarine in order to spy for British Intelligence. There’s no romance in this book. Heck, there are hardly even any female characters, from what I can tell.
I want to scream. I want to tear every book off the shelf and set them on fire. Instead, I sink into the desk chair, limp as a dishrag. The world outside the window is perfectly still, the only motion the bronze blur of Talon’s chest as he raises and drops the ax, again and again.
In my head, I replay every second I spent with him, every kiss, every time I came, every soft word whispered in the dark. Was it all fake? Am I just a playmate to him, to be used and discarded once this thriller is written?
It’s not so different from what you signed up for, the voice in my head hisses. You were supposed to be his research assistant. He’s just not using your so-called “research” for his book, but that’s not your business.
I clench my jaw so hard my teeth hurt. I make myself stand, force my legs to work. I leave the office exactly as I found it. I walk back down the hall, into the kitchen, the ordinary light making everything look flat and fake.
Talon comes in five minutes later, face flushed, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He dumps the wood by the stove, then pulls me into a hug, his arms wrapping around me with brute tenderness.
“You okay, Kitten?” he murmurs, breath hot on my ear.
I nod, because I have no words. My tongue is a dead fish in my mouth.
He holds me tighter, then lets go, busying himself with the groceries. He opens a beer, passes one to me, and we stand side by side in the kitchen, looking out the window at the lengthening shadows.
I stare at his hands, the veins and scars, the way he moves so confidently through the world. I want to slap him. I want to beg him to tell me it’s not true. But the words won’t come.
He leans against the counter, takes a long pull from the beer, then turns to me.
“You sure you’re okay, sweetheart? Something seems off.”
I look up at him, meet his eyes, and this time I see it: not malice, not cruelty, but something impersonal. Of course, because I am impersonal business to him.
I fake a smile. “I’m good,” I say. “Just tired.”
He nods, but doesn’t push.
That night, I lie in bed with my back to him, the truth burning a hole in my brain. I don’t sleep. I don’t cry. I just count the seconds until morning, waiting for the next script, the next scene, the next move.