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)
Avery stands again, takes a lap around the desk, and sits on the edge, close enough that I can see the stain on his sweater from what was probably a disastrous soup incident.
“Katherine. You are not the first student to be caught in someone else’s story. I doubt you’ll be the last. But what you get to decide is whether you want to keep living in his version of the tale, or if you’re ready to start drafting your own. Even if it means writing him out of it.”
I nod, once, then again, harder this time. “Thank you. That helps. I mean, it doesn’t help, but it does sort of.”
Avery grins, full-on this time. “That’s the paradox of wisdom. It rarely provides comfort, or even clarity because human nature isn’t straightforward. We’re all complex, tangled people.”
We’re quiet for a minute. I think he’s about to go back to his emails, but then he surprises me.
“Do you want to borrow this?” he asks, nudging a battered volume toward me. “It’s all about self-invention. You might find some kinship there.”
I take the book, the spine warm from his hands. I read the title: The Ethics of the Self.
“Thanks,” I say. “Seriously. This means a lot.”
He nods, and in that moment he looks less like a philosopher and more like a regular old human, tired and soft and just doing his best.
As I stand to leave, he adds, “Ms. Vreeland?”
I pause, book clutched to my chest.
“If the protagonist really is transformed, he’ll be willing to walk away, too. Even if it hurts.”
I nod, throat tight, and slip out the door. Was Talon ready to walk away? It seems like it. He gave me the profit share papers, and then watched as I took off. He didn’t try to stop me. But what if he’s just putting on an act? What if this was all a means to an end? What end does he want, anyways? He says he wants to be with me, but how do I know he’s being genuine and honest?
The hallway feels different on the way out—still a maze, but now it’s one I can navigate.
I step out into the spring air, blinking hard. I don’t have answers. But for the first time in months, I have better questions.
And that feels like a start.
My apartment is a disaster zone of ambition: three legal pads of half-baked notes on the coffee table, a mug with a film of curdled almond milk, pens leaking blue ink onto the futon, and, dead center, the copy of Angel’s Share with its jacket already coming apart at the corners. I eye it the way you’d eye a box of old love letters from an ex—the kind you want to burn, but can’t stop reading.
Tonight’s plan is self-torture as self-care: I will read the book again, this time as a scholar, not a protagonist. I have my highlighters—yellow for “wow, that hurts,” blue for “wait, is this real?”—and a bag of off-brand Oreos from the bodega. I slide into my fluffiest socks and tangle up in a thrift store afghan. My laptop is closed, email notifications off, only the gentle buzz of my phone on silent.
Page one. This time, I’m looking for tells. I want to see the cracks in Talon’s voice, the moments where his mask slips and the real man shows up. I want to know if the ending—his grovel, his apology, his offer to torch his whole career for love—is just the final manipulation, or if it’s the confession Professor Avery said to look for. The one that means something changed, even if it’s just for a minute.
I read. I eat a cookie. I highlight.
First pass, it’s all familiar: the blonde muse, the cabin, the initial roleplay where “Kit” straddles the line between fantasy and humiliation. But then I see it: the way the hero slips, just a little, in chapter two. His sentences get weirdly soft at the end, like he’s afraid of what comes after the climax. There’s a moment where he admits “Even as I used her, I hated myself for wanting her so much.” It’s a throwaway line, easy to miss, but it glows in the margin once I highlight it.
By page seventy, I have crumbs all over my chest and several blue notes: “Does he actually believe this?” “Liar or confessor?” and my personal favorite, “If this is fiction, why does it hurt more than real life?”
My phone vibrates.
I check the notification. Simone: Did you sleep with him again yet? If yes, do NOT TELL ME because I will literally die.
I roll my eyes, then type: You have to stop reading romance novels. He’s not a billionaire werewolf. He’s just a dude.
She fires back: But he is a hottie and you know me around handsome men. I always give them what they want.