Chapter 6
Six
SOREN
The groupies were relentless inside that restaurant tonight. It took twenty minutes, three fake phone calls, and one emergency escape through the kitchen to pry them off.
I’m finally alone. My phone’s on silent. My boots are by the door. And I’m standing in front of the window in my suite, watching the wind chase dying leaves across the sidewalk below.
The city glows in a burnt sienna haze, with a moody, fall-evening atmosphere that should feel comforting. It doesn’t. All it does is make the loneliness louder.
Resting my forehead against the glass, the chill seeps into my skin.
I’m not used to this kind of silence. At home, I’d fill the space with music or keyboard clicks or the sound of Ava Bell’s videos to break the quiet.
But here, there’s nothing except the echo of my own shitty words bouncing around in my skull.
No worries, I’ll get the check. Your last book bombed, remember?
Fucking hell. I don’t know why I said it. No, scratch that. I do. It was a defensive verbal middle finger to cover up how Ava was about to storm off, all gorgeous and furious and entirely out of my reach.
I’ve been a lot of things in my life—reckless when it served me, selfish when I thought it protected me, charming when I needed to be. I’m not cruel. Not intentionally.
When it comes to Ava, I seem to fumble—like on that damn panel stage, inside Camille’s hotel room, tonight at dinner, and even in the way I watch her too long, thinking she won’t notice.
I let out a breath, letting it fog up the glass.
Ava Bell. Fake relationship contract.
Being tied to her, having to touch her, talk to her, pretend she’s mine? Man, I wish it were real. I want it to be. More than I should.
Except she doesn’t know. I’ve been living with my secret for so long now. And I’m not sure if I can ever tell her how I feel, seeing how she hates me like it’s her full-time job, benefits package and all.
Sinking into the nearest armchair, the leather sighs under my weight.
I drag a hand down my face. My facial hair is getting a little too overgrown.
I haven’t had time to care. Between back-to-back events and being swarmed by fans who believe my characters are their next book boyfriends, I’m nothing more than a role. A glossy cover propped up at signings.
The whole persona’s a shield, though. The real Soren—the one who hasn’t spoken to his father in over five years, my only family left—isn’t someone people want to read about. The fantasy version is easier. Shinier. More marketable.
Ava sees through the bullshit. That’s one of the reasons why I’m so drawn to her.
My messenger bag is sitting next to the armchair. I pick it up, start rifling through it until I find my very worn copy of the Lumberjack’s Love Letters.
A shirtless lumberjack stares back at me from the cover. He’s holding an axe, and a well-folded love letter.
I flip through the pages, remembering back to when I first picked up this ridiculous book. At the time, I expected a shit ton of fluff. Some polished, trope-heavy romcom with axe jokes, maple syrup innuendos, and enough sexual tension to fog up a forest.
What I didn’t expect was that gut punch of vulnerability. A wounded, funny, fiercely loyal male lead who wanted to fix everything but couldn’t fix himself. A man who fell in love with someone despite every damn reason not to.
Somehow, Ava had reached into my chest, stolen the parts of me I don’t talk about, and stitched them into her fucking manuscript. She had written me, without even knowing she did. Nobody has ever done that. And now I’ve gone and made her hate me. Even more than she did.
Rubbing the back of my neck with one hand, I reach for my phone with the other. It lights up with a flood of notifications—ShelfSpace clips from the panel, edits of Ava and me with heart filters, tagged posts with the captions: Enemies to Lovers? We vote YES.
I scroll past them, then open my camera roll. There’s Ava’s author photo. I may have taken a screenshot of it from her website after reading her book. The picture is of her, in a simple blouse, soft red waves of hair around her face, eyes direct. Honest.
Beneath the surface, there lies a bit of unease, of tightly leashed anxiety. She’s smiling through static. There’s a power in her stillness, but also a quiet fragility that makes me want to lean in, understand it, protect it.
My mind wanders to that panel earlier today. The curve of her smirk. The fire behind every word. Then later, when it looked like she'd rather set herself on fire than fake date me. Somehow, that only made me want to know her more.
My thumb hovers over the screen. I should delete it. I won’t.
I set the phone down on the armrest and stare at it.
At her. My pulse stirs, languid and thick from longing and need.
I want to show her I’m not just the guy who signs cleavage and wears dragon-print sweaters for clout.
Under the layered charm and the manufactured smile, there’s a man who read her book and finally felt understood.
Who watched her walk away tonight and wanted—desperately—to chase after her.
I didn’t, though, did I?
Yeah, I’m a coward. I’ve been one for too long. But I’m done with that. I’ve been granted a Christmas wish—to turn pretend pages into a real story before it ends.
So, Santa, if you’re listening, I’m cashing it in for Ava Bell’s heart, wrapped and delivered.
Tucking the book between the chair and my thigh, I shift forward, elbows braced on my knees, breath shallow. After a beat, I dig through my messenger bag again and fish out a page of letterhead. It’s blank. Quiet. Honest in the way a glowing screen never is.
I need to write to her. It’s a habit I stole straight from The Lumberjack’s Love Letters to become that hero who lays himself bare because words are all he has left.
I started out writing a letter a week, but it soon became whenever I felt the urge to talk to her. Not as The Blade. As me. Just me.
It’s become my ritual. My confession. My way of whispering to her in a world too loud to hear it otherwise. I don’t know if she’ll ever see them. Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to share.
I put pen to paper and let my heart spill across the page. When I’m done, I stare at it. The ink blurs where I pressed too hard—like my hand knew how desperate I was to let this out long before my mind caught up.
I don’t put it away. I let it sit there on the table–a declaration scribbled too fast to be pretty. Too honest to erase.
This letter isn’t just for her. It’s for me too. For the part that still doesn’t know how to say what I feel out loud without screwing it all up. Writing it down instead of hiding behind a keyboard makes the silence a little less loud.
I set the pen down and lean back in the chair, dragging both hands through my hair. The page stares back at me. Unspoken. Unignorable.
Bells,
I’m sorry.
I was an asshole tonight. No excuses. You didn’t deserve what I said.
You started walking away from me, and I had to get the last word in to feel like I wasn’t the one being left behind.
The truth of it all is, you make me nervous.
There, I said it.
You’re beautiful. That part’s obvious. But your looks are not what frays me. It’s your fire.
You wield silence better than any insult. Your eyes pin me like you’re three moves ahead and ten seconds from being done with me. You see through me in a way I’ve never let anyone do, and it knocks the ground out from under me.
I panicked tonight. Built up my defenses and said something I can’t take back because the thought of you being done with me, before we even begin, gutted me.
But here’s the thing: I’m grateful for this arrangement we’re in. It’s insane and probably stupid, and stitched together with PR tape, but it’s also my chance to show you the man you deserve. Outside of The Blade.
Just me.
The me who wants to be worthy of your time, your trust, maybe even more.
You don’t owe me forgiveness. You don’t owe me anything at all. But I owe you the truth. And the truth is this: I want to do this right. For the cameras, sure, but mostly for you…and for us.
If you keep hating me, I’ll deserve it. But I won’t stop trying to prove I can be more than the man who panicked when you almost walked away.
Love,
S
My phone buzzes. I pick it up, glimpse at the screen.
Please tell me you didn’t agree to fake date Ava Bell without running it by me first.
Matthew Chen. My agent, best friend since college, and the only person who calls me on my shit while getting paid for it.
Um…maybe…
Soren. What the fuck?
It happened so fast. Our managers ambushed us backstage.
Very corporate.
Very aggressive.
I may have been in shock.
What’s Camille thinking by not including me?
You realize I’m going to have to renegotiate this contract now, right?
That’s literally your job
My job is keeping you from making terrible life decisions.
This is a terrible life decision.
It’s good PR. Trending keywords. Cross-genre appeal. You love that shit.
Mhm
And how long have you been in love with her?
I stare at my phone as though I’m trying to defuse a bomb and forgot which wire is red.
What the hell are you talking about?
Bro. I’ve watched your videos about her. I’ve also watched YOU watch HER videos. You get that stupid, dopey face. Last month, you spent twenty minutes telling me about her “narrative structure” like you’re some kind of literature professor.
I appreciate good writing.
You screenshotted her author photo.
How do you know that?
Because you’re an idiot and you left your phone unlocked when I borrowed it to call the car service in Chicago.
…and?
And I swiped. Don’t act like I wouldn’t.
That’s a violation of privacy. Illegal, even.
Is it though?
What’s criminal is that you’ve got some gothic-ass ruin as your lock screen, but your ACTUAL background? Ava.
It’s a candid moment of her. I like the lighting.
Bullshit. You can swap lock screens all you want, but we both know which one you stare at fifty times a day.
Seek help, man.
Matthew has known me since we were nineteen and stupid. He’s seen me through several bad decisions, messy breakups, and more than a few 3 AM drunken crises. Of course he figured it out.
It’s… complicated.
Oh my god, you’re so fucked.
Thanks for the support.
Ava Bell doesn’t strike me as the type who tolerates bullshit.
And you, my friend, are approximately 73% bullshit on a good day.
Your confidence in me is overwhelming.
I’ll make the fake dating thing work. The optics are actually brilliant. But if you’re using this as a way to try to make her catch REAL feelings for you, you’re deranged.
That’s a special kind of emotional masochism even for you.
I can handle it.
Can you?
You’ve been gone for this woman for so long, and now you get to hold her hand and stare into her eyes and convince the entire internet that you’re soulmates.
That’s psychological torture, not a marketing stunt.
When did you become a therapist?
When I started representing idiotic fantasy authors who fall for their genre rivals.
You’re the worst.
I’m the best. That’s what you pay me for.
Speaking of which, I’m billing you extra for this conversation. Emotional labor surcharge.
Of course you are.
One more thing. If this shit goes sideways, I will personally make sure every book blogger on the internet knows you cry during Pixar movies.
ONE TIME, and it was Up.
That movie is everything.
My point stands. Don’t fuck this up, Pembry.
No pressure
Now go to sleep. You have a fake girlfriend to NOT screw things up with tomorrow.
Matthew is correct, as usual. This whole thing is going to be a disaster.
I toss my phone onto the coffee table and sink deeper into the chair. The Lumberjack’s Love Letters bites into my side. Yanking the book from where it got wedged between the cushions, I stare at the Lumberjack for several seconds, thinking.
Disaster or not, I’m done being a coward. Ava Bell terrifies me, and electrifies me in ways I don’t know how to contain, but I want her anyway. Her brilliant mind, stubborn fire, and silences that say more than a hundred interviews ever could.
So let this thing crash and burn. Let it be messy. I’ll still walk through the ashes with her, because it’s the only place I want to be.