Chapter Twenty-Eight
Emery stared at the ceiling of her flat, watching dust motes drift through the late afternoon sunlight.
The days had blurred together since that night at the bookshop.
Three? Four? She wasn't entirely sure anymore.
Her phone had buzzed incessantly for the first forty-eight hours before falling mostly silent, everyone but Jax finally giving up on reaching her. Even Maya had stopped calling.
The manuscript was finished, at least. She'd spent every waking moment writing, fueled by the pain of loss and a desperate need to capture what she and Eveline had shared before it faded. Her fingers had flown across the keyboard as if possessed, words pouring out as she wept.
When she'd finally sent it to Domi, there had been nothing left inside her.
A knock at the door broke the stillness. Emery didn't move.
“I know you're in there,” Jax said. “Open up or I'm using my key.”
Emery remained motionless, staring at the ceiling. She heard the jingle of keys, then the door opening. Footsteps approached, and suddenly Jax's face appeared above her, brows furrowed with concern.
“Jesus, Em. Have you moved at all since yesterday?”
“I got up to use the bathroom,” Emery said, her voice raspy from disuse. “I think.”
Jax sighed and set down a paper bag that smelled of curry. “I brought food. And you're going to eat it, even if I have to force-feed you like a baby bird.”
“Not hungry.”
“Don't care.” Jax moved around the flat, opening curtains and collecting empty mugs. “This place is a disaster. Worse than usual, I mean.”
Emery finally sat up, her unwashed hair falling in tangled curls around her face. “It doesn't matter.”
“It does matter,” Jax said firmly. “You matter. Now, shower while I heat this up. You smell like a university student during finals week.”
Emery didn't argue, she didn’t have the energy. She shuffled to the bathroom, where the hot water did nothing to wash away the hollow feeling in her chest. When she emerged, wrapped in her oldest, softest dressing gown, Jax had cleared a space at the small table and set out plates of steaming food.
“Eat,” Jax said, pushing a fork into Emery's hand.
Emery took a bite, tasting nothing. “It's all my fault,” she said, the same words she'd repeated countless times over the past few days. “I ruined everything.”
“Yes, you messed up,” Jax agreed, not unkindly. “But torturing yourself won't fix anything.”
“You didn't see her face,” Emery said, setting down her fork. “The way she looked at me… like I was him. Like Charles.” She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
“I know that,” Jax said. “But intention doesn't erase impact.”
Emery pushed her plate away. “I tried to tell her. That morning, before everything with Abe happened. I wrote it all down, put it in an envelope…” She shook her head. “Too little, too late.”
“Have you tried talking to her?”
“What would I say? 'Sorry I pretended to be someone else for weeks while falling in love with you'? 'Sorry I was writing a book inspired by you without telling you'?” Emery shook her head again. “There's no fixing this, Jax.”
A sharp knock at the door interrupted them.
“If that's Maya or Zara again, I'll scream,” Emery said, shrinking into her chair.
Jax went to the door, opening it just enough to see who was there. Emery heard Domi's distinctive voice and groaned.
“Is she alive in there?” Domi asked.
“Technically,” Jax replied.
“Let me in. I need to talk to her.”
Emery considered escaping to the bedroom, but Jax was already stepping aside. Domi swept in, impeccably dressed as always, a large manila envelope under her arm. Her red lips tightened when she saw Emery's disheveled state.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“Thanks,” Emery muttered. “Always count on you for a confidence boost.”
Domi set the envelope on the table. “I've just come from a meeting with the publisher. They've read your manuscript.”
Emery's stomach clenched. She'd almost forgotten about the book, lost in her misery. “And?”
“And it's brilliant,” Domi said. “The best thing you've ever written, by far. The emotion, the depth, the vulnerability, it's all there.”
For a second, pride flickered in Emery's chest, then it died away. “Great. Glad my heartbreak made for compelling reading.”
“There's just one problem,” Domi continued, ignoring the sarcasm. “They're refusing to publish it as is.”
“What? Why?”
Domi sighed, as if explaining to a child.
“Because it's a romance novel without a happy ending, darling.
Your protagonists end up apart. The bookseller learns the writer's secret identity and kicks her out. The end.” She shook her head.
“That's not what your readers expect. It's not what they pay for.”
Emery laughed hollowly. “Why not? That's real life, isn't it? Not everyone gets a happily ever after.”
“But that's precisely why people read romance novels,” Domi said.
“For the guarantee that, no matter how difficult the journey, love prevails in the end.” She tapped the envelope.
“The manuscript is extraordinary, Emery.
But without an emotional resolution, it's unpublishable, at least as an Emerald Pearl novel.”
“Well, that's too bad,” Emery said, turning away.
Domi studied her for a long moment, then slid the envelope across the table. “I'm leaving this with you. Read it again. Remember why you started writing romance in the first place.” She moved toward the door. “You'll change your mind.”
“I won't,” Emery called after her.
Domi paused, hand on the doorknob. “You know, there's one thing I've always admired about Emerald Pearl's books, they never shy away from the grand gesture. When all seems lost, her heroines fight for love.” She looked pointedly at Emery.
“Perhaps the author could learn something from her characters.”
After Domi left, Emery stared at the envelope, her own words trapped inside.
“She's right, you know,” Jax said quietly.
Emery shook her head. “It doesn't matter. Some stories don't get happy endings.”
She pushed the envelope away.
???
Eveline moved through The Turned Page with mechanical precision, shelving books with the same care she always had, helping customers with the same professional courtesy. But the light had gone out of her eyes.
“Excuse me,” a young woman asked, “but do you have any Emerald Pearl books? They used to be right at the front.”
“Back corner,” Eveline said shortly, not looking up from the invoice she was checking. “Far left.”
The woman looked confused. “But I thought—”
“Back corner,” Eveline said again, her tone making it clear the conversation was over.
When the customer had wandered away, Zara approached cautiously. “We've had five people ask about the romance section today,” she said. “Maybe we should put up a sign?”
“If you think it necessary,” Eveline said.
Zara fidgeted with her sleeve. “Eveline, don't you think maybe we should talk about what happened? About Emery—”
“There is nothing to discuss.” Eveline's voice was ice. “She lied. For weeks. End of story.”
“But—”
“Please check the new arrivals and make sure they're properly cataloged,” Eveline said, turning away.
The shop bell jingled, and Maya bustled in with her usual bakery box. “Good morning, my darlings,” she called. “I've brought cinnamon rolls. Fresh from the oven.”
“Thank you, but I'm not hungry,” Eveline said, not pausing in her work.
Maya set the box on the counter anyway, hovering nearby as Eveline continued organizing a stack of invoices, deliberately ignoring her presence.
“You look tired,” Maya ventured after a moment of awkward silence.
Eveline said nothing, her fingers mechanically sorting papers.
“I visited Abe yesterday,” Maya tried again. “He was asking about the shop. About you.” She paused. “About Emery.” She took a breath. “I didn’t tell him anything.”
At the mention of that name, Eveline's hands stilled momentarily before continuing their task, her face a carefully constructed mask.
“The doctors think he might be able to come home next week, if his improvement continues,” Maya said.
“That's good news,” said Eveline. She moved away from the counter to adjust a display of new releases, putting physical distance between herself and the conversation.
Maya followed, undeterred. “Eveline, darling, you can't keep bottling everything up like this. It's not healthy.”
No response.
“Everyone's worried about you. You're not eating, barely sleeping from the looks of it. And whatever happened with—”
“I have customers to attend to,” Eveline said, her accent thickening slightly, the only indication that Maya's words had any effect at all. She walked away, approaching an elderly man browsing the history section, leaving Maya standing alone.
Throughout the day, Eveline maintained her shield of icy professionalism. When Maya tried again before leaving, mentioning that perhaps it might help to talk things through, Eveline simply turned and walked into the stockroom, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Zara watched the interaction with worried eyes but knew better than to comment. The air in the shop had changed since that night, heavier, colder, as if all the warmth had been sucked out along with Emery's departure.
By evening, the pastries Maya had brought remained untouched in their box. Eveline moved through the closing routine with the same efficiency that had carried her through the day. She sent Zara home early, preferring to be alone with the silence.
As she moved about the darkened shop, her gaze fell on Abe's empty chair by the window. He was still in hospital, improving, but not yet enough to come home. Another absence, another void.
Eveline found herself standing in front of the poetry section, fingers tracing the spine of the Rossetti collection they had discussed, the day everything changed. Before she realized what she was doing, she had pulled the book from the shelf, its weight familiar in her hands.
With determined steps, she carried it to the very back of the shop, to the now-relocated romance section, and slid it onto a shelf there. Out of sight, out of mind.
The envelope lay in her desk drawer upstairs, unopened. Eveline couldn't bring herself to read it, equal parts afraid of what it might say and furious that Emery had thought words on paper could excuse her deception.
She ran her fingers along the spines of the nearest books, stories of history and science, factual, predictable, safe. No messy emotions, no betrayals, no hearts broken by trust misplaced.
Real life wasn't a romance novel. Real life was pain and disappointment and learning to live with the knowledge that happiness was temporary at best.
"I wish I'd never met you," she whispered to the empty shop, the words falling like stones in the darkness. "I wish I'd never known what it felt like to be happy with you."