Chapter 1 #4
The advance. The one-million-dollar advance for book five—he’d received the first five hundred thousand and spent it on Emma’s treatments. The experimental ones, the ones insurance wouldn’t cover. Every penny. And he hadn’t earned anything since because he hadn’t written anything since.
He needed to turn in the book to get the rest.
But no book meant no money. No money meant no house. No house meant losing the last piece of her.
And sure, he had royalties twice a year, but even they had started to wane.
Apparently, readers had moved on to other series, other authors.
He didn’t blame them.
His phone buzzed.
Voicemail. From Richard Ames, the head agent from Pemberton, the agency he was still attached to.
He hadn’t let himself hear from Pemberton in a long time. Maybe they’d finally given up on him.
He pressed play.
“Nate.” Richard’s voice sounded tired. “I know you’re screening. I get it. But I need you to call me back.”
A pause.
“The publisher isn’t asking anymore—they’re demanding. We’re past extensions. Past grace periods. If I don’t have something to turn in within the next two weeks, they’re canceling the contract. You know what that means.”
A cool half million he didn’t have.
“I don’t want it to come to that. Nobody does. But I can’t protect you anymore, Nate. Not if you won’t give me something to work with.”
Another pause.
“Call me. Please.”
The voicemail ended.
He deleted it.
Then, somehow, he was upstairs, standing outside Emma’s room.
He opened the door.
The smell hit first.
Her perfume—faded but still there, clinging to fabric and paper and memory. Something floral. Something sweet. The smell of her.
Everything was preserved exactly as she’d left it, which meant everything was slightly chaotic. Emma had never been neat, had left clothes draped over chairs and books stacked on every surface, had lived in beautiful mess.
He stepped inside. The floorboards creaked the way they’d always creaked. Dust motes swirled in the sunlight, disturbed after years of stillness.
Her bed, still made. The quilt their grandmother had stitched—purple and blue, a wedding-ring pattern—smoothed over pillows that no longer held the shape of her. He used to sit on the edge of that bed and read her chapters while she was too sick to hold the pages herself.
Her desk, exactly as she’d left it—minus her laptop, which had been donated to the library.
Art supplies cluttering the desk. Notebooks with drawings and half-finished outlines for books she’d never get to write.
Sticky notes in her handwriting—loops and energy and impossible to read unless you knew her.
The corkboard above the desk. Story ideas, character sketches, photos of the two of them. Ticket stubs from concerts they’d gone to. A postcard from the one trip to Ireland they’d taken when the second book made enough money for extravagance.
A whole life in pushpins and paper.
Her cardigan.
It was draped over the desk chair. The ratty gray one she’d worn in the hospital, the one that was too big for her, the one she’d stolen from him years ago and never given back.
He picked it up. Held it to his face. Breathed in.
Emma.
The grief hit fresh—not the dull ache he’d gotten used to, but something sharp and immediate. He sat on the edge of her bed. The quilt gave beneath him. The springs creaked.
A notebook sat on her pouf ottoman, the one with the purple cover and the coffee stain on the corner. He placed the cardigan on the bed, then picked up the notebook and flipped to a random page.
Her handwriting:
Aldric has to find Elara. She’s the heir to the magic, the only one who can help him save the kingdom. Only, he can’t do it alone. So…who helps him?
A plot problem. One of dozens she’d left behind.
But beneath her writing—
His handwriting. Neat, architectural.
Aldric. The Keeper of Secrets. Bound by ancient magic to protect the bloodline. Has to cross Thornwood Forest to save her. But how?
He stared at it.
And beside his words, barely visible, a third handwriting. Smaller. Neater than Emma’s, with little stars dotting the i’s.
What if there is a deeper, hidden magic?
He closed the notebook. Put it back on the shelf. Picked up her cardigan and held it for one more moment—the smell of her, the weight of memory—then draped it back over the chair where it belonged.
His phone buzzed again.
He looked at the screen and froze.
What?
Not a number he didn’t recognize. A number he did. A number he’d saved seven years ago and never deleted.
Livvie Fox.
The text appeared below her name.
Livvie
Nate. It’s Livvie. I know it’s been a long time. I’m at Pemberton now, the agency. They’ve asked me to reach out. I don’t know if you want to hear from me, but I wanted you to know: I still believe in those books. I still believe in you. Please give me a call.
He read it three times.
Livvie worked for Pemberton? Probably she had her aunt to blame for that.
He remembered her that last summer—auburn waves falling past her shoulders, freckles dusting her nose and cheeks, hazel eyes that caught the firelight.
The delicate rings she’d stack on her fingers, always fidgeting with them when she was thinking.
The way she’d tuck her chin into her hand and watch him like she was waiting for something.
Emma’s best friend. His sister’s best friend.
That was all.
Really.
He blew out a breath, shoved the phone into his pocket, and walked back downstairs.
The cursor was still blinking when he sat down. Chapter Three.
His fingers hovered over the keys.
The blank page waited.
And he had nothing.